#stuff: weaving a tale of love

[jojo-schmo]

I wish I could tell the original artist that this drawing permanently changed the entire direction of my life in 2009. I want to shake their hand, look them in the eye, and admit I would not be who I am today if this drawing didn’t exist.

EDIT: Original artist is @ivynajspyder !!!!

[simcardiac-arrested]

aren’t you?

[spookydetective]

OVERWHELMING RESPONSE RECEIVED

here is the full script for the animatic i was going to make originally but it ended up being way longer than i thought so i decided to make the one im making now as a little practice thing (underneath the read more button because its long and tumblr's being weird)

[manikas-whims]

Hellooo!

I would love for headcannons of the LADS boys with a Latin reader (Mexican, Colombian, Salvadoran, etc) who loooves to dance and always goes to gatherings (quinceñeras, family bbq’s/ parties, etc). They’re very good at dancing and love to just be on the floor feeling the music. Would love to see their reactions to you having a big family or trying out the food or how you dance and maaaybe convince them to do so too?

hiii, thanks for the lovely request! i must admit i possess limited knowledge about latin cultures but i do hope that you like these..♡

LADS men with a Latin Reader

RAFAYEL

🌊 Remember he told you that he's fluent in many languages? Yeah, he probably already knows and speaks your language well. And even if he doesn't, he knows the commonly used phrases. He'll also ask you to help and correct his pronunciations and grammar.

🌊 He is just like water— easily blends with your family members, entertaining everyone with his lively attitude and forms an instant connection with each one. He's always surrounded by at least 4-5 of your family members.

🌊 He's enthusiastic about your culture. He questions you on why certain rituals are performed in what ways and he loves to learn, and try things for himself. He plans to incorporate it all in his next piece that he's gonna dedicate to you.

🌊 He won't hesitate from the variety of food and drinks offered by your family elders, and will definitely try some of the local alcoholic beverages. He's complimented your mother for her cooking, and by the time you both go back, he's gained a few pounds of weight.

🌊 When Rafayel sees you dancing at a family gathering, he matches your energy on the dance floor. He may not know all the moves but he'll watch you and learn, moving his body in tandem with yours. He might goof around and make you laugh alot. Your family loves him even more for it.

XAVIER

⭐ He’s learnt a few terms here and there from you but he can't speak your language. Though he LOVES hearing you speak it. And even more when you call him nicknames in your native tongue. Definitely gets a lil horny and asks you to use them in bed.

⭐ At first he comes off as quiet and aloof to your family but they slowly take a liking to him. You realize how good of a narrator Xavier is when you see your family members sitting around him in circles at night as he weaves magical tales about princes from distant planets.

⭐ He's a curious kitty. He buys himself flyers about the local specialties of your hometown, and even books tickets to all the historical sites he'd like to visit with you. He enjoys hearing myths about the deities of your lands.

⭐ He loves the food! Every time he experiences a new flavour or spice, you see his eyes light up in delight. He asks help from your mother and other family ladies to help him with some recipes because he wants to cook you some of your hometown food. And all the ladies are swooning. He also enjoys the occasional gossip with them.

⭐ His eyes seem to follow your every move when he sees you dancing. He's recorded a bunch of videos but if asked to join, he's quite hesitant. Though the moment you drag him on the dance floor, he complies. Might step on your foot once or twice, and feel embarrassed about it but overall, he's a fast learner.

ZAYNE

❄️ He doesn't speak your language but he's very keen on learning from you. You deliberately make him say the cheesiest stuff in your language, sometimes even a little naughty things. And when he sees you giggling, he chuckles and calls you childish for pulling such pranks on him.

❄️ Your family immediately takes a liking to him. He's responsible and dependable, and they are happy that you have someone so reliable by your side. They also come to take his advice on every little health related thing when they learn he's a doctor. But they also make a lot of health jokes with him because he's easy to tease.

❄️ He loves hearing about your culture. He complies when you make him try on some of the traditional outfits for men, and is quite pleased to know that you find him even more handsome in them. And he's left awestruck when he sees you in your traditional clothes.

❄️ Zayne does enjoy the variety of flavors in your culture’s food. Though he's even more eager to try out the local sweet dishes. He loves how the recipe varies from hand to hand, and in every household. And he likes the differing tastes of the same sweets.

❄️ He loves watching you dance. He tries to deny you when you ask him to join because he isn't very confident. But after a little convincing, he will comply because it's impossible for him to say no to you. He's awkward on the dance floor but gets loads of encouragement not just from you but all your family members. In the end, you place his arms around your waist and guide his movements, your laughter making him forget his hesitance.

SYLUS

🐦‍⬛ You assume he doesn't know your language and try to prank him by using some bad and naughty words for him but he smirks and responds in the same language, leaving you shocked. He's not fluent but he knows enough to engage in conversations.

🐦‍⬛ Your family is suspicious about his overall persona but soon realize he's quite alright. They are thrilled by the fact that he can sing, and he is definitely pushed by the elders into singing at the family gathering. At least 4 of your cousins have a crush on him.

🐦‍⬛ Just like his grasp on the language, he's quite knowledgeable in your culture. He especially loves the music, some of his favourite musicians being latin. And he most likely knows some of the old songs by heart.

🐦‍⬛ Since he's quite good at cooking, he's given free access to the house kitchen. Your mother and the other family ladies find it charming. They like to discuss seasonings and spices with him, and want him to assist in the arrangements of food. They compliment him for every new dish he learns.

🐦‍⬛ He's not just a good singer but a dancer too. It's surprising when he follows you on the dance floor and begins to match you beat for beat. You don't realize when but you end up having a little dance off between the two of you until he gets bored of competing and pulls you to him so you two can dance together.

» MASTERLIST «

[undreaming-fanfiction]

I've had a fantasy/medieval AU in mind for ages and I will write it one day, but the idea just wants out now. So have a brief summary.

Steve works in a small town in the middle of nowhere, he's doing odd jobs and helping to tame the local children. He's very protective because he knows the world outside is dangerous, and yeah, maybe their town is borning, but at least it's safe. Ever since his former fiancées friend got dragged into a river and drowned by a water demon, he's been even more protective of the children (and has saved them from a bunch of close calls too, even though they hate to admit it).

Eddie is a travelling bard, and Steve wants to tear his hair out and weave it into a basket or something. Because where he's trying to make sure the six kids get to grow up, Eddie is filling their heads with adventures, dragons, treasure and all that beautiful stuff that gets people killed one day. But the kids love him and Steve can only stay nearby and pray they don't run off one day with makeshift swords.

He just wants the kids safe. That's why he always accompanies them when Eddie is in town. So what if he sits nearby when Eddie spins his stories, it's just to protect them all from wolves if they decide to come. So what if he inches closer when the tale gets more tense and the protagonist is in danger. So what if he holds his breath until he knows whether the adventurers lived to see another day! It's all for the children, he says to himself.

And Eddie? Eddie sees the wonder in Steve's eyes. He sees a young man who has been walking in circles for too long, who has given up all of his future to give one to these six children. He sees in him what he sees in all of the adventurers and heroes he sings about, whose tales he carries with him. He sees all he wants to give.

So Eddie comes to the town more often than to the other ones. But whenever the children start raving about going on adventures, he just throws his head back and laughs. "You, going on an adventure? Please. Can you hold a weapon? Can you dodge an attack? Hm? Show me." The kids fail, of course. And Eddie says: "Do you know what the adventurers I sing about have in common? They came back from their adventures. And why? Because they were prepared! No one is going to sing about you if you drop dead during your first fight."

It doesn't take long for the kids to come to Steve for advice and training. And Steve knows somewhere deep in his heart that he can't protect them forever. He talks to the captain of the guard, Hopper, and he actually gets someone to train with the kids - and himself. He watches with pride as the children pick weapons best suited to their strengths, all too heavy for them, but that doesn't curb their enthusiasm.

He also asks his ex-fiancée, Nancy, to provide some basic training regarding edible herbs, remedies and poisons. He goes to Robin for a geography lesson, so that the little shits at least know where they're going and where their kingdom ends. He asks Jonathan to speed up their reading and writing lessons, and Argyle prepares a bunch of easy recipes from things that grow around them, and teaches them how to start a fire in almost any conditions.

When the kids turn fifteen, they are ready to go on an adventure with Eddie. Steve has done all he could, but he still feels they aren't ready, that he isn't ready. He'll die of worrying, he knows it. What is he even going to do now that the kids are gone?

But Eddie just smiles at him. "What, you put in all this work for them and now you don't even get to see them in action? Don't be stupid. Go and pack, we'll wait for you."

If Steve keeps thinking of Eddie's smile the whole time he's packing, it's only his business.

And that's how, with much of the kids' grumbling, Steve also leaves on adventure.

[aixeko]

──────‹𝟹 SINNERS SAVAGERY ༄ Ѽ✧

IF I'M YOUR SALVATION, WELCOME TO HELL.

2024 Halloween Event | Art credit: Efferwescent on Twitter

𖤐 SINNERS SAVAGERY | or ERISETOBER  is an event that is a mix of Kinktober, Whumptober and Flufftober in a nutshell SMUT, ANGST & FLUFF with Halloween aspects. All prompts are made by me but some of the ones that inspired me are whumptober ofc, and this list. 

𖤐 ONLY HONKAI STAR RAIL AND GENSHIN WOMEN For this year

𖤐 This will be my first time doing the October prompts stuff + I have another event going on so bare with me haha.

𖤐 !! WEEK 1 starts 6 to 13 !! !! WEEK 2 starts 13 to 19 !! !! WEEK 3 starts 20 to 26 !! !! WEEK 4 starts 27 to 31 !!

WEEK 1 | MONSTER AU | | ONESHOT

| Film | TILL DEATH DO US PART | Starring | Kafka as alien symbiote “Venom” x Host!Reader  | Synopsis | A livelihood ripped away by the greed of humankind and faced with impending doom, an alien symbiote by the name of "Kafka" entered your life and made you her host. Originally, the monstrous being harbored one goal: to destroy everything planet Earth had to offer, but plans changed upon meeting you and thus, with her power, you both do whatever it takes to save the planet. Loathing was all that was bestowed toward the extraterrestrial parasitic, but as time passes, a long-lost feeling resurfaces, one that hasn't manifested since your heartbreak; of course, you would rather be brutally killed than confess your endearment. Unbeknownst to you, the woman has suspected you of such intimacy and, with her incredible adaptability to the complex human emotion, has a ploy to make you profess those three special words.

| Film | YOUR LORDSHIP | Starring | Yelan as Leviathan x Mortal!Reader | Synopsis |  When the tempestuous waves crash against the shore and the sky turns a foreboding grey, human shells cower in fear as the mighty lord of the seas, Leviathan, awakens from the darkest pit of the deep, seeking for a human companion to aid her lonely voyage.

WEEK 2 | MYTHOLOGICAL AU | | ONESHOT

| Film | BEYOND THE IMAGINABLE | Starring | Clorinde as Medusa x Blind!Reader | Synopsis | Despised and misunderstood by the world, she was a victim of a scandalous man's wrongdoing, unfairly punished by heaven despite her innocence. During one fortunate day, the woman whose heart had turned to stone melt under the accursed spell of love, wholly captivated by a blind mortal who fell in love with her for who she truly was; even without sight, the virtuous human saw the very essence of her, the beauty within her soul.

| Film | OFFERING OF PURITY | Starring | Raiden Ei as Hades x Mortal!Reader | Synopsis | The townsfolk tell tales of a legend that speaks of how, once in a century, the moon would adorn itself in a deep crimson hue and illuminate its shade onto the world. Under its wrathful light, the god of hell emerges to wreak havoc, and the only way to banish such evil is to offer a youthful virgin mortal; only then will humankind live in another century of prosperity and peace.

WEEK 3 | ANIMATRONICS AU | | SMUTSHOT

| Film | FIVE NIGHTS AT STAR RAIL | Starring | Kafka, Himeko, Blackswan, and Acheron as the FNAF Classic Animatronics x Night-guard!Reader | Synopsis | A newspaper arrives at your doorstep, featuring a job opening for a night guard position at the famous Star Rail Pizzeria. Struggling financially, you quickly seize the golden opportunity. The job's only requirement is 5 nights of work, and if you succeed, you'll be hired as an official employee; what could possibly go wrong?

WEEK 4 | SLASHER/SERIAL KILLER AU

| Film | MINDFUCK | Starring | Slasher!Arlecchino x Investigative-Psychologist!Reader | Synopsis | Demons linger where shadows play; in silence, hearts betray, whispers echo, and desires catch fire in the haunting depths of the night. With every kiss, a scythe may cut, in which terror envelops one's gut; together they dance on the edge of fate, finding beauty in a love that is too late. So let the night weave its spell, for in the dark they know so well, and though demons are whispering fright, in their twilight, the lights are ignited.

[queenendless]

Chase (Darth Vader x Fem!Adult!Reader)

A/n: Tales of the Empire gave me ideas. Particularly on a snowy chilly planet ... it's a very open setting as to what is going on in this so bare with me. First time writing SW stuff on here.

So AU with unburnt Vader who's also kinda OOC in this, some fluff and steamy romance with some Anakin at the end, but it's a short ass piece cause of short notice for today.

PLEASE DONT REPOST, EDIT, COPY, PLAGARIZE, TRANSLATE AND OR STEAL MY FANFIC WORK. RATHER IF YOU DO ENJOY IT THEN LIKE REBLOG AND FOLLOW ME PLS N THNX.

And May The 4th be with you.

Your cloak blew from the chilly winds.

Your hood covered head raised up to meet at the top of the snowy hill.

Climbing up with the darkening gray storm clouds piling up, heighting the anxious tension filling you up inside, the helmeted figure coming into view struck through your core.

He had pursued after your wandering lost self.

You wanted to see how far he would go, as selfish as that was.

Your fear of the cold blooded, brutal Sith Lord becomes mingled with how you are lustful of his imposing presence.

Your cape fluttered in the blowing cold winds as you hurried away, straight to the ice cave entrance.

He knew you thrive off the chase.

And you knew he was relentless in playing along.

“You cannot run forever, Y/n."

His deep modulated voice bounced off the towering crystal ice walls, using the light shining from the high cracked ceiling to guide you.

“I've come this far.” Your tepid sweet voice echoing back at him had him growling a bit.

“You cannot hide from me.”

You didn't need to be Force sensitive to feel that he was honing in on you quickly.

Your flushed nervous face met your eyes as your bumpy reflection followed your side, his heavy footsteps sounding that much closer. “Doing good so far, all things considered.”

You should have figured uttering those words into existence would jinx your ongoing streak. The moment you stepped back from the dead end and spun around on your heel, you bumped into that armored chest.

You screamed a bit as his leather black gloves grabbed your forearms and pinned you to the wall gently but firmly.

His red lenses hid his eyes boring into your very soul, his giant frame enveloping you, pressing you carefully against the alien texture. His heavy breathing made your breathing go silent like a scared mouse, caught by the big bad beast.

“The game is over.” For some reason, he sounded so smug about it.

“You're unbelievable.” You pouted up at that obsidian face.

“You're foolish.” He scoffed.

“Says the man wearing the robot suit.”

The fact that he released his grip on you and leaned back a bit to actually take off that intimidating helmet still took your breath away.

“It helps with the image.” To hear that warm enriching amused voice again already had you giggling as your hands cupped his sculpted cheeks to pull his face down to peck those tempting lips.

His helmet clanked along the ground as his arms slithered around your waist to lift you off the ground, grinning slyly to you hugging his waist in response.

“It's working, my Lord.” You shakily spoke, weaving through that shoulder length darkened hair to tug him closer, pecking many a time quite desperately.

“This little ploy of yours has gotten us completely off track.” His husky tone was sheer evidence that he did not give a damn. Not one bit.

“Forgive me, Lord Vader, for my teasing.”

You squeaked as those giant leather hands of his cupped and squeezed your ass.

“I shall have to punish you, my dear. Quite thoroughly~” Those blue eyes were riddled with devious intention, marking your neck with ferocious bites along your delectable skin.

Your fevered gasps and lecherous cries traveled the caves as you became a mess under his wet steamy mouth. “A – Ani~!”

The former Jedi turned Sith Lord smirked, devouring your mouth with that needy tongue of his.

“Hush, my love. We're just getting started.”

[thegreatwicked]

Padawan

Padawan

May I proudly present....! My first reader insert, I wrote this for all you lovelies who follow/like/reblog/comment on my stuff. This is for you! Obi-Wan/You/Reader Insert. Master/Padawan, SMUT. SMUT. SMUT. That is all. Or is it? Should I write more???

Summary: After disappearing from your Master for thirteen years, the Clone Wars has brought you back to the same planet and a brush with death back into each other's lives. But you’re not his Padawan anymore, you’re a knight, right? No, you’ll always be his Padawan, and he, your Master.

~~~

He wasn't a fool; he had sensed your presence the moment you set foot on the planet, like a blinding light or the ring of a bell only he could hear. Of course, he could feel you—how could he not? At least, he could feel you for a while, long enough for him to be certain that he didn’t imagine it in a post-battle haze. You were here.

The first time your force signature vanished, his heart skipped a beat, and a cold rush of panic coursed through his veins and a horrible cold weight settled in his stomach, making him feel like he may be sick. Determined and distracted, he abandoned his conversation in a mad sprint. Searching. He tracked down anyone who had been alongside you on the battlefield, questioning them relentlessly, not caring how he came off as slightly unhinged as opposed to his normal calm and stoic manner, but each inquiry was met with disappointment and vacant glances. 

It wasn't until he caught sight of the familiar sight of a blue and white lekku of Ahsoka that a glimmer of hope ignited within him, brighter than any lightsaber. Ahsoka, Anakin’s padawan. She was seemingly unaffected and greeted him with a smile as though she were seeing a dear friend or distant relative, and that in itself was calming. If Ahsoka wasn't distressed, it meant one of two things: either she hadn't heard of your demise, or, more optimistically, you were still alive.

A wave of relief washed over Obi-Wan as Ahsoka confirmed that you were indeed unharmed and engaged in another mission, your paths had briefly crossed long enough for friendly banter involving drinks later. You were not only alive but also hailed as a hero. Your proficiency with the light your orange, lightsaber had garnered admiration, and the news of your success spread across the battlefield.

As he processed this new information, Obi-Wan couldn't shake the questions that haunted him since the day you disappeared, thirteen years ago. What happened? Where had you been? Why had you left without a word? 

Had he been too strict, too distant? He paced in his quarters, the weight of uncertainty pressing on his shoulders. Thirteen years of silence, and now he learned you were not only alive but thriving in the chaos of war. Had he been oblivious to your struggles and triumphs as a padawan? Had he overlooked something crucial?

His distress and confusion fueled his determination to find you, to understand the reasons behind your disappearance. The bond between Padawan and Master was meant to endure, but his had been severed without warning or explanation. The quest for answers became a relentless pursuit, driven by a mix of concern, guilt, and an unyielding desire to reconnect with the one he had lost.

Ilum's gift had bestowed upon you a most unique kyber crystal, weaving the essence of the Force into your arsenal—a radiant burnt orange lightsaber. Obi-Wan swelled with pride, recognizing that your exceptional skills not only ensured your safety but also turned the tide amid battle.

Sharing the tale with Ahsoka, Obi-Wan recounted the moments of uncertainty, the fear that gripped him when the disturbance in the Force signaled potential danger. Ahsoka responded with a knowing smile and a playful eye roll, acknowledging your tendency to dive headfirst into peril and emerge victorious as if it was the only possible outcome. Relief washed over Obi-Wan, mirrored by a grateful grin exchanged with Ahsoka, reassured that you navigated the challenges in your own distinctive way.

“She’s gotten quite good at cloaking, hasn’t she?” And with those words, all his nervous energy fell away.

The reality settled, Obi-Wan marveled at the intricacy of your Force signature concealment. Your mastery of the technique was so impeccable that it eluded even his well-honed Jedi senses. In moments of deep meditation, he attempted to reach out, seeking the familiar touch of your intangible presence, only to encounter a mysterious void. Your cloak, flawlessly executed, had transformed you into a Ghost—a moniker that, suddenly, filled him with pride for your evolving abilities.

Days melted into an endless procession of battles, the smoke of war shrouding the fates of those who entered its domain. Unable to locate you through the Force, Obi-Wan sought solace in updates from Ahsoka and the soldiers who served under your command, the Echo Squadron they were called. 'The Ghost,' a symbol of your evasive prowess, deepened his admiration for the padawan who had become an elusive figure amid the chaos of war.

Despite the promising news, Obi-Wan Kenobi's frustration deepened. Thirteen years had passed since he last saw you, his once-promising Padawan and the silence surrounding your disappearance gnawed at him. Pacing his quarters, he questioned the events that had led to this point. You had excelled in your Jedi trials, proving yourself worthy of knighthood, and yet, without a word, you vanished from his life.

The lack of closure weighed heavily on him. Had he failed you as a master? The memories of your training together, the countless missions you undertook side by side, haunted him. Had he missed something? Obi-Wan couldn't fathom why you chose to sever ties so abruptly and so completely. The bond between a Padawan and a master was meant to transcend time and distance even the Force itself.

His mind danced through potential reasons. Perhaps he had been too stern, too demanding, but he couldn't recall any unresolved conflicts or bitter disagreements. It fueled his restless pacing, so much he thought he might wear a hole in the floor. The war had claimed many, and the unpredictability of life in those times made such disappearances common. Yet, the absence of a farewell, a simple goodbye, perplexed him.

Obi-Wan stopped, staring at the transmission device on his desk. He contemplated reaching out through the Force, attempting to sense your presence, but a lingering doubt held him back. If you wished to remain hidden, he knew the Force would not easily reveal your location.

With a heavy sigh, he admitted to himself that he needed answers. The Jedi Master reluctantly accepted that, without your cooperation, he might never unravel the mystery of your departure. The internal conflict played across his features as he grappled with the uncertainty, the pain of an unanswered question tugging at his Jedi calm. ~~~

 Obi-Wan flickered back into his senses, and he’d had enough, your Force signature, elusive and soft, presented a challenge to pinpoint. Yet, now seemed as opportune a moment as any to seek you out. He anticipated that the moment he reached out, you would sense it, and the possibility lingered that you might vanish as swiftly as you'd appeared. Despite the odds, he had to try.

For days, throughout his search, panic clawed at him as your signature exhibited erratic behavior—flickering, softening, going dim and occasionally blazing intensely. Unsettled, he worried about your well-being. Had something happened with your men or yourself? When news of Echo Squadron’s return came across his com, he decided on a more direct approach. The uncertainty fueled his urgency as he raced through the compound's halls, drawing closer to potential answers.

The revelations unfolded when the heavy blast doors swung open, and a chill gripped Obi-Wan's heart revealing a fractured company of clone troopers stumbling in, wearied from the throes of war.

Amidst the chaos, Obi-Wan's voice cut through the clamor, a determined command in battle's aftermath. 

"You! Where is your Commander?" he bellowed to the nearest trooper. The man, a walking testament to the horrors he'd witnessed, appeared as if he had traversed through realms of death and fire. His gaze held the weight of someone who had glimpsed into the abyss, far beyond the immediate surroundings.

Obi-Wan called to the trooper, attempting to shake him from his trance, but it was evident that shock had claimed the soldier, rendering him useless for any immediate assistance. A surge of frustration gripped Obi-Wan, that familiar icy sensation taking root within him, he could stand it no more. 

"Where is she?" he shouted, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of combat. Heads turned in response, and a battle-worn trooper, fatigue etched on his face, stepped forward.

"General Kenobi," the trooper addressed him with a weary acknowledgment, capturing Obi-Wan's attention. With practiced discipline, the trooper began to relay the grim news that had been haunting his thoughts.

A surprise attack, swift and ruthless, caught the entire company off guard, unleashing chaos and claiming numerous lives. Amidst the chaos, your unwavering courage emerged as the linchpin that prevented even greater losses. The trooper, his voice tinged with awe, spoke your name with a reverence that echoed through the hushed murmurs of your fellow soldiers. Their expressions carried profound respect, acknowledging the pivotal role you played in turning the tide of the ambush.

The trooper went on to reveal a tale of resilience and determination. The men who managed to return from the battleground owed their lives to you. Your strategic prowess, coupled with an indomitable will, had become the catalyst for the survival of those under your command. The atmosphere grew heavy with gratitude and admiration as the trooper unfolded the narrative, and the unspoken bond between soldiers resonated with the unyielding spirit that defined your leadership.

“Injured?” Obi-wan breathed not wanting to believe it, “How badly?”

The trooper wore a solemn look before explaining; three. You had been hit by three blaster bolts and thrown back in an explosion that you had only barely managed to contain with your force shield, Obi-wan felt as though the breath had been punched out of his lungs. Murmurs of agreement sounded with troopers calling you a hero, and they would go into battle with you any day. 

The trooper initiated the playback of the security holo, and the room was enveloped in the eerie glow of the holographic display. The flickering images revealed a chaotic battlefield, where your orange lightsaber danced in a brilliant display of skill, deflecting blaster bolts and cutting through the air. The scene, however, took a grim turn as the explosion unfolded.

The trooper's narration painted a vivid picture of your unwavering determination. Your face, illuminated by the glow of the lightsaber, displayed a fierce concentration as you called upon the Force. The protective barrier you conjured was a testament to the immense power you harnessed. Smoke, flames, and debris relentlessly assaulted the shield, crashing against it with an intensity that seemed insurmountable.

As the holographic depiction continued, the strain on your shield became evident. Each impact pushed you back, a slow and relentless retreat under the overwhelming assault. The trooper's commentary reflected the increasing tension in the room, capturing the collective breaths held by those witnessing the event. Finally, with a heart-wrenching collapse, the protective barrier gave way, and your motionless form was violently thrown backward by the force of the explosion, resembling a discarded puppet.

The disturbing imagery etched itself into the minds of those present, leaving a haunting impression of the sacrifice you had made for your comrades. The room fell silent as the holographic display faded, and the gravity of the moment lingered in the air.

“Where is she?” Obi-Wan’s voice a hoarse whisper.

The troopers exchanged puzzled glances, their expressions shifting from a state of surprise to one of guarded curiosity. Why did General Kenobi, the renowned Jedi leader, express such concern about the whereabouts of a single Jedi, especially one who hadn't reported directly to him? The very nature of Jedi loyalty was well-known, but this level of interest seemed unusual, especially considering General Kenobi had never spoken your name and had no prior connection with your company.

In the austere world of warrior monks, emotional attachments were often deemed a distraction, a sentiment echoed by the Jedi Code. The troopers, accustomed to the stoic and disciplined demeanor of their Jedi commanders, found it perplexing that General Kenobi, known for his wisdom and strategic brilliance, was showing a level of personal investment that transcended the typical chain of command.

As the trooper spoke, the realization hit Obi-Wan like a sudden gust of cold wind. The men, once indifferent, now wore expressions of awe and respect. He had been the mentor to their leader, the padawan of the legendary General Kenobi, and none of them had been aware. It was a revelation that changed the dynamics within the group.

“I apologize, General Kenobi, we didn’t know.”

Obi-Wan's confusion deepened. How was it possible that you had never spoken of your training under him? He couldn't fathom why you would erase any mention of your master, especially considering the strong bonds that typically formed between Jedi and their mentors.

“What do you mean? Has she never spoken of it?”

The trooper shook his head solemnly. His name had never left your lips. There was no connection with Obi-Wan Kenobi, and your silence regarding your master left him perplexed and troubled. What had transpired to make you erase the very existence of your training and relationship with him from your history? It was a mystery that left him with an unsettling sense of guilt and regret.

Dread settled over Obi-Wan as the clone recounted the events in the medical wing. The last remnants of the company had made it back, battered and bruised, their fallen comrades in tow. However, you were conspicuously absent, having been transported to the medical wing for intensive care due to the injuries you sustained. Without a moment's hesitation, Obi-Wan set his sights on the medical facilities.

In his urgency to find you, Obi-Wan maneuvered through the bustling corridors, barely sparing a glance for those he unintentionally bumped into. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the low hum of medical machinery. The chaos within the medical wing mirrored the turmoil in Obi-Wan's mind as he scanned the rows of occupied beds and the busy healers tending to the wounded.

He sought your name among the patients but found no trace. Panic tightened its grip on him, as each unoccupied bed intensified his worry. In the organized chaos, Obi-Wan grappled with the fear that he might be too late, that he had lost you in the vast sea of casualties.

"She’s alright. She was moved out of intensive treatment yesterday; she’s recuperating in private quarters on deck five."

Obi-wan's tension eased at Ahsoka's reassurance. The weight that had settled on his shoulders lifted as he absorbed the news. Ahsoka's brief but impactful update became a lifeline, giving him direction in the chaos. Gratitude filled his eyes as he nodded, silently expressing his thanks. The urgency to find you intensified, but now armed with information, he promptly set off towards the turbo-lift, leaving Ahsoka with the unspoken promise that he would find you.

Inside the lift, the monotonous hum did little to alleviate his restlessness, in fact, it made them worse. The usually swift elevators felt unusually slow on this particular day, and he entertained the thought that taking the stairs might have been a faster option. As he impatiently waited unconsciously tapping his boot, the seconds felt like an eternity. When the doors finally opened on the desired floor, he bolted out, the urgency in his steps reflecting as he raced down the corridor. This was the most cardio he’d had in days. His eyes darted around erratically, scanning the room names, and he eventually found yours. 

Adorned next to the door like a beacon, and with a mix of hope and trepidation, he pressed the call button, but only silence answered back. He pushed it again. Then again. And each time the ominous silence was his only response. Mad with anxiety he pushed to override the security lock, a move usually foreign to his respectful nature. 

The door slid open, and his heart stilled, there you were on a sofa bathed in daylight from the small window close to the ceiling. Relief surged through him, but it was fleeting; his heart remained uneasy and it would until he saw some indication that you were truly alive. Striding purposefully, he crossed the room, the force signature around you echoing your weakened condition like a medical monitoring device would communicate a pulse or heartbeat.

The aftermath of battle left its gritty mark across your features—bacta patches firmly affixed your shoulder and upper arm worked to make you whole though the tendrils of bruising could be seen around the borders. The marks on your skin were like a gritty painting, telling the vivid story of explosions, blaster fire, and flying debris. Scratches added rough brushstrokes to your face, tracing the chaotic path of the battlefield. Minor burns left fiery imprints on your neck, marking close encounters with searing heat. Bruises, like somber echoes, formed a mosaic on your arms and hands, narrating the intense dance with projectile-like debris. 

Despite this, you lay in peaceful repose on your side, facing him, eyes closed in sleep; an elusive serenity amidst the chaos of war. Your head was cradled in your arms, one leg casually folded beneath you while the other stretched out, a blanket loosely entwined around your legs and gathered at your waist. As he crouched down to study you, he sought the familiar essence of the padawan he remembered. The passing of thirteen years had left its mark in the longer strands of hair and the refined, soft features that shaped you into a woman, a stark departure from the Padawan he once guided. No longer bound by the apprentice title, you had evolved into a Jedi Knight—a seasoned warrior.

A close call with death, all for the sake of your men who deeply admired you, almost snuffed out your light. But, your command and growing mastery of the Force made him prouder than ever at that moment.

A subtle shift in your sleep saw a strand of your hair falling gently over your face, just over your nose each little breath lifting it slightly, It brought a smile to his face, and for the first time in days, he felt a sense of tranquility, his pulse calming in the warmth of that precious moment. The chaos of the war outside felt distant within the confines of the cozy room.

Unbeknownst to him, his hand had instinctively reached out, delicately brushing the strand of hair away from your face, inadvertently prompting you to stir in your sleep, accompanied by a soft, sleepy groan.

Wakefulness pulled you from the warm embrace of sleep and instinctively you stretched, a grimace of pain crossed your lips as you moved, prompting you to recoil slightly into a ball once more. Then your eyelashes fluttered open gradually met by crystal blue eyes, quickly filling with a storm of fatigue, confusion, and curiosity. 

"Hello, young one," he uttered, his voice a gentle murmur rich with affection, and his smile extended to the corners of his eyes, creating subtle crinkles.

"Obi-Wan?" 

"Yes, it's Obi-Wan."

Was this a dream? It didn't feel like one. You scanned the room, casting a questioning glance at your surroundings and the unfolding reality. Your expression wasn't one of pleasure upon seeing him; instead, it bore confusion and distance, as if you were looking at a stranger. He couldn't ignore the palpable sense of disconnect. Hoping for a misunderstanding, that perhaps you had maintained secrecy for a mission, he observed the passing seconds, realizing it wasn't as simple as that.

"What day is it?" 

Not the question he had expected, but he was so relieved to hear your voice, that it didn’t matter.

"Primday. You've been in medical for two days, released from the intensive treatment wing just yesterday."

Thirteen years melted away, and those familiar, brilliant blue eyes, so kind and warm. Nostalgia washed over you, and you couldn't deny the yearning for the comforting presence of your former master. 

However, as the waves of reminiscence subsided, the reality you'd been avoiding for thirteen years resurfaced. Obi-Wan's knowledge about your condition, coupled with his intense worry, unsettled you, you had to get away from him. Sitting up was a struggle, and as you finally managed to rise, the blanket slipped away, laying bare the toll of battle on your body—a sight that triggered anger, and concern in Obi-Wan's eyes.

A large portion of your left thigh was concealed beneath a sizable bacta patch, and the same superficial injuries that littered the rest of your body continued, it seemed no part of you had been spared, your less-than-optimal state caught him off guard. 

“You should be in a bacta tank! They released you like this?” Obi-Wan was flabbergasted, the worry etched on his face evident. “Come, I’m taking you back to the medical wing.”

“Absolutely not!” Your bold assertion caught him off guard and he stopped, there had only been a handful of times where you had defied your master. You adjusted your tone to a more calm and measured cadence before adding, “The bacta tanks are at capacity, and there are far more injured than I. –I’m fine. Just scratches.”

He blinked rapidly, his concern escalating. “Scratches? These are NOT scratches.” Oblivious to your state of undress, he gestured to your leg. “You were nearly killed! I saw the holo myself!”

Feeling the weight of responsibility on your shoulders, you searched for any excuse to put more space between you and your master. Ignoring his pleas for you to stay put, you tried to stand again, driven by your stubborn nature. It wasn't until Obi-Wan physically stepped in, restraining you, that you finally came to a stop.

“You can't go back like this,” he insisted, “You're in terrible shape, you need time to recover.”

You made a final attempt to push past him, but Obi-Wan wasn't having it. A firm but considerate hand on your chest gently pushed you back, and a wave of discomfort washed over you as the dull throb of your muscles crying out caught up with your exertions. Glancing to the side table, he spotted a hypo syringe, and without hesitation, he reached for it, eager to bring an end to your pain. However, you extended your hand and vehemently shook your head, intensifying his disbelief as you refused pain medication despite the evident discomfort you were in.

“I don’t need it,” you insisted, defiantly rejecting any relief for your pain. Obi-Wan couldn't fathom your refusal, considering the severity of your injuries.

“You were hit by three blaster bolts and blown up, and you refuse pain medicine?” His voice rose unintentionally, a mix of concern and frustration evident. He shook his head in disbelief, disappointed by your seemingly stubborn choices. He set the syringe down and rose turning away from you, hands on his hips trying to make sense of you but you’d never made it easy on him.

“And you expected to make it down the hall, into the turbo life through the halls, and into the squad bay like this?” He gestured vaguely to you and huffed out a breath The internal conflict of caring for someone who refused care etched across his face and he shut his eyes in exasperation. “What am I to do with you?”

The room settled into a calm stillness, and he could feel the Force flowing gently, like a quiet river moving past him. Eager to offer support, he laid a comforting hand on your shoulder, connecting his own Force presence with yours. A tranquil hush filled the space as you both embraced the ancient practice, seeking solace for the aches and pains that lingered.

The room filled with the soothing hum of the Force, a brief moment of relief washing over you like waves tickling at your toes, easing the discomfort. The pain began to melt away, replaced by a comforting warmth. Yet, as soon as you felt his added touch, your eyes snapped open, and you jerked back abruptly cutting off both the Force connection and the physical contact. It was as if you pulled back as if the sensation burned you. Confusion widened his eyes, hurt creasing his handsome features. He lowered his head into his hands, his voice tinged with a tremor of pain as he grappled with the mystery of your sudden distance and coldness toward him.

"What have I done to you?" 

His eyes closed in unbearable agony, and his head bowed forward, hair cascading over his face. 

"How have I wronged you? In what way did I hurt you so profoundly that my own padawan refrains from uttering my name to her company, or anyone else? That she remains a secret, that no one knows she was mine?" 

His?

An ocean of hurt filled those beautiful blue eyes as he looked up, and for the first time, he saw you gaze back at him and actually see him.

"Nothing, you did nothing. Obi-Wan I–" 

Shaking your head, you reached out to him, but this time it was he who recoiled, taking several steps back, attempting to regain control over his faltering composure. Pain welled up within you, the knowledge that you tried to follow what you believed was right, what you were taught was right, and still it had caused harm.

"I must have done something to you for you to treat me this way." His voice carried a hint of indignation now. "Was I too harsh? Unjust? A cruel master? What did I do to make you harbor such hatred towards me?" Hate? 

No, no, no. This was all wrong. What had you done?

"I don't hate you," You pleaded, your voice carrying the weight of regret. "I could never hate you, Obi-Wan."

"Oh? What else am I left to believe? One moment I'm watching you being knighted, the youngest of your clan, my heart swelling with pride at knowing the galaxy will never see another Jedi like you. And the next, you're just gone! No goodbye, no farewells, no communications, nothing. As if the years I trained you were of no consequence, as if the bond that follows a Padawan and Master throughout life meant nothing."

Your heart hurt, and you weren't sure which was more painful: the idea that he thought he had wronged you so much that you hated him, or the realization that you had hurt him and continued to do so.

"That's not what it was." 

Your voice was meek, and you struggled to explain but it felt useless, the damage had ben done, by your hand. You had hoped to avoid this conversation, knowing there was only one inevitable outcome: the loss of your relationship with your master, forever. Yet fate seemed determined to unfold it now.

“Then what? What, padawan?”

As he closed the distance between you, your internal turmoil heightened. You clutched the blanket tighter around yourself, a feeble attempt to shield not just your body but the vulnerability you felt at that moment. 

"Please, don't call me that."

You sank into the protection of the blanket, avoiding the term that carried memories of a time when things were simpler, a time you desperately wanted to distance yourself from. The weight of the past lingered in the air, leaving you exposed and uncertain about the path this conversation would take.

He seemed both confused and offended now. How could such an important name hold such bitterness for you?

“Padawan,” You flinched at hearing him speak the word in what felt like spite, each syllable caressed by his thick Coruscatnti accent.

“Look at me, padawan.” His commanding presence made it difficult to resist, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, you just couldn’t. The last threads of resistance faded when he spoke as he had whenever you were in trouble, “You will obey your Master’s command,” 

Of course, you would. You always would when he called, as instinctive a reaction to you as breathing. Painfully slowly, you looked up eyes still fighting it the whole time hoping he would understand without any further explanation, but stubbornness and snark was something the Great Negotiator was famed for, and he would not be denied any longer. 

As your eyes locked with his, an unexpected vulnerability washed over you, and you felt more naked than you were. It had been more than a decade since you looked into those eyes, yet the magnetic pull was just as potent now as it had been thirteen years ago. You subtly shook your head, silently pleading.

As the seconds passed, realization dawned on him. Your face, colored by shades of shame and embarrassment, betrayed the unspoken truths. The hand reaching up to your temple was the final revelation, leaving you with nothing to do but let him see.

In the jumble of thoughts racing through your interconnected minds, fragments of him surged to the forefront. His deep blue eyes, the warmth of his smile, the soft touch of his hands—all tangled memories, causing a storm within. He saw the moment you grappled with the painful truth: the man you desired could never be truly yours, shackled by the rigid Jedi code and Obi-Wan's unwavering commitment. Faced with this agony, disappearing into the void seemed like the only refuge, a self-imposed exile to shield both of you from inevitable heartache. So, when you had heard Master Yoda speaking of a mission on the other side of the galaxy, you seized the opportunity. Leaving right away? Perfect. Despite hating the choice, it felt like the only way. You’d have done anything to protect him from yourself. 

He understood now, that whenever he uttered "Padawan" the word brought you pain because it was as close as you could ever be. The pain reverberated, and he, peering into your thoughts, could sense it all. As he withdrew, his eyes conveyed not disappointment but a poignant sadness, leaving a lingering ache that cut deeper than any vibroblade could.

The emptiness he left in your thoughts was unbearable. Your head sank into your hands as you whispered apologies—apologies for keeping secrets, for causing him pain, for leaving him, for unintentionally making him believe you were angry or had betrayed him with these unspoken thoughts. The weight of it all overwhelmed you, and grief started to take hold.

"You ran away, for my benefit?" the weight of his words hung heavily in the air. 

With a single nod, you admitted the harsh truth. And what good did it do? The heartbreak you'd been dodging finally caught up with you, but you’d given it one hell of a run.

You could hear him taking a cautious step back as if you were a dangerous threat to him, but then again, weren’t you? The impending void that would stretch between you two loomed now, and it would stretch for far longer than the span of a few years. This was exactly what you'd hoped to avoid—the door opening, him walking away, and leaving behind an emptiness that nothing could fill.

In the aftermath, you'd head back to your company, join your men, skillfully avoid their questions, and bury the sound of his name so deep it might never resurface. No more uttering it, not even in the quiet corners of your mind. The once-warm memories of your kind master guiding you in the Jedi ways would become bittersweet relics, stained by your own choices.

A profound hopelessness settled in as you rested your head against your hands, hair falling like a curtain. You braced for the tears, waiting for the sound of the doors to open and close one final time before you’d let them fall, shutting your eyes tightly to keep them in. Any second now.

However, the doors remained sealed, he was still there. Was he about to scold you? To make you feel more the foolish girl who should have had better control over her stupid emotions? Guess every wound needed a little salt, though, didn’t it? The situation seemed to only get worse and you found yourself wishing that the blast you struggled to hold back might have killed you instead, that you might be spared this pain.

His voice was almost a whisper, prompting you to glance up. "You don’t hate me?"

You shook your head vigorously, "How could I?"

Was there a chance to salvage this? In any way? You struggled to get back on your feet, your movements thwarted by a shooting persistent pain that would sooner see you fail in your attempt to reach him. And stumble you did, barely managing a few steps before you failed, but your master was right there, catching you before you could hit the ground. With his support, you managed to stand, though he still towered over you. His arm wrapped around you, a reassurance that you were safe. This shouldn't be happening, and he should have left, but he stayed. Why? Would this be it? It had to be. 

Giving in to a momentary desire, you let yourself enjoy a small gesture—your fingers slipping through the back of his neck, remembering the softness of his hair. It was shorter now, and although it suited him, you couldn't help but miss the longer locks that used to invite such thoughts.

“What am I to do with you, padawan?”

His choice of words sent a shiver down your spine, but not in the way it used to. There was a strange undertone in his voice, something you hadn't heard before. You had no answers to his question, but it seemed like responses didn't much matter to him. Then, out of the blue, he stooped down and picked you up in his arms, something you'd only dared dream about.

"What're you doing?"

"Taking you to bed, where I can take you properly." 

You froze. What did he say? Could he really mean what you thought he did? There had to be some misunderstanding. Your love-struck brain must be playing tricks on you. Your master wouldn't actually give in to those desires, right? Your blood raced, your heart thundered and your skin tingled as he effortlessly carried you, making your weight seem inconsequential.

The bed, though not exceptionally soft, transformed into the most comforting spot in the galaxy as he tenderly placed you upon it. Kneeling beside you the mattress dipping to accommodate him as well, he cradled your face in his hands, prompting a shaky "Wha-?" from your trembling voice.

"Stubborn girl," his words hung in the air, accompanied by that unforgettable tone, yes, it was slightly critical but there was something else to it. "You're not leaving this bed until you're fully recovered. Understand, Padawan?" Confusion swirled in your mind at hearing his command, but you managed a small nod. "You will obey your master's commands, won't you?" The authoritative tone was unfamiliar, prompting another slow nod from you. "Say it."

"Yes, Master."

"Good girl," he affirmed, drawing closer, and his lips met yours in an unexpectedly ferocious kiss. 

His mouth quickly took control of yours, leaving no room for confusion about what his intentions were when he said ‘take you properly’. It felt like a tempest, threatening to engulf you, carrying you to the darkest depths but after thirteen years of wanting, and needing, the storm could do as it wanted, if he was the storm.

He smelled like blaster fire, adrenaline, smoke, and lightning—the aftermath of the battlefield sticking to him. Mingling with his scent, like the promise of rain, held traces of incense, taking you back to moments meditating in temples and deserts during your years of travel together. It was a smell that whispered safety and felt like home, a unique cologne you'd spend countless credits on. Something you wanted to drown in.

In countless dreams, you'd imagined moments where your master sought you out after hard battles, dangerous missions, or late at night, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you two. You dreamed of clandestine rendezvous with his hand covering your mouth urging you to be quiet. 

Now, it wasn't just a fantasy; it was real. His lips moving against yours, licking at your lips, sucking on the tip of your own tongue, fueled by hunger as intense as that of a starving man, confirmed the reality of the moment.

During your trials, he had worn his beard and mustache, and it had long sparked your carnal curiosity about the sensations they might bring – a persistent tickle or a pleasurable burn? It turned out to be both, exquisitely and painfully so, surpassing the allure of any narcotic. The intensity of his mouth against yours was relentless, lips brushing yours before his tongue entered the equation. It delved into your mouth, leaving your usually sharp mind in a state of struggle, accompanied by shaky moans. Yet, none of it mattered. The moment he pressed himself between your legs, seizing the hem of your shirt, all rational thought vanished. Your hungry mind could only process the overwhelming realization that your master was kissing you, his tongue licking at your mouth, and he was pawing at you, undressing you like your clothes were an unforgivable offense. 

His hands, leaving trails of smoldering embers, intensified the moment, but the euphoria came at a cost. When you moved to discard your shirt, a sharp pain shot through your shoulder, stealing a cry from your lips. Clutching your wound, you fought back the urge to cry.

The sudden sound shattered the enchantment, and his eyes snapped open. He pulled away abruptly, looking as if he were shocked to find himself in this situation with you. Clarity returned to his gaze, and a heavy feeling settled in your stomach as he stepped back, his features clouded with alarm, shaking his head.

"No, we can't," he uttered, releasing you abruptly. In an instant, it was over. A desperate breath escaped you as you reached out, but he vanished.

The urge to scream, cry, or tear down the walls clawed at you, but none of it could change what had just happened. Flopping back on the bed, your shoulder met the mattress with a wince. Anger pulsed through your core, fueled by both the recovering blaster wound and the missed opportunity.

He'd kissed you, and touched you, and just when the promise of something more seemed within reach, it slipped away, leaving a bitter taste of disappointment. The thought of his bare skin against yours, a tantalizing dream, now felt elusive. Despair settled in, but the sudden sound of hurried steps shattered the silence—Obi-Wan's unexpected return.

Before you could fully rise, he gently pressed you back down, his body covering you. His lips sought yours again in a softer, slower kiss, dispelling confusion but introducing a new layer of uncertainty.

He hadn’t left. "Master?" You could barely get the word out before his lips crashed into yours again, a hungry, intense kiss that made you forget about everything—the sudden exit, the unexplained return—all vanished in the heat of the moment. A sharp sting in your arm brought you back, and you pulled away with a surprised 'Ow!' Glancing down, you noticed the hypo-syringe in his hand and the red mark on your arm. "Wha-?"

He came back for another kiss, a hungry and urgent embrace that left you breathless. His tongue teased at your lips, an intrusion you found hard to be angry about. During this heated exchange, he murmured, "I'm sorry," between breathless kisses, his hand entangled in your hair, adding an electrifying thrill to the encounter.

His voice, heavy with sincerity and restraint, trailed down your neck as he continued the assault of hungry kisses. “I don’t want to hurt you,” The tingling sensation from the hypo spread through your body, replacing pain with a welcomed numbness. Now his words made sense – he had injected you with an anesthetic, he wasn’t going anywhere.

"But being gentle is not an option right now," he confessed against your skin, his lips sending shivers down your spine. "And I can't wait any longer."

And neither could you.

His presence enveloped you, a promise to soothe the ache that had haunted you. Rational thoughts and hesitations melted in the passionate exchange, leaving behind an urgent desire for his tongue to dance with yours, to savor the taste of you.

The pain became a distant murmur, overshadowed by the seductive cadence of his armor shedding away. The unmistakable sound of metal parts cascading to the floor filled the air, a harmonious unveiling that played like a haunting melody, laced with the promise of imminent closeness. Each metallic clink and rustle, orchestrated with practiced finesse, blended seamlessly with the mounting heat, composing a sensual symphony that underscored the unfolding intimacy.

"Padawan-” He sounded so full of need. “Have you waited this whole time to touch me, only to just lay there?"

No, you hadn't. Your senses snapped back into focus, and the relentless ache demanded action. Rising up with fiery determination, you seized his lip between your teeth, fingers tangled in his tousled locks. Leg wrapped around his waist, you provocatively thrust your hips into his, stirring a primal hunger. A low, appreciative groan escaped him, and the remaining shreds of restraint evaporated in the scorching intensity of the moment.

“Very good, padawan,” he whispered between searing kisses "Now, tell me what you want. Tell me every craving, every ache you've hidden from your master."

The legendary negotiator, renowned for his poise, eloquence, grace, and dignity in the heat of battle or the midst of a debate, was always portrayed as a polished and composed figure. However, the General Kenobi before you was a stark departure from that image—a persona that sensually grazed your neck with his lips, tenderly explored the curves of your breasts with his hands and moved his hips in a rhythm that ignited an intense passion. This wasn't just the great negotiator; it was the manifestation of a double life—a formidable lover hidden beneath the veneer of a respected leader.

His shorter locks proved to be the perfect handhold, their soft strands entwining with your fingers. The subtle roughness of his beard intensified the already electric atmosphere, adding an extra layer of intensity to the moment. 

In the fiery dance of passion and longing, he'd always preached the power of actions over words. Guided by that intimate lesson, you eagerly set out to unravel the layers of his robes, with a gentle push, he rose back up to stand while you sat on the bed, your hands moving with a fervor fueled by desire. The belt surrendered first, dropping to the ground with a soft thud, the lightsaber noticeably absent, carefully stowed away. Urgently, the ties of his loose robe followed suit in the passionate race to undress him. The linen shirt glided away from his broad shoulders, gracefully descending to the floor, revealing the lush expanse of his bare chest. With unwavering determination, you committed every inch of your master's body to the canvas of your memory, each touch a sensual exploration of his lean, muscled skin, a sensory feast that ignited the flames of desire.

"This." 

Your fingers traced the shape of his already hard length beneath the fabric of his trousers, coaxing a low moan from Obi-Wan against your neck. "Master, I want this." A firm squeeze elicited a shudder, coursing through him as you continued to tease through his clothing. "I want it in my mouth." His breath hitched, and his hips responded eagerly. Slowly untying the laces of his trousers, your hand slipped inside, embracing his him. The guttural groan that escaped him sent warmth rippling through your body. "Between my legs."

Your master's throbbing cock pulsed in your hands, radiating heat against your skin—hard and demanding. Each stroke elicited untamed pleasure, breaking through the disciplined walls the Jedi Order had meticulously built over the decades. The symphony of his responses played out in sensual notes: the quivers across his skin, the ragged gasps, and the vulnerable moans, all orchestrated by your skilled touch. Hypnotized by the power you held over him, you savored every moment, captivated by the way his body reacted to your every movement. How his hips surged forward in a hungry plea as your hand teased and retreated, and then faltered when you squeezed him with deliberate, unhurried strokes. An irresistible urge surged within you, a yearning to fulfill the fantasies that had simmered within your soul for a decade.

“Master, your padawan wants your cock.” 

His hips faltered again at the sheer filth that you spoke of, the way your voice caressed such dirty thoughts, he twitched in your hand and you tried not to moan. Like a siren call you began to dip your head forward, desperate to satisfy the curiosity of how he tasted, your goal so close, a breath away from your lips when it was cruelly ripped away from you. His hand wrapped gently but assertively around your throat giving the softest squeeze that prompted you to rub your thighs together to still the full body shudder. 

“My padawan will learn patience. I asked you to tell me your thoughts, not to carry them out.” 

You wanted to cry, maybe he expected a submissive little padawan.

“Up, further on the bed.” 

He let you go, and you followed his command, scooting back towards the middle of the bed. The intensity of his gaze made it challenging not to tremble. The sight of your master, shirtless, messy hair, swollen lips, and trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips, carried the knowledge that his hard arousal had been in your hands. Knowing you had driven him to that point made obeying his commands a fierce internal struggle. The difficulty only intensified as he knelt on the bed, crawling toward you like a predator closing in on its prey. His eyes held an unfamiliar, burning intensity, setting your own desires ablaze. How was it possible for blue eyes to burn?

His voice, low and commanding, demanded you to lie back, leaving no room for protest. The once-lacy barrier of your panties and bra felt like an unnecessary formality as he leaned over, his arms creating a delicious trap against the bed. Escape wasn't even a consideration, not that you wanted it. He peered at your shoulder, voice holding a hint of soft concern as he asked, "Are you in any pain?" With a shake of your head, A wolfish grin played on his handsome face. "Good. Though, you might when I'm done with you." Oh, stars. Denying you a proper kiss, his tongue traced the trail of desire from your lips down your jaw and neck.

“Going to have to punish you a bit for abandoning your master,” 

What? He was going to punish you? Your heart threatened to burst as his lips drifted down your chest, lavishing every imperfection marring your skin with a sweep of his tongue and a caress of his hands.

Despite having command of the force all your life, the very notion that it may be used against you, that it could be unseen hands acting on Obi-Wan’s will, tearing the rest of your clothes off thrilled you. But he surprised you, it seemed he was more hands-on, the bra you wore was quickly gone and that hot mouth of his found its way to your nipples delicately teasing. Slow and purposeful swipes of his tongue coupled with the soft seal of his lips and the gentle scrape of his teeth made you arch wantonly into his waiting mouth with a whimper. 

Was this what he’d meant about punishment? 

He quickly answered that for you, the gentle vibrations of his moan passing through your teased nipples as he switched from one to treat the other to equal pleasure. 

“Your punishment can wait though,” That eloquently talented tongue of his drew sensual circles that brought a choked sob past your lips. “First, I’m going to take care of my padawan. Make her come for me in all the ways she’s ever dreamed, so she’ll never leave me again,” Your heart skipped a beat, several in fact, “Till her body shakes and she can no longer bear not having my cock in her.” 

He finally released your aching nipples moving down the soft flat expanse of your stomach tongue dipping into your navel. “My powerful,” he kissed your hip, “beautiful,” he sucked on the skin as his fingers tucked into your panties “Sensitive,” and pulled them down your legs. “Neglected,” His breath ghosted over your thigh, tossing the garment aside. “Padawan.” 

Never again would the word Padawan cause you pain, never again would it represent ache and loss and missed opportunities. Your chest rose in shallow breaths and you were fairly certain you were going to have a heart attack. Your eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling before fluttering closed completely, listening to your master's voice, feeling his hot breath on your most delicate body parts. And for a few terrible moments he let you sit there feeling his breath, the occasional brush of his beard on your skin, the anticipation more horrible than a thousand lonely nights with only your fantasies and touch. 

“Master.” You wished you hadn’t sounded so pitiful, so needy and pathetic but you were and you couldn’t help it. Naked on a bed with your master’s breath teasing you between your legs, you were ready to beg. 

“Padawan,” 

The word whispered, barely audible a fraction of eternity passed before you felt the sweetly sinful furnace of his mouth on your lips before his tongue swept past them to taste you. A shrill and sudden intake of breath shattered the stillness of the room, and your hips canted up against his mouth and you cried out in a drawn-out moan. Not in any pain but the desperate tens of thousands of lonely nights where you cried his name in your mind each time you came against your hand. 

His strokes were sweet and slow and left no part of you untouched. You’re lungs seized up momentarily and your brain misfired too many impulses, the instinct to jump away upon the startling contact with his mouth warred the desire to watch him, which also struggled against the urge to seize his hair and beg him to take you right then and there.

All impulses crashed into one another with each broad stroke of his tongue against your pussy, you lay back practically panting desperately trying to remember how to breathe properly, but with every flick of his tongue saw to it that you forgot whatever it was you were trying to remember. 

Your toes curled slightly in shameless pleasure when you felt his fingers stroking your entrance, teasing you with the promise of sublime ecstasy to be had if he would only use his fingers. The very ones calloused from years of wielding a lightsaber now brought blistering pleasure with every touch. The sounds of his breathing intermingled with deep groans as he lapped at you like he was dying of thirst, only adding to the symphony of sex you would play over and over in your head until the end of your days. 

As you lay there losing your mind in the velvet embrace of your master’s mouth, Obi-Wan was studying you, learning your pleasure through each taste, stroke, and flick of the tongue. Committing to memory how you reacted when he licked hard or sucked softly the cadence of your breathing and the buck of your hips, what drew sweet whimpers or unabashed moans. He found a rhythm, long, slow broad strokes, that made you gasp each time no matter how often he did it, you could never get used to it. Followed by the quick teasing flutter of his tongue on your clit, fingers sweeping gently along the length of your lips throwing fuel to the fire he that was beginning to rage out of control. The hot lazy hunger of his mouth was better than anything you’d ever felt and it was impossible to keep your eyes open for any length of time, it just felt so good, as if your brain was struggling to keep up with what was happening it would occasionally rapid-fire messages to you as though you were unaware of exactly what was going on.

‘Master’s mouth is between my legs.’

‘Stars! He’s licking me.’

‘He’s going to make me come!’

Somewhere in the back of your mind you registered the soft sound of a deep and throaty chuckle, the reverberations stole your breath and sidetracked your thoughts.

‘Yes, padawan, you will come for me. Until I grow weary of the noises you make.’

The words played out in your mind as if they came from everywhere echoing off the walls of your thoughts, but when you glanced down, Obi-Wan was focused on you. Not even a teasing expression, his eyes seemed closed in rapture as though he were enjoying an exquisite, delicacy catered to his palette only. And enjoying it thoroughly.

When not dancing teasing touches to your entrance, his hands stroked the inside of your thighs opening your legs further each time, mindful not to agitate your wounds, his touch so delicate that it made your skin tingle with sensitivity. 

It was unbelievable how quickly he’d gotten you so close to cumming but then his voice in your head tell you the most wicked thoughts aided in that considerably. 

Never before did you ever think such a thing would happen, your master hungrily feasting on your pussy. It had to be a dream, it was too good, any moment when you were nearly ready for the rolling torrent of orgasm to crash upon you, you would wake up and cling to the remnants of this dream while hurriedly bringing yourself to climax while muffling any sounds into your pillow.

“No, my padawan, this is no dream. I’m going to make you come for me now.”

His mouth found your clit again, giving it a series of slow licks and gentle, open-mouthed kisses before spreading your lips open giving you no reprieve from that masterful mouth of his. Then he truly went to work on you, stimulating that little bundle of nerves by flicking the tip of his tongue over and over increasing in speed until you could scarcely breathe and your body was writhing on the bed, the moans tumbling from your mouth. Your wails combined with your desperate pleas carried through the room with lick, swirl, and suckle. 

Obi-wan’s voice continued calling to you whispering so many salacious things to you; that he loved how you tasted so sweet to him, “My darling, padawan, your taste is divine, so sweet.” 

That your moans were what he would play in his head when he stroked himself if he couldn’t have you, “Yes, sing for me, tell me how good I’m making you feel,” 

How he knew you were going to strangle his cock when he finally let you have it, “S’going to feel so good when I bury my cock in you, isn’t it? Going to strangle me, aren’t you?” 

How gorgeous you looked like this for him and it was only for him, “So, beautiful all laid out for me, only for me, aren’t you?”

And for each whispered thought in your mind you moaned a ragged “Yes, master! Yes! Yes!”

This was it, he was going to kill you, this was how you would join the living Force, wildly in the throws of orgasm. You couldn’t even manage his name, barely able to utter the first syllable, voice raising in pitch, your body growing rigid as it all culminated towards an exquisite peak. It was the sound of Obi-wan’s half breath, half moan, and the demanding cadence of his order sounding in your mind rising above all other words; the command to come for him, and you did. The thick throaty satisfied moan of a man who wanted to be no other place than between your legs, reverberating through your flesh and raced up your core.

Waves of fire, hotter than any star, more molten than any lightsaber, radiated from your thoroughly stimulated pussy overtaking your body as his mouth worked you over slowly teasing out every ounce of pleasure he could, wringing it from you like water from a rag. 

Repeating the word "Master" like a mantra, a symphony of desire and surrender as you writhed against him. No longer in control, you became a willing captive to the relentless pulses dictated by Obi-Wan. The euphoric journey continued an unending cascade of sensations and shared ecstasy. And it didn’t stop, like a fire it grew more and more intense, shocking you, never before had you experienced sensations like what he was giving you. You just kept coming.

Would it ever stop? The overwhelming wave of pleasure seemed boundless. It was intoxicating, almost too much. As the peak of ecstasy subsided, it left behind little electric shocks of overstimulation with each additional stroke of Obi-Wan's tongue, trying to coax out a little more. The intensity lingered, a sensation that bordered on both pleasure and sweet torment.

The sweet agony of pleasure mixed with the sting of overstimulation was a cruelty of human physiology. You wanted more, a hungry desire pushing him to give you everything. But your body rebelled, aching for a momentary escape from the relentless assault. Your hips wriggled and began to buck trying to throw him off in a wordless plea for him to ease the intensity. Yet, he pressed on, undeterred, as you grappled with the conflicting sensations, lost in the dizzying dance of pleasure and pain.

“Master! Please! No more– I-I can’t!” The way your words sounded so weak and your voice nearly broken seemed to finally reach him and he slowed to a stop, depositing one final deep kiss and drawing an unadulterated moan from you before he finally released your overworked, quivering flesh. 

Your body shivered as he moved up the bed to kiss your lips. The lingering scent and taste of your orgasm clung to his mouth—a mix of sweat and satisfaction, intensified by the unique aroma coming from him. It was potent enough to make you teeter on the brink of another climax, a fortunate secret he remained unaware of.

For some reason you felt like you needed to thank him, which was ridiculous, thank him for what? For giving you the most amazing orgasm you’d ever had? It seemed a bit awkward and out of place but somehow given this new dominant side of your master, he might enjoy that.

He breathed in deeply as if savoring the aftermath of a fulfilling workout. But the look on his face spoke of more than just exertion; it was a blend of delight and contentment.

You, on the other hand, felt a bit like you'd had one too many drinks. The air seemed to swirl around you, and his disheveled hair falling over his face only added to the effect. His smile was downright criminal, it seemed almost unnatural for a man to look so good wearing nothing but a smile.

"Thank you," you mumbled, the word sounding feeble even to your own ears, but Obi-Wan's pleased expression suggested he appreciated the sentiment.

“Did you enjoy that, my little padawan?” The endearment sent a shiver down your spine, and all you could manage was a nod. As his lips met yours once more, a wave of euphoria washed over you. Soft, powerful, firm—his kisses were everything you'd hoped for, stirring desire in every part of your being, and the knowledge that he’s just used that mouth on you made your heart race and your cunt ache.

“Tell me, before I take you, how many?” The question hung between you, a mix of desire and curiosity in Obi-Wan's voice. You were a bit baffled, trying to figure out the context of his question. Orgasms? It wasn’t something you kept tabs on. Sensing your confusion, he clarified, “Men. Lovers. How many?”

An awkward lump formed in your throat as you replied, “None.”

His eyes widened, and he licked his lips. There was a momentary flicker in his expression that could almost be mistaken for anger, but his subsequent fervent return to kissing dispelled that notion. “None? How is that possible? That I am the first to ever touch you like this?”

“The first man.” He froze, his expression shifting to shock at your admission. The truth was, you couldn’t bring yourself to be with a man when the one you desired was out of reach. Women, however...

“I’ve had lovers, just not any men; I didn’t want them.”

“You’ve taken female lovers?” he asked. You nodded, hoping he wouldn’t disapprove. His grin returned, now carrying a wolfish quality, and his mouth found its way back to your breast. His kiss turned fierce, hungry—a prelude to the kind of passion that precedes throwing someone onto a bed and ravishing them.  “Naughty thing,” he murmured. Relief flooded through you, quickly followed by euphoria. “Did you enjoy that? Letting other women touch you?”

"Sometimes." He appeared puzzled, and you nonchalantly shrugged, steering clear of his penetrating gaze. The notion of accepting disappointment felt like a subtle form of judgment.

"Women can be selfish lovers too." The idea of your satisfaction not being guaranteed seemed to trouble him. He shook his head slowly, 'tsking' you, as though imparting guidance on what was and wasn't acceptable.

"That won't do at all," he declared, lowering his lips to yours in a kiss that sent electric shivers down your spine. "I’m going to erase every memory of anyone who’s ever touched you." His tongue danced over your nipple again, barely tasting it and he stopped to savor your little breath. “Going to fuck you until you cry out my name, going to make sure you’re never left wanting again.” With a flick of his tongue, his hand started massaging your other breast, “Would you like that, padawan, for your master to make you feel good?”

“Yes! Please, Master! Please!”

“So respectful when you’ve had your cunt devoured, aren't you?” 

Those words, oh, they hit you in all the right places. You never thought he had it in him—the raw, unfiltered sexuality. Suddenly, you weren't just yearning for his touch; you wanted to be the one to make him quiver and groan, to do to him, what he did to you. To see how your words and caresses could unravel the composed Jedi Master. It wasn't just about fulfilling your own cravings; it was about sharing a dance of passion and exploring uncharted realms of desire together.

Strength surged within you, not the physical kind, but a potent force you had at your command. Calling upon the Force was as natural as breathing, and with a graceful wave of your hand, Obi-Wan found himself unceremoniously tossed onto his back, a look of astonishment etched across his features as if captivated by an unexpected dance. Yes, you had just harnessed the Force against your master.

The sight of your master supine, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath, hair tousled in disarray, trousers precariously low on his hips, and all because you had put him there. His eyes held a mesmerizing blend of surprise and desire, mirroring the emotions flickering within yourself. Seizing the moment before he could recover, you took a daring leap and went in to lay siege.

Obi-Wan, caught off guard by your bold moves, sank into the softness of the bed. Your fingers danced through his hair and beard, jerking his head back to expose his neck, ensuring he wouldn't forget this moment. A low, appreciative purr escaped his chest, silently praising your audacity. With each kiss and playful nip, he seemed to yield to your lead, responding with soft sounds of approval.

You savored the blissful aftermath of victory, those suspended seconds lingering in the air. In that fleeting time, your senses buzzed with playful thoughts, tempting fantasies, and desires long confined. He might have allowed the moment to stretch a bit more, but then came your teasing nips, tracing the spots that made him flinch with delightful sensitivity.

“Want to taste you,” You muttered, fairly certain you hadn’t imagined that little ‘oh.’

"Padawan..." His voice, a touch hoarse, accompanied the journey of your fingers down his ribs and along his toned stomach. Moving closer to the tantalizing waistband of his trousers where your prize awaited you, the desire to feel him in your hand became almost unbearable. Yet, you found justification for a bit more teasing. Fingers dipped just inside the band of his trousers, close enough to feel him twitch and buck at your almost-touches, it was too delicious to only do once.

Perhaps you shouldn't have pushed your luck.

Because, like the fabric of Jedi robes, his patience wore thin. It was then that your Master's restraint snapped, like a stretched cord finally giving way.

In an instant, he grabbed your waist, executing a swift and aggressive flip that left him looming above you, pinning you down on the bed. His body pressed into yours, and a sly grin hinted that the game was about to get a lot more daring. The air hummed with anticipation as he shook his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that left you breathless.

"What were you thinking, Padawan?" His voice, low and husky, carried a thick layer of desire, each word steeped in need. His intense gaze locked onto yours, silently questioning.

"Touching your master without permission?" 

Stunned. You struggled to form a response, your lips moved, and no words broke free. Was he serious? After the intoxicating dance of his mouth had just brought you to an unparalleled climax, he expected you to ask permission to touch him? It felt absurd.

Questions raced through your mind. Was this some kind of test? A dominance play? Your stomach dropped. Maybe this was the punishment he’d spoken of, an exercise in humility? Searching his cerulean eyes for a hint of jest, the intense atmosphere from before remained, now layered with a different kind of tension. He simply shook his head slightly. The weight of his expectation hung in the room, leaving you torn between the impulse to surrender and the desire to meet his challenge with your own fiery response.

 "Yes, I do. I expect my padawan to remain obedient and respectful, no matter how she hungers." 

His fingers lingered just above your cheek, a subtle reminder of his ability to pluck your thoughts effortlessly, like plucking a flower from the grass. However, you had long since outgrown the status of a padawan, having ascended to the rank of Jedi Knight. If he expected pleading or begging, he was in for disappointment. A steely determination cast a shadow across your features. With narrowed eyes, you threw down a challenge. If he sought access to your mind, you were prepared to offer more than he had bargained for.

A coy smile danced on your lips, causing his own smile to falter ever so slightly. That mischievous glint in your eyes was a familiar precursor to something daring, and you had no intention of disappointing your master in this unexplored realm. Shutting your eyes, you tilted your head, letting his fingers brush against your face, shifting the battleground from the physical to the unseen.

Instead of engaging him through physical means, you chose to confront him on the mental plane, projecting your thoughts with an intensity that demanded attention. He took a sharp breath, caught off guard by the rush of images, thoughts, and sounds hitting him like a brisk breeze. The unexpected depth of your mental communication briefly disrupted the seamless flow of the physical connection.

This wasn't just a subtle act of rebellion; it was a declaration that you were no longer the Padawan he once trained. As a Jedi Knight, you wielded more than just a lightsaber—you possessed a will of your own, armed with a bag of tricks beyond anyone's expectations.

Though he could still address you as Padawan to elicit a reaction, you were so much more. Long-concealed thoughts, years hidden in secrecy, surged forth, intertwining with stolen glances and intimate moments—all now laid bare before Obi-Wan.

A mosaic of self-indulgent pleasures unfolded—whispered calls of his name amid moments of personal bliss. Stolen encounters, and lingering desires, all painted a picture of your yearning. The once-private fantasies, meant for the sanctuary of your thoughts, now exposed—a checklist of desires you had secretly harbored for him.

Breathless, he found himself caught in the private corners of your mind, imagined scenes unfolded, that saw you in a passionate dance, bodies entwined, covered in sweat, exploring countless positions. An insatiable hunger for him, even if he lay prone and exhausted, pleading with him for more.

The many ways you wanted to touch him, to pleasure him, and hear him echo your name as you had cried his— to render him powerless and explore his body until he succumbed to climax after climax and could give no more. 

He shivered with excitement, lost in the fantasy of the intense bliss you painted in his mind. Those throaty moans of pleasure felt so real, almost like he could taste them. Surprised by the raw intensity of your craving to taste him and drink him, he moaned your name in the tangled passion, every drop of his essence landing on your eager tongue as he lay back lost of the haze of sex and stimulation.

It wasn't merely about satisfying him; your desire surpassed that. There was an unquenchable hunger for him to seize control, to witness him unrestrained and consumed by passion and dominance. Whether he threw you onto the bed or pressed you against the wall, positions that brought a delightful twinge of discomfort on your end, all aimed at bringing him ecstasy, standing unassisted became an impossible task. The profound intensity of your yearning unfurled like a revelation, taking him by surprise.

The cat was out of the bag; the secret lay bare. Now, with an untamed glint in his eyes, it seemed you might have ventured into territory beyond your expectations.

"Padawan, my sweet, sinful, Padawan," His lips dipped to your ear, and the warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine. "Perhaps I should enlighten you with some of MY thoughts."

Composure became a fleeting notion as he placed his hand firmly on your temple and a rush of sensations overwhelmed you, powerful enough that the right touch might send you into another blinding climax, akin to a torrent of whitewater tossing a stick of dry driftwood.

His unfiltered thoughts surged into your mind, a river of forbidden fantasies and suppressed desires. In the shared space of his consciousness, visions unfurled like an intimate tapestry—a clandestine gallery of how he yearned for you, each scene a seductive exploration of passion.

In one vivid fantasy more powerful than your own, you found yourself pressed against the cold metal of a ship's wall, arms held captive overhead by an unseen force naked while he still wore his full robes. Your leg draped over his shoulder, he knelt before you, entirely at the mercy of his desires, and he had none. He skillfully coaxed orgasm after orgasm from your quivering form, every touch and caress hearing you cry out and wail his name until you were hoarse. Overwhelmed by the sensations, until you were rendered speechless, too weak to utter the word "Master" as pleasure consumed your senses.

Then the landscape shifted with your master now behind you, his hands exploring your body with practiced skill. Fingers danced between your legs, teasing your aching clit, perfectly synchronized with the slow, deliberate thrusts of his hips. In the shared intimacy, he praised you, “Such a good girl” and admiring your patience in holding back on coming until he granted permission. His voice, a velvety whisper, encouraged you to hang on, promising to reward your patience but only after he had cum inside you, again.

“You think your desires are greater and darker than my own? So innocent of you…” 

His words hit you like a revelation, unraveling a new side of Obi-Wan Kenobi that forever changed the way you saw him.

Another shift of vision saw you in the High Council Chamber, he sat naked in his seat, his strong thighs spread wide, and there you knelt before him. His hand gripped your hair, guiding his cock down your throat, and you obediently swallowed it all. With a gritty grunt, he demanded you not waste a drop, telling you to swallow all of it, praising your beauty as you served your master on your knees.

Your body pulsed and throbbed with each vision he gave you until the sights, sounds, and sensations grew so powerful all it took was the gentle stroke of his fingers between your legs to set you off. You threw your head back into the bed and moaned as the strength of your orgasm was amplified by your connection to your master as his most private thoughts continued playing in your head.

As he let you go, the fantasies slowly faded, and you found yourself returning to the tangible present. It was like your vision was coming back to focus, bit by bit, from the edges to the center. The room's immediate surroundings started to replace the lingering echoes of those intense daydreams.

In that moment, it was clear—he had won. The sly grin on his face revealed a man who knew he was about to get what he wanted. It was the look of someone who had conquered and was eagerly anticipating claiming their prize.

“Tell me, Padawan, are you ready to ask your master if you can touch him?” 

But there you were, a flicker of fight still dancing in your eyes. Trying to push against him to sit up, that burning desire to kiss him ignited, fueled by a longing to make him yearn for you. You wanted to kindle the flames of passion until he begged for your touch. Yet, your Master had other plans. Suddenly your body refused to cooperate, stubbornly resisting your every attempt. Even the simplest tasks, like wiggling your toes, proved to be impossible.

As your efforts were thwarted, Obi-Wan's grin grew, taking on a dark intensity. His stormy eyes promised something profound, something that transcended the physical. His gaze seemed to revel in the power he held over your immobilized form, piercing through the struggle within.

“Use the Force on your master to tease him, will you? Let us see how you like it?” His lips ghosted over your breast, barely warming your nipple, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. “You will ask permission, Padawan. I can wait.” His mouth enclosed over the hard bud lazily stroking, teeth occasionally grazing as your pathetic little whimpers danced in the air. 

He seemed perfectly content in his torturous teasing, but he had to be aching himself. Had to want to fuck you as badly as you wanted him to fuck you. This wasn’t fair, this wasn’t fair!

"Life is never fair, padawan," he murmured, as if reading the turmoil in your mind. "I had a very different plan for you until you chose to utilize the Force on your master. Now, you'll beg for the privilege to touch me."

His words sent shivers down your spine, and as he continued his fervent exploration, his hands tracing paths on your body that bordered on pain due to the lingering sensitivity from previous climaxes, you couldn't fathom how he remained so composed. The dichotomy of your desperation and his controlled demeanor only added to the maddening allure of the moment.

“You have no idea how much I want to sink my cock into this tight, perfect cunt,” His fingers grazed your lips and you were powerless to stop him, you could barely tremble at his touch. “How badly I want to feel you squeeze my cock, but I’ve not achieved the rank of master without considerable discipline.” 

He returned to your breast sucking harder, as his fingers employed a more delicate touch between your legs, which you were powerless to close, soft, sweet strokes on your thighs, and your lips but cruelly or mercifully avoiding your clit. Your lips trembled at the delicate touch, and in that moment, the unfairness of it all struck you like a tidal wave. 

For years, he had been your mentor, teaching you the art of patience and urging you to play the long game. "Be patient," he would say, "gauge your opponent."

But in the whirlwind of your desires, the very lessons he drilled into you seemed to crumble. Impatience surged, a desperate yearning for instant gratification that clashed with the wise teachings of your master. He offered to fulfill your every desire, promising pleasures beyond imagination. Yet, in your haste to assert newfound power, eager to prove you were more than just his padawan, you discovered there were still lessons for him to teach, more wisdom to share.

Your urgency led to a clash of power dynamics, revealing your master still held the upper hand. A soft sob of frustration escaped, breaking his focused demeanor. His once passionate cerulean eyes now held a glimmer of concern and curiosity as he paused.

"Say the words, padawan," His voice entreated gently, a soft call laced with a plea that tugged at the strings of your stubborn pride. You might have resisted longer if not for the unsaid words that reverberated in the echoes of your mind. "Padawan, please!"

Your eyes shot open, scanning the room for any hint that the desperation in Obi-Wan Kenobi's gaze was just a figment of your imagination. Yet, there it was—a pleading look that intertwined compassion and desire in a delicate dance across his face.

At that moment, it dawned on you: you had won. The silent struggle between you and your former master, the unspoken battle of wills, had reached its conclusion. The walls you'd built around your emotions had crumbled in the face of that unspoken plea. It wasn't about conquest; it was a surrender, and the victory was yours. 

You might be the first to say the words but he was the first to beg.

"Please, Master," Your voice, a sweet melody of desire, reached into the core of his being. His gaze narrowed, and he froze, the invisible bonds around you weakening, his resistance giving way. "Let me touch you, Master," You pleaded sweetly, your words dripping with need. "I want you," You added, turning up the heat until the bonds snapped completely. “Let me taste you, let me have you.”

With their release, he was on your lips again, kissing you with a desperate hunger, untamed and wild. Yet, despite your newfound freedom, you lay still beneath him, a silent presence he couldn't resist. 

"Padawan! Are you going to touch me or not?" 

His outrage was amusing. A playful grin toyed with the corners of your lips, hinting at your delight. 

Feigning innocence, you shot back, "You haven’t given me permission to touch you."

His eyes widened in surprise, a jolt of anticipation coursing through him as a deep, appreciative groan escaped him, acknowledging your skillful play as his Padawan. 

"Darling, please, touch your master," 

With a surge of passion, you seized the moment, fingers seizing his hair with purpose, jerking hard enough that he cried out, a pull that danced on the edge of sweet pain. 

Defying the limits of control, you launched a fervent attack on his lips, reclaiming the kiss with an intensity that screamed desire. Your tongue demanded entry, a forceful and unapologetic dive into the depths of his mouth. A low grunt slipped from him, a mix of surprise and a hint of surrender, adding fuel to the blaze sparking between you. The dance of your intertwined tongues became a symphony of passion, a primal declaration signaling the end of any lingering boundaries.

Your hips rolled into a painfully hard erection, and any trace of Obi-Wan's usual witty banter vanished into the charged air. The playful banter was replaced by a more primal language.

Pushing him onto his back was effortless now; he offered no resistance. Finally. The tension that had once held him captive had melted away into bliss. His half-lidded eyes, lost in a dreamy state, promised memories that would keep you warm for days to come. 

With deliberate intent, you explored every inch of his chest, savoring the taste of his skin. His deep breathing echoed in the room, accompanied by the subtle sounds of contentment that escaped his lips. As your journey continued downward, tracing the path of pleasure, you encountered the nearly pained expression that adorned his face. His chest heaved with anticipation as you approached his trousers, the memory of how close you had been to having him earlier playing in your mind. A grin danced on your lips, fueled by the sharp gasps escaping him, as you mouthed his cock through the fabric.

You couldn't wait to have him, the urgency taking over. The waistband tugged down in a hurry, your mouth watering in anticipation. Your hand wrapped around him, and he stuttered at the touch. His cock, just as perfect as you'd imagined—long, thick, and undeniably eager to be touched—and positively leaking. It felt like the room might collapse when your tongue licked at the pearlescent precum gathering from his weeping cock, you swept around his swollen head, savoring every delicious drop. His hands shook, gripping the bed in an immediate white-knuckled hold. As you kissed it and slowly swallowed the crown of his cock, he howled in ecstasy. The salty taste of him filled your mouth and he wept at the exquisite, wet heat. Jolting with every swirl of your tongue, each lick, and suckle, the delightful vibrations echoing from the back of your throat to his cock.

“Yes!”

His body arched, his signature flickering wildly, and then you truly went to work on him. Wanting to show him exactly how much you had thought of this moment. With each eager motion, you took more of him, brushing off the impending jaw ache. Your master was sprawled on your bed, fervently chanting your name, but coherent words were out of reach. He tasted just perfect, filling your mouth just right. You traced the veins on his cock like an old familiar map, committing every detail to memory. As you slid over his head sucking gently like one would enjoy a sweet treat, his hips surged, and he let out another wild moan of pleasure. 

“Padawan! Padwan! Padawan!” 

But you had more, oh so much more to give him, but you wouldn’t tease him as he had you, you gripped firmly what you couldn’t swallow, and aided by the slickness of your own saliva you stroked and twisted his length in your hand. And your other hand? It didn’t sit idle, no, it reached into his trousers to offer gentle almost tickling caresses to his neglected balls. Lesireuly massaging and softly squeezing. Surely, someone must have heard the moan that tore from his chest, it was primal and almost powerful enough to make you come again. 

The flood of sensations overwhelmed him, a storm of desire and vulnerability that left him at a loss for words. Normally eloquent, his tongue now stumbled in this unfamiliar territory. His disciplined mind, usually a stronghold of wisdom, faltered under the onslaught of passion. Every muscle rebelled against his rational commands, caught in a moment of indecision the muscles of his stomach flexed and contracted wildly. The composed master was briefly overshadowed by raw, primal forces, his tense muscles reflecting the battle of a man surrendering control to overwhelming desire. He became a disheveled mess, mouth hanging open, eyes wide and then tightly shut, breath hitching in short, irregular gasps as if he kept forgetting how to breathe smoothly. His lips clumsily grazed the edge of words, catching and then losing them amidst the whirlwind of sensations.

“Oh! Maker!”

Oh, another word? Impressive. His disciplined nature must be paying off. Using the last bit of strength he had, he propped himself up on his elbows, determined not to miss the spectacle. There you were, between his legs, your lips wrapped around his cock, all slick with your saliva, disappearing into your mouth. It hit the back of your throat in a way that made him shudder from head to toe. He could watch you do that for as long as the stars lit up the sky. It was something else—beautiful, the way you handled his cock like his pleasure belonged to you.

You were determined to extract every ounce of pleasure from him, poised to take him to the brink, so close to tasting him completely, but your mission hit a pause when his hand gently grasped your jaw, urging you to meet his gaze. His needy “Please,” didn’t go unnoticed either. A slender strand of saliva linked your lips to his throbbing length, and the disbelief in his eyes was palpable. It was as if he couldn't fathom witnessing what lay before him. A ragged breath escaped him, followed by a hard swallow. Redirecting your attention from his pulsating, slick arousal, he steered you into a deep, passionate kiss, one you didn't resist.

“Darling, enough foreplay. I need to feel you on my cock. Tell me that’s what you want.” 

His eyes sparkled when you whispered, "I want it, Master," with desire glowing in your own. It made you wonder if anyone had ever been so upfront with him, if anyone had looked into those captivating eyes and just said, "I want you." Had he ever known how it felt to be so openly desired before?

"Good girl, now, up you get." 

He effortlessly lifted you onto his lap, surprising you even more because he didn't employ the Force; it was the strength of his own muscles at play. Observing them flex and shift beneath his skin was nearly as gratifying as witnessing him in the throes of pleasure. He held you over his lap for a moment, lips tangling with yours, muttering against them. 

“Look at me, want to see you properly.”

How could you ignore a request like that? Oh, no, you couldn’t. And with a nod from you, he began to release you.

Never had anything felt as exquisite as the moment his cock slid effortlessly into your pussy. The sensation of that satisfying first stretch surpassed any pleasure you had ever known—far superior to the touch of your own fingers, toys, or any previous lover. As gravity took its course, guiding you down onto him, there was nothing left to say or do. Your head rolled back and you moaned his name. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, every ounce of strength dedicated to maintaining control. Surprisingly, his energy remained entirely serene.

The experience was a symphony of wetness, heat, tightness, and perfect slickness. His arms enveloped you, pulling you close, mirroring the way you squeezed his cock. It was perfect. You would ache for this later, he was right, you’d be sore to the touch everywhere he’d touched you but it would be worth it for the exquisite ecstasy you felt right now.

Damn the code, to hell with forbidden attachments; the High Council could go up in flames for all you cared. In this moment, he belonged to you—every inch of him. His response to your body defied description. He was unequivocally yours.

He uttered your name, his mouth tracing up your neck in search of your lips. "Darling, kiss me."

Not padawan, not master. He called you by your name.

Your lips met his, as he’d asked, sweetly, gently as lovers did. The high of shoving your tongue into hi mouth was wonderful but not so wonderful as this simple brushing of lips the added heat and girth of his cock buried in you, there were no more barriers. You kissed him like that for a few minutes until your cunt throbbed demanding more, then you shifted, rising up savoring the way his lips parted in shock before sliding back down slow enough you could see his eyelashes flutter. “Again,” His voice was so full of need and heat, how could you deny him? The warmth of his breath against your skin was like a balm, soothing every ache, alleviating every burden, and imparting tranquility to long-standing wounds.

As his arms encircled your legs, lifting you up to help you along, a surge of emotions overwhelmed you. The dichotomy of wanting to sing or cry left you unable to suppress the whimper rising in the back of your throat. His name escaped your lips again.

His arms held you securely, and he buried his face in your neck, releasing a deeply contented breath. With deliberate slowness, he began to thrust upward. Your hands found their way into his hair, pulling him up for another smoldering kiss, swallowing his moan.

Passion surged like wildfire between you and the man you had yearned for over the years. The connection between your bodies was intense, each thrust an urgent proclamation of desire. The air was thick with the mingling of hot breaths, punctuated by the sound of lewdly slapping skin and fervent kisses exchanged in the throes of lust.

His movements were powerful and rhythmic, and left you gasping for more, all you could do was hang on. With every thrust, he hit that perfect angle that sent shivers through your entire body. The sensation was electric, a tantalizing dance on the precipice of pleasure.

As your breaths intertwined, the shared rhythm hinted at the imminent climax, drawing you both closer to the edge. 

In the throes of passion, your murmurs of his name reverberated against his lips as he quickened the pace, both of you on the precipice of an imminent release. The urgency in your voice only fueled his desire, and he nodded in approval as you moaned: 

"Obi-Wan…"

Encouraged by your compliance, he implored you for more, his hunger evident. "Again, darling, say it again!"

In a cascade of breathless utterances, you willingly complied, chanting his name with increasing fervor. 

"Obi-wan! Obi-wan! Obi-wan!"

With a fluid blend of strength, grace, and skill, he effortlessly tipped you onto your back. The swift change momentarily took you by surprise, but before the disorientation settled, he surged back into you with newfound intensity. Each movement reached deeper, and he committed his entire weight to each forceful thrust, immersing both of you in a realm of heightened pleasure.

His frame shook with each thrust, and with every motion, he felt a piece of himself slipping away, lost in the fervor of the moment. Desperation marked his every move as he teetered on the precipice of oblivion, but determined to hold off just a little longer. The urgency in his actions spoke of a desire to witness you unraveling in the throes of pleasure, to experience the cascade of ecstasy like a tidal wave crashing over him.

His fingers laced with yours, holding a connection that transcended the physical, while his kisses conveyed a hunger that mirrored the intensity of the act. Amid groans and the forceful snap of his hips, he dropped his lips to your ear, breathing hot against your skin.

"Come, darling, come for me!" He moved with an increasingly wild and intense rhythm, his passion reaching new heights. The affectionate term "Padawan" slipped from his lips like a whispered plea, an irresistible command, urging you to surrender to the pleasure he was offering, to climax for your master.

And you did, your body arching in response to the unrelenting intensity, hips bucking wildly against his, meeting his every thrust. Lips locked with his, you welcomed the furious pace he set each time he bottomed out, your bodies entwined in a dance without inhibitions. He threw his weight behind every motion, determined to make you feel every bit of him, to give you everything he had.

His desperate cries of "Padawan!" grew louder in the heated air, a mantra underscoring the intimacy of the moment. The repetition of the endearing term only served to heighten the exquisite pleasure, acknowledging a connection that surpassed the physical act. As he reached the pinnacle of ecstasy, a shudder ran through his entire body, and a helplessly primal howl escaped his lips. The heat of his seed spilling deep within you was the final catalyst, triggering a powerful climax of your own that rocked your entire body.

The Obi-Wan Kenobi you knew, with all his composure and eloquence, had vanished into thin air. In his place was a man, wild and satisfied, fucking you senseless, thrusting his erupting cock hurriedly back into your cunt as though he might die if he stopped. It just kept coming, he thrust harder with each rope you pulled from him until his body had nothing left to give and he began to still after one final hard thrust.

His breaths slowed, and he fought to stay upright. The only thing keeping him from melting into the mattress and pulling you into him entirely was the awareness of your injuries. Thankfully, the pain that had plagued you earlier had quieted down during your passionate love-making, granting a brief moment of relief. His cerulean eyes shifted from the storm of passion to their usual cool and compassionate state. The aftermath unfolded a scene of vulnerability—echoes of shared passion and lingering concerns for your well-being.

He wrapped his arm around you, drawing you close, and skillfully rolled both of you onto your sides. With his arm firmly around your waist, he stayed seated, still in your warmth, unwilling to leave it just yet.

In the ensuing silence, the room was filled only with the sounds of your shared and labored breathing. 

"Are you alright?" His voice returned to its soft and warm timbre, the familiar hum that felt like a safe, warm home. When you remained silent, he shifted slightly, concern lacing his words, "Darling, is your leg in any pain?" Despite his own exhaustion, his concern for your well-being was touching. The way he called you darling further added to your sated state, and it made you smile.

"What leg?" 

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, a comforting warmth you hadn't felt in ages. Shifting to a more serious tone, he inquired again about your injuries, but the light-hearted demeanor lingered.

"I don’t care. Ask me in the morning," You replied unbothered, arms wrapping around his neck. Nestling into the comforting warmth of his chest, you threw a leg around his hips, pulling him closer. His gasp of pleasure, maybe mixed with a hint of overstimulation, brought a satisfied smile to your face, ignoring the subtle throb echoing through your body. It was worth it—the pains, the frustrations—just to lie in your master's arms, his cock still buried in you basking in warmth, safety, and a newfound satisfaction.

"Mmm, Master?" You murmured, your voice laced with the weight of drowsiness.

He chuckled bashfully, "Darling, you don't have to call me Master, anymore."

"Just trying to be an obedient padawan," you teased, planting a kiss on the sensitive spot on his neck, earning a delightful twitch from his cock.

"Careful, darling. I still owe you a punishment for abandoning me," He playfully reminded, his words hanging in the air. "What was your question?"

"If I abandon you again, and you happened to find me. Would you follow through with your 'punishment' against the wall on a ship?" 

The recollection of that fantasy, coupled with the echo of his playful threat, coaxed a deep groan from him, as both of you relived those shared fantasies. "Please, Master?" You breathed against his neck, your request underscored by a subtle roll of your hips.

His arm wrapped possessively around you, the warmth of his breath tingling against your ear. A soft growl slipped past his lips, melding with the restrained rhythm of his hips, you could feel him driving into you once more wringing out a moan from your lips. His voice, tinged with both amusement and authority, whispered,

"It seems my Padawan still needs a bit of instruction."

Why, yes, there's more...

~~~

If you would like to see more stuff like this (reader inserts) let me know and let me know if you'd like to join the tag list! For my faithful Obi-Wan content readers! @split-spectrum (you helped inspire this!), @heyhawtdawgs. @pickleprickle @decembermidnight

Alright! I need a cigarette!

[margowritesthings]

The French Are Glad To Die For Love

A Bridgerton x Moulin Rouge crossover

pairing: Colin Bridgerton x ? word count: 2.1k words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, un-beta'd, mentions of sex, spitting, lots of debauchery authors note: surpriiise! i have been sitting on this since part 1, so to celebrate part 2 tomorrow here's my new mini-series! i have never written for Colin before, so i'm nervous, but i loved writing this.

i also need your help! i cannot decide if this mini series should be Colin x reader or a Polin fic, where Penelope is Satine. I have created a poll here for you to vote, so please let me know!

and as always, enjoy! it's been a hot minute since I last published, so thank you if you're still here.

Bridgerton Masterlist

The stars sparkle especially brightly tonight, the crimson lanterns guiding Parisians and tourists alike through the winding streets, and Colin Bridgerton stands in awe of it all. 

He’d read stories, heard tales of this place during long nights at Whites, but nothing could have quite prepared him for what lay ahead of him, a long string of lights hanging in the sky leading the way to his destination. 

The Moulin Rouge. 

A house of debauchery and sin, of freedom and truth, filled to the brim with bohemians and artists and beautiful women unlike anything or anyone he’s ever seen before. Even now, 30 feet away from the illuminated windmill, he can hear the music and the joy spilling out from the building. His senses are filled with the perfume of hundreds of women passing him by the minute, all with real, toothy grins he rarely has the pleasure of seeing back home. It is far too impolite to be so happy in London society. 

Colin steps forwards, his boots crunching against the gravel and his coattails flying in the breeze. His shoulders brush more wonderfully merry, positively inebriated partygoers on his way in, catching odd fragments of conversations that would have scandalised him and his whole family were he elsewhere. 

But he wasn’t elsewhere. He was here, in the city of love, away from anybody who had ever known the name Bridgerton. His clean slate clutched close to his chest, waiting to find out what will be written on it next, Colin feels the fresh air on his face for the last time before his life is changed forever.

The heat hits him first, a symptom he knew all too well of too many people packed into a small space. But unlike every ball he’s been to, this doesn’t feel claustrophobic or fusty. It feels alive. 

There is a feast for the eye wherever one looks. Burlesque dancers showing off stockings and garters by kicking their legs up, toes pointing towards the aerial hoops holding acrobats hanging from the ceiling. Gentlemen, if you can call them that in this state, wearing top hats, arm in arm with their glasses raised high, spilling their contents all over the wooden floor. 

The music blasts loud from each instrument the band masterfully pluck or blow or bang, but laughter and conversation buzzes amongst the melodies. It is a near overwhelming amount of joy, one Colin certainly could use a drink to wash it down with. 

If he could just find the bar…

Bodies fill his view, so entangled in each other it is difficult to tell where one starts and another ends. Frilly skirts flow over the knees of suits as ladies dangle from the necks of patrons, sharing cigars and passing around bottles of an unknown green liquid. Rosy cheeks as far as the eye can see, wether from too much of that green stuff or the exertion of all that dancing, Colin can’t be sure. Between them all, in tiny empty spaces, he can just about make out rows of bottles and glasses. 

Weaving through the crowd is like treading through water, but their energy and joy seems to rub off on him. There isn’t a dance card in sight, women choosing their partners themselves whenever they like with a freedom Colin isn’t sure he’s ever seen before. Is this truly what people are designed to be when they are free?

Eventually, his hands find the sticky wood of the bar, quickly lifting themselves back off it on instinct at the sensation. When Colin looks to his left, he sees a woman pouring a shot of liquor between her breasts, a man knelt below her waiting to lick it back up, and he quickly realises why the bar feels so tacky- every surface here seems to be host to someone’s revelry. 

“Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, monsieur. Can I get you a drink?”

Colin’s attention is quickly pulled by the welcome, his gaze snapping to a tall French woman dripping with red jewels that compliment her rich brown skin perfectly. She is captivating to be sure, deep hazel eyes commanding Colin’s attention, competing with the most incredible curls of hair he has ever seen. Ladies of the ton are welcome no matter their race back home, but Colin has never seen a lady allowed to wear her hair so beautifully natural before. The Afro framing her face has more tiny rubies that sparkle under the cabaret lights, and Colin is speechless. 

“I…uh, pardon me, Miss, I-“ he sighs, giving up entirely at his failed attempt at decorum, “Is it so obvious I have never been here before?” 

She laughs, gems twinkling as her head shakes with mirth. 

“Not at all, but most gentlemen who have been here before know to wear a top hat. And there’s that look in your eye…” 

As she speaks, she pours out one finger of the green liquor Colin has spotted a few times already, sliding it along the wood towards him. 

“Wonder. Drink this. It will help with the nerves.” 

Colin looks down, finding himself fascinated with a drink that seems to glow of its own volition. He has smoked blends and meditated with world weary travellers from across the globe, drank tea containing unknown substances that left him staring at blades of grass as if they held the worlds secrets, and yet this… whatever it is, seems to terrify him.

The barmaid laughs again, that melodic sound with the real joy Colin very much enjoys. 

“It’s only absinthe, monsieur. Loosens the inhibitions, relaxes the body…” she explains, pouring a second out for herself and lifting it to him as if to prove her credibility. 

“Santé.” He toasts to health.

“Amour.” She toasts to something far greater.

It leaves no room for argument, and all Colin can do is lift his own glass and tap it against hers. 

It burns his tongue, leaving a fiery trail down his throat as he swallows and tries not to cough and splutter. A bitter yet herby anise flavour fights with his taste buds and seems to seep straight into his mind, teasing at those tense knots that held him back from fully immersing himself here. 

When his eyes eventually reopen, he finds the barmaid beaming at him, unphased by her own potion. Rather used to it, if she shares a glass with every newcomer, he should think.

“Be careful, though, monsieur. Many a man has spent a night with the stuff and swears he fell in love with a fairy dressed all in green. Ruined him for any other woman for the rest of his life…” She speaks words that belong in fairytale, with a tone containing such severity Colin is inclined to take every single one of them as gospel. 

“I dare say I should be careful, then. I do not think this green fairy would want to join the rest of my travels when she can instead entice all of Paris’ men to sin…” 

The residue of the liquor smells just as strong as the full measure, which Colin tries to blink out of his senses when he puts the glass back on the bar.

Almost as if society itself had cleared its throat at him, Colin remembers himself, remembers just where he is. Undoubtedly the most unique establishment he had ever set foot in, but an establishment all the same. 

“I beg your pardon, miss, I seem to forget myself. How much do I owe you for the drink?”

She considers him.

“Hm,  the absinthe I think… for you, a kiss.” 

Colin, already pulling coins from his breast pocket, pauses, a little grin tugging at the corner of his lip. The francs clink together when they fall back to the bottom of his pocket, a long forgotten currency of the past. It’s a perfect reminder of just how different things are here, how easily walls crumble between strangers and connection is offered so freely. He has never kissed a woman he has not paid for back home, so afraid of getting too close to another in case they ruin each other. Here, a beautiful woman leans over the bar, offering her flushed cheek for him to softly press his lips against. 

And he does. 

And it is lovely. 

“If any more handsome men capture the eye of Mademoiselle Belle, I will surely be out of business!” A loud, hearty voice pulls Colin from one blissful moment back into the party.

He regards a rather large man, clad in a red tailcoat and stunning golden waistcoat. His top hat, near the same to all the other gentlemen in the room but somehow grander, tops wild orange curls that match a fantastic handlebar moustache. A true ring leader to this wonderful circus of debauchery Colin has found himself in. 

“Harold Zidler, at your service. Welcome to the Moulin Rouge.” 

“Colin Bridgerton.” He replies, offering a hand that Harold seems bemused at. Unsurprising, considering what passes for currency around here. Nonetheless, Harold shakes the offered hand. 

”I must say, your establishment is rather…” he hesitates, unable to find a word in any language he has picked up along his travels that quite captures the Moulin Rouge. Perhaps he could blame the absinthe, or the intoxicating hedonism he feels rooting its way through his mind, hidden in the brass notes from the band and thrown with each cancan kick of one of the dancers that surrounds him. 

Luckily, Harold seems well used to this phenomenon. 

“Isn’t it? And you have seen nothing yet! I assume you are not from around here?”

”It is rather obvious, I have been told.” Colin adds a glance to Miss Belle, who’s skirt frills bounce in the lights while she shakes up a cocktail. He adds, “London.” 

”Well, Monsieur Bridgerton, I promise you that what we have here in the Moulin Rouge is unlike anything you have back home in London.” 

Colin’s eye is caught again across the room, as a beautiful woman with blonde tumbling waves spits a drink into a man’s mouth. 

“I am inclined to agree with you there.” 

It truly is unlike anything back home. Colin has travelled across Europe and back again, seen incredible sights and met wonderful people. He has felt that ease that distance from London society and its unwritten laws and social rules that bind him back home can bring. He’s seen beauty and felt freedom and thought he might have found truth somewhere along the way, but it pales to whatever is contained within these four walls. 

In truth, it couldn’t be farther from London society.

”Just wait until you see my Diamond, Monsieur.”

… Perhaps not. 

Intrigue hits Colin as Harold pulls out a pocket watch on a brilliant gold chain. 

“Your diamond?”

”My Sparkling Diamond. The main attraction of the Moulin Rouge, my most sought after little chickee.” He speaks proudly, with a mist in his eye Colin normally finds on ambitious Mamas at grand balls, secretly trying to auction their daughters off to the highest rank. 

“I do not believe she is booked yet for tonight…” Harold adds, that mist darkening, disappearing, leaving a shiver stuck between Colin’s shoulder blades.

Not because this Diamond is a courtesan. Colin is hardly a stranger to the profession, and he bears no judgement. In truth, he admires the women he has been known to spend the night with, finding the courage of living outside society so freely quite brave indeed. No, that shiver came from Harold entirely, Colin just cannot figure out why. 

Harold excuses himself, though makes sure Colin knows to stay for the show, and Colin orders a whiskey on the rocks, insisting on paying in cash this time. Though singular in person, he has never felt less alone in his life. Looking around, there isn’t an empty chair in the house. If there were, there wouldn’t be room to put it down for all the dancers and patrons enjoying every ounce of the world they can. Music played straight from the soul ringing in his ears, Colin could make out every instrument. The lights dazzled in his eyes and the spot caught him every so often, lighting his drink up in his hand like golden ambrosia. 

And then, darkness. Silence. 

A single spot, though the mirrors scattered around catch the light and illuminate the faces of the people around him. Everybody is looking upwards, as if they all know she is coming. 

Even if he did know, Colin could never have prepared himself for what he saw when he looked up.

Who he saw.

The Sparkling Diamond, shimmering high on a swing hanging from the ceiling. 

The most beautiful, breathtaking, person he has ever seen. In any city, on any continent in the world. 

Crimson lips part as each and every person hangs on the breath she takes.

”The French are glad to die for love…”

don't forget to vote in the poll for your fmc!

[krsnaradhika]

Fanfictions and Hinduism.

Those who are active on Wattpad, might know that there are many many writers (including myself) who tend to write fiction over itihāsa or historical epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, purely for fun and our love for them. It seems very odd, yes, and we do get to see blasphemy there too. People love some characters, hate the others with a burning passion and there are hour long debates over human nature, characterisations, myths involved, folklores and the many versions both of them have.

We have OCs, we make graphics and video edits, we pair the said OCs with CCs and sometimes with other OCs. The comment sections are the most fun things because writers and their audience interact there. Some works are much more impressive than published paperbacks while some are simply atrocious. You know it, shades are everywhere.

Now, very recently did I come to know that in Tamil literature, a fictional tale that is weaved around a couple or more incidents or points coming from the purānas or itihāsas is called a prabandha. Fun, right?

We do get to see fanfictions in Hinduism by the name of Pancharātram by Bhāsa (the one who also penned Svapna Vāsavadattā) and Kalidāsa's Abhigyāna Shākuntalam. While the latter romanticises and adds non canon events to the canon event of Lady Shakuntala and King Dushyanta's love story, the former is about a "what-if" scenario based on the Mahabharata.

So, do we promote fiction writings on such stuff? Definitely. I got much into the Sanatana culture solely via such fictions. They promote higher thinking skills, brainstorming, even fun facts many a times if the author is literate enough. And is that different from disrespecting scriptures and our very own ancestors? Also yes. Because neither of these authors claim to strictly follow the canon events. You do not like something you see, click away. As easy as that.

Do I support all of them, tho? For sure not. There are some which whitewash the bad guys and blackwash even the divine figures. Some straight up induce cringe. But that's just my opinion. A debate is always based on facts, not personal opinions. So yes, you do you.

But are they also dangerous? Umhm. Look at the Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. One word : atrocious. Some modern day prabandha style novel which sat a little above average in my reading experience? Abhaya by Saiswaroopa Iyer is the one (she's also written Mauri, Avishi, Draupadi and a few more if I'm not wrong.) (Abhaya is an OC paired opposite Kanha and tbh their chemistry was chef's kiss jsjshdjsjd-)

Should you write such, if that is what you want? Yes! I'd love to read-

But do you have to be careful with the message you deliver via your work? Swayam vichar kijiye *wink wink*

Some fanfictions which I may recommend. Note : not all of them involve OCs. All of these are from Wattpad. The authors' usernames are in bold.

— To Love A Murderer, Hope Embodied, and Samsrishti ; ruhitherambler.

— Satata Haritam ; Ramayana_Lover.

— Hello Mahabharata and My Days In Mahabharata ; thewomanwhobleedsink.

— Sambhavāmi ; indeevara18ls.

— Mathuraraaj ; Shivran86.

— Ehi Murare ; kanakangi.

— The Diary Of A Gopika ; Thoughtshub.

[starryeyedjanai]

this post has me thinking about steve and eddie falling in love with each other through writing fanfic in the 80s

because in the eighties before you could publish stuff online, you had communities that would send each other hand written fic, right?

steve and eddie both end up writing fic for spock/kirk

steve gets into it because he and claudia watch star trek together and they've been watching it for years when she shows him some cute fluffy fic a friend of hers wrote and he finds that he really likes it. maybe he starts off not knowing that he likes guys, but through fic he realizes that hey, he's kind of felt things about guys before that's similar to the stuff he's reading

and he gets enmeshed in this somewhat local community of fic writers and they all mail each other fic and give each other feedback and write on post it notes how much they loved reading it before passing it along to the next person

and steve has a particular writer that he's absolutely enamored with

the way they write, the tales they weave, it's all so good. they're funny and some of the spicy stuff they write is good and he's always so excited whenever he opens a letter and it's their fic. and he thinks he's like falling for some housewife from Indianapolis and he's a little embarrassed about it because they only sign their name as EM so he has no idea who it is. (he's also embarrassed because some of the spicy stuff claudia writes is also good, but he tries not to think about how his friend's mom knows so much nsfw stuff about what two guys can get up to)

but anyway, he keeps writing long detailed commentary about EM's fics and sending it along to the next person meanwhile when Eddie gets his fics back, he's like lovestruck at steve's comments on his fics because he really gets it - really gets what eddie was going for. he understands the yearning eddie's trying to capture and he offers little meta-analyses about eddie's fics and some of the episodes and eddie is also like damn i'm really falling for someone's wife, aren't i?

anyway steve doesn't write his own fic yet because he doesn't have the confidence in his writing ability but EM encourages him so he eventually does write fic and EM ends up being his biggest cheerleader and offers him help in areas where he thinks he struggles so they start mailing stuff back and forth to each other before it goes out to the larger group

and they start sharing stuff about their real lives and they both come to realize that the person they're talking to isn't a woman and isn't married like most of the women in the community are

and then they're collaborating on fics together and writing some of the best stuff eddie's ever written and he's falling in love and steve is too

maybe they eventually share their identities over letters, and maybe there's a meetup one day and their eyes lock as soon as they see each other and steve is nervous. he's nervous because he's kind of idolized EM for so long and he doesn't want to say the wrong thing. because writing him has been easy, he has time to think about what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. but talking in person is much more on the spot thinking which he's never been good at

but he meets him and eddie seems just as nervous, not nearly as eloquent with his words in person as he is in the fanfiction steve's been reading for close to a year now. but steve thinks he's charming and he's just as enamored in person as he was over the letters they've been sending each other.

on the ride home, claudia is chattering away about how nice everyone is and how nervous she was to meet them, but they're all so sweet in person. and steve is half-listening, clutching the slip of paper eddie gave him with his number on it

[synergysilhouette]

Ranking the male romances in BG3

I've personally only dated the men, so here's my ranking, from least-favorite to favorite.

4. Halsin--Don't get me wrong, I LOVE Halsin, especially since he subverts expectations. He's a wise and sage man, but has sexual desire and romantic urges instead of being flustered by it or being a thirst trap. I feel like he was done very well, but his romance was not. Due to being a conditional recruit (you have to side with the tieflings in Act 1) and his arc revolving around fixing the shadow curse, he joins you in Act 1, but isn't playable until the middle of Act 2. As such, he doesn't become a romantic option until roughly around the middle of Act 3, and he doesn't' have an ongoing arc after the Shadow Curse, no extra scenes with him aside from the initial sex scene. On top of this, the nature of your relationship is confusing; Halsin finds the word distasteful, and if you engage in a poly relationship, it's noted, at least by Astarion, that your other love interest(s) are under the impression that you're just sleeping with Halsin rather than it being romantic. In fact, Astarion seems a bit insecure about you sleeping with Halsin at first, questioning if it's because he hasn't slept with you for a while. This kinda implies that you actually falling for another person wouldn't be well-received by him.

3. Astarion--I know he's a fan-favorite, but I was never crazy about sassy, cutthroat characters. While his backstory was done so well (him being a magistrate is so interesting to me) and his growth is commendable, he just seemed a bit too jagged for me, personally. Loved the softer moments, though!

2. Wyll--SUCH an underrated love interest! It's so rare to find a pure and kind love interest in a game like this (not that Wyll doesn't have a high body count, but it wasn't done out of cruelty or malice). I feel like he doesn't get enough appreciation because he's nice and doesn't really have edges like the other characters, though a demon on his shoulders sucks. His thirst for justice and kindness is so princely, Astarion's observation of him being out of a fairy tale is very apt. And this is just a detail, but I love the fact that Wyll doesn't sleep with you until you accept his marriage proposal--or does he still do it if you reject him?

Gale--The master of the weave himself! I adore his mix of innocence and maturity, as well as being like a parent to the gang with his intelligence (and I think he does most of the cooking; all this stuff makes me surprised he doesn't see himself as parent material, but at least he's self-aware). He's nerdy and sexy and powerful, though I was concerned that turning him away from his ambitions would end the romance. Seeing that it didn't made him my favorite.

And side note: I wonder why British accents were prioritized for the companions. I'd enjoy more high fantasy games with American ones.

[jarondont]

The Memories Bring Back You

(AO3 Link)

———

Telemachus would look through his father's stuff as a child—at eight years old, he'd wonder who this man was that his mother always talked so much about. He'd uncover all the cases and trunks from where they were stashed away, blowing off the dust from old possessions: portraits, armor, jewelry, carvings, prizes, all the things that were left behind as memories of a man who seemed to be too legendary to be remembered through mere trinkets.

He'd pick them all up and examine them, one by one—he'd trace his finger over grooves in golden goblets, admire the smooth strokes of color on folded tapestries, rummage through the collection of owl-shaped carvings—it was all so fascinating to him.

He'd sit there for hours, until his mother found him and sat beside him, giving him a rueful smile.

“Want to know how that happened?” she'd ask, nodding at a cracked clay pot.

He'd beam and exclaim, “I wanna hear the story, Ma. Tell me the story.”

That was all his father was to him—a story.

So she'd lay his little head in her lap and stroke his hair sweetly, twisting and turning the tale, weaving it into something he could listen to over and over again, and still beg to hear it once more.

“So he—”

“—he spun his sword around and shattered the clay's edge,” he'd interrupt, grinning and showing the gap in his smile where his last tooth had fallen out. “Your father said he lost his last tooth when he was twelve,” his mother had said. “It seems you have done the same.”

“You know it already,” his mother would chuckle. “Why do you keep asking to hear it?”

“Because I want to, Ma,” he'd whine. “And I like your stories.”

So she'd continue telling her tales, and Telemachus would continue exploring his father's possessions—every day of every month of every long, long year.

Sometimes, he'd uncover an elaborate cloak or brooch or sandal, and hold it in front of a mirror.

It looked out-of-place next to him—no, he looked out-of-place next to it.

But he'd try it on and look in the mirror again, trying to picture himself sitting on a throne or wielding a bronze spear. He couldn't. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine himself like his father. Like ... a legend.

But ... maybe if he kept it on, he could pretend.

So he'd walk out of the room and run into his mother, who'd pause and stare. “Are those ... are those your father's clothes?” she'd ask, her voice but a whisper.

He's scratch his head, suddenly itchy in the kingly clothing unfit for a seventeen-year-old boy who was hardly a prince, and admit, “…Yes. I just—I found them and wanted to try them on—maybe I should take them off—”

“No. Telemachus.” His mother would walk up to him and gently place her hand on his cheek, looking up at him with eyes of sorrow-tinged memories. “You look just like him.”

It was those moments, those little hints of recognition in her eyes, those whispered words that echoed louder than a bard's song, those loving memories she'd recall—it was those moments that Telemachus treasured deep in his heart. Because it was at those moments when he felt the slightest bit of hope—if his mother had faith, and if his father loved her as much as she'd say he did, then ... maybe he'd come back.

He'd come back.

He'd come back.

The three words that kept them going, three words that were the strings that bound the last entrails of hope to their hearts. He'd come back, he'd come back, he'd come back.

But Telemachus wouldn't truly believe those three words, not until another few years had passed. Not until he ventured across the wine-dark sea, away from home shores for the first time in his life.

He had decided that it was only fitting to wear one of the royal purple cloaks when visiting his father's old friends. Maybe they'd remember their comrade at the sight of it. Maybe they'd recognize it, and it would give them hope as well.

Or maybe ... maybe they'd see Telemachus for more than he was, and they'd appreciate him as an equal rather than a failed prince—a failed son.

Surprisingly, and to Telemachus's utmost happiness, they had seen him as an equal—but not because he was Odysseïdes, the legacy of the famed Odysseus. No. They had seen him for himself, and appreciated him all the same.

He wondered if his father would do the same, should he return. He could only hope. Just like always.

His question was answered after he came back to Ithaca, sitting in the swineherd's hut and staring at the stranger sitting across from him in tattered rags.

Something about him seemed … familiar.

He thought, and he thought, and he thought, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not recall what—or who—this man reminded him of.

At least, not until the stranger whispered in a voice heavy with sorrowful affection, “You’re wearing my cloak.”

His cloak? But—

And the man’s face had changed. Instead of the old, frail beggar from before, he had transformed into a strong, handsome man …

Who looked so much like Telemachus.

Or did Telemachus look like him?

The prince was speechless. His mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, racing, disbelieving. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t.

“Y-you’re a god,” he sputtered. “That’s the only way this can happen. You’re a god, and you’ve come here to make a fool of me once again. This isn’t possible. You aren’t—you aren’t possible.”

“Telemachus,” the man said, and oh, his name sounded so beautiful when he said it—so delicate, so gentle, as if the name had been chosen by himself. “Telemachus. It’s me, my son.”

Son. Telemachus could barely breathe.

The man outstretched his arms, a stream of tears falling from his eyes. “My son, my pride, Telemachus—I’m finally home.”

“Father.”

And finally, after twenty years, father and son gathered all the memories, all the stories, all the similarities, all the differences, all the struggles and all the hope, everything—and embraced each other once again.

[rmwb-fanfics]

How to remake Harry Potter:

(A step by step guide)

We’ve already had one god-awful adaptation that way too many people think is good. This is our one chance to have the book characters represented correctly, along with the plot they support.

I’ve put YEARS of thought into this. I’ve written scripts for episodes of a hypothetical tv show. I’ve drawn concept art. I’ve done shit. So I figured I’d share my thoughts.

1. Stick to the books*.

Stick to the books has a massive asterisk next to it because I mean the plot and characters. Some stuff (as you’ll see later) should be changed.

Nothing in this show should feel out of character. Harry should be closer with Ron than he is to Hermione. Snape should be a real d*ckhead. Hermione should be judgmental of those who don’t think like her, etc etc. The way these characters navigate their relationships is why the fandom is still relevant. It’s why canon-compliant fic is popular in the first place. We like their dynamics. SHOW THEM APPROPRIATELY.

Plot is a sticky thing because I’d say there’s wiggle room, but not too much. Certain characters have to die. Certain events must happen. You cant change that stuff.

2. Use the Medium.

You’re using film as a format to tell your story. Ideally you’d us animation, but I know Warner Bros has less creativity than Disney’s remake department, so I won’t even try and pitch that.

Use colour and saturation. It can help contextualize emotion. It can make us subconsciously recognize things. For instance, the scene growing more saturated when Ron walks into the room when Hermione is wearing the horcrux, or any multitude of other uses this could bring.

Bring in costume design that (actually fits the world) but also helps show how that character is feeling. What they’re thinking, their personality, their future, etc.

Make magic fun™️. The books sort of sidelined magic in 5-7. Don’t do that. Divert from the books. Magic should feel alive. Colour-code them so we as an audience can recognize spells and what they might do before we see it. Implement sound design to make each spell unique and vibrant. Make this world subtly bursting with magic like it was in the first few books. Have it weave around characters, wrap them up. Be creative with action scenes. Force transfiguration into battle scenes. Choreograph your duels. Show don’t tell us that a wizard/witch is powerful. Turn people into portraits. Lock them up as mice. USE MAGIC.

Your set design should reflect this. Everything should be bursting with personality. Don’t just use the shitty movie sets. Inject some colour, have the surroundings aid you in telling the story. Get weird with the camera. Use these tools to their fullest potential.

Actually fucking try.

3. Utilize Music.

Music is just… such a massive part of film. It’s frustrating how often even the best filmmakers overlook its use. Characters should have themes that mature and develop as the series goes on. Have action arrangements of the themes to play with heroic moments. As the series progresses, we grow attached to these themes. When they appear, the audience FEELS something. Don’t reuse great pieces to force emotion. (Dumbledore’s Farewell in The Prince’s Tale. Are you fucking kidding me?)

For example: Have a theme for Neville that starts out timid and uses very shy instrumentals, but we first hear a change when he stands up to the trio at the end of PS. Then it gains more instruments until OotP, when it grows again. Once we get to DH, it can be used in this heroic swell as he chops the head off the snake in front of Voldemort and everyone watching. The audience, consciously or not, will feel that moment even more.

Have a theme for Ron and Hermione that might not even be romantic until HBP when it gains that element. PLAY WITH MUSIC.

Themes for mystery, adventure, loss, love, friendship, LOCATION. Let them come back throughout the series to highlight various moments. See Lord of the Rings and The Hunger Games, as well as (surprisingly) the Fantastic Beasts films.

Let music affect the visuals. Magic can bend and swivel with the music. Use it to tell the story. Use it to show emotion. Use it to progress a character’s arc. USE CONSISTENT MUSIC.

4 . Be Bold.

This is the big one and it may seem like I’m contradicting myself but I’m not. Rowling’s work hasn’t aged crazily well to modern fiction standards. This is your chance to rectify that. Fill plot holes, actually think through the politics. Introduce world-building elements that enhance the story/characters. (The house system, and how Slytherin fits in. The logic behind avada kedavra???) Get creative with solutions. Contradict the original work when it comes to description of location. If it doesn’t work for the film format, don’t force it to work here.

Spend more time with characters we know are relevant, but maybe not to the plot. These are your Ginny Weasleys, your Seamus and Deans, Nevilles, etc. Really fill them in. Give them more scenes. Ginny has two phenomenal arcs that play completely off-screen, explore them. Show us her friendship with Hermione. Show us her insecurities and her faults. Give us more of her and Harry’s friendship. We know they get married, so maybe fix the whole “Rowling wrote the epilogue first, but didn’t realize she was waiting too long to introduce these characters until HBP”.

Add scenes. Add jokes. Add smiles and covert looks. You have more time, which means you have a chance to focus on friendships, and romance, and world building.

Tell multiple storylines. Give Remus and Tonks a cool spy/thriller subplot interjected with the main story in OotP. Show us more of Fleur staying in England. Give us more of Harry and Sirius bonding. All of this stuff can fit loosely into canon, and be welcome creative additions.

BE BOLD.

And finally,

5. This is your chance to not only retell the story, but to do it better.

RECOGNIZE THIS. Take advantage of this opportunity and enhance canon, don’t fight it.

Don’t add Hermione and Harry dancing because *YOU* don’t like where the romantic pairings went. Don’t add Draco sympathy because you want him to have a redemption arc. Don’t dumb Ron down because you don’t like the fact that he’s just like the teenage boys you dated in High School, and he was a bit immature.

Make changes, be bold, use music, stick to the books*, use the medium, but take this as the opportunity that it is to enhance what came before.

Thank you.

[mononijikayu]

what are you doing new year's eve? ― nanami kento

The cafe was long behind them, and the echoes of jazz lingered in the little hums from her lips, accompanying them in their steps as they ventured into the winter night. In that quietude, they began leaving behind the remnants of that dance in the summer and that night in the jazz bar, stepping into the unscripted chapter that awaited them. Tomorrow was a new year, and in the cold winter streets of Copenhagen, both of them were certain—it was made for being together.

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Canon Convergence;

WARNING/s: Gen, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Husband and Wife, Friendship, Husband! Nanami, Reader! Wife, Fluff, Drama, Comfort, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fix-It, Humor, Domesticity, Family Life, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Idiots In Love, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Pining, Nanami Being A Great Husband;

WORDS: 5k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i hope this makes up for the overtly sad sad stuff i write on here. this is a new year chapter for the new years!!! happy new year everyone!!! thank you for your support throughout 2023!!! let's be together happily in 2024 too!!!

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malmö i mitt hjärta | what are you doing new year's eve

next: polaroid love

HE THINKS HE SHOULD HAVE WORN A WARMER COAT. Nanami Kento could feel his nose numbing as he tried to breathe air into his already exasperated lungs. He knew it was far too cold to wear this sort of coat. But he did not feel like going back into the house and scrambling through his winter clothes. He also did not want to see his grandmother fuss over him. She worries as much as his mother.

As much as he loved them both, he did not want them to worry too much about him. The cold could be bearable. But perhaps his restlessness was not. He needed to get out of the house. He just couldn’t take the four walls of his room anymore. He wouldn’t be able to bear it much longer.

The bitter wind, crisp and biting, meandered through the labyrinthine streets of Copenhagen, weaving its way around the ancient architecture that bore witness to the city's rich history. Each gust carried with it the distinctive scent of the nearby sea, a salty whisper that spoke of untold tales and distant horizons. In this Nordic city, where the air was charged with the essence of maritime adventure, Nanami Kento walked with purpose.

A year had passed since Nanami made the daring decision to sever ties with the tumultuous world of jujutsu. The echoes of battles fought and sacrifices made lingered in his memory, but the decision to leave it all behind had granted him a newfound sense of freedom. Seeking solace from the haunting shadows of his past, he found refuge in the comforting embrace of his grandparents' home—a haven nestled in the heart of this foreign land.

The cobblestone streets beneath his boots whispered tales of centuries gone by, and the vibrant hues of the buildings stood in stark contrast to the monochrome memories Nanami had left behind. In the midst of this cultural tapestry, he discovered solace, a respite from the constant turmoil that had defined his life.

As he walked through the city, the wind tugged at the collar of his coat, a reminder of the world he had chosen to leave behind. Yet, there was a promise in the air, an intangible current that hinted at new beginnings. Copenhagen, with its fusion of tradition and modernity, offered Nanami a canvas on which to paint the next chapter of his life.

Arriving at the doorstep of his grandparents' home, he felt the weight of the wooden door, weathered by time and stories. It swung open to welcome him, and the warmth within enveloped him like a familiar hug. The walls whispered tales of his own childhood, and the aroma of his grandmother's cooking wafted through the air, grounding him in the present.

In this foreign land, amidst the echoes of harsher winters than that of his own, Nanami discovered the beauty of starting anew. The bitter wind, though relentless, became a companion on his journey of self-discovery. As the sea-scented breeze caressed his face, he couldn't help but feel that, in Copenhagen, he had found a sanctuary—a place where the echoes of the jujutsu world could finally be drowned out by the soothing symphony of a city that embraced him without judgment.

It was a crisp winter morning, the kind that painted the world in hues of silver and white. Nanami Kento ambled through the narrow, quaint streets of the city, a foreign canvas upon which his footsteps left imprints of newfound freedom. The Nordic air, crisp and invigorating, filled his lungs with each breath, replacing the dense, suffocating atmosphere of the jujutsu world with the promise of serenity.

As he meandered through the snow-covered landscape, the weight that had burdened his shoulders for so long began to dissipate. The Scandinavian calm enveloped him like a soothing balm, soothing the wounds inflicted by battles fought and choices made. The city, adorned in its winter finery, seemed to cradle Nanami in its embrace, offering respite from the storm he had weathered.

Yet, in the quiet moments of solitude, Nanami couldn't escape the specters of his past. The thought of Mikoto Nobuhiko lingered in the recesses of his mind—the glistening eyes, the unspoken emotions that danced between them as they parted ways in the dorms. The memories of youth, now distant echoes, resurfaced, particularly the haunting image of standing before a cobblestone tomb where a dear friend rested, taken too soon. Nanami often found himself plagued by self-blame, haunted by the belief that he could have done more, that he could have altered the course of fate.

In the quiet of Copenhagen's winter, he couldn't shake the dreams of Yu Haibara and his infectious boyish smile. The gentleness that once defined Yu, stolen away by the unforgiving hands of the cruel world, haunted Nanami's subconscious. Yet, like a mantra, he reminded himself that those days were gone, a realm he could never revisit. The past, with its joys and sorrows, had become an unalterable tapestry that no amount of yearning could unravel.

Copenhagen, with its cold tendrils caressing his skin, became a sanctuary where Nanami sought solace. The chill, instead of biting, cradled him tenderly, a reminder that he had escaped the clutches of a world he could never truly leave behind. The city, with its ancient charm and modern allure, became a backdrop for Nanami's journey forward.

It whispered promises of a new beginning, a life unburdened by the shackles of the past. In the heart of Copenhagen, Nanami found relief, and as he navigated the snow-kissed streets, he embraced the present, determined to forge a path ahead—one guided not by regret, but by the gentle touch of a city that offered him a canvas upon which to paint the chapters of his rebirth.

The familiar street greeted him like an old friend, its cobblestones beneath his feet whispering tales of summer days gone by. Just a few months ago, Nanami Kento had wandered these same lanes during the summer break. The memories of those warm days lingered, woven into the fabric of the city's essence.

His grandfather, a jazz musician with a passion that spanned decades, had been a regular attendee of the music festival that graced the city every summer since the '70s. Kento, in tow, became a witness to the traditions that bound generations together. It had been a family affair, with his mother, equally enamored with jazz, usually accompanying them. However, that particular summer, his mother opted to spend time with his grandmother, leaving Kento with his father and grandfather.

As he traversed the familiar route, Kento couldn't help but reminisce about that summer day when the vibrant world of jazz had captured his senses. The infectious rhythm and soulful melodies had beckoned him, and he had surrendered himself to the music, if only for a brief moment. Little did he anticipate that this impromptu decision would act as a catalyst, altering the trajectory of his life.

The memories of that summer warmed his heart as he strolled through the well-trodden path. The city, once again alive with the spirit of jazz, seemed to echo with the tunes that had left an indelible mark on his soul.

And then, as if the city itself orchestrated a serendipitous encounter, he found himself standing in the same spot where destiny had intervened months ago. His gaze fell upon a young woman, her beauty transcending the ordinary. A wide smile graced her face, and her infectious laughter mingled with the music that enveloped the space. Her dress swirled around her as she danced with a partner, the joyous energy radiating from her like a beacon.

She fell into her partner's chest, laughter bubbling forth like a melody, and when she turned to face Kento, her eyes sparkled with an intensity that rivaled the sun. Before he could fathom what was happening, she took him by the hand, her eyes silently urging him to join the dance. 

A playful gleam lit up her eyes as she extended her hand toward him, the vivacity in her voice cutting through the ambient jazz notes. He felt hesitant for a moment, turning to his father and grandfather with sudden panic. He did not know how to react. They nodded at him, smiling and urging him forward.

The air was charged with excitement and vibrant wonder, and as the first notes of a jazz tune enveloped them, Kento couldn't resist the magnetic pull of the music and the enchanting woman who had chosen him as her dance partner.

"Come on, don't be shy! Let the music guide you," she urged, her grin infectious, and in that instant, Nanami Kento felt a magnetic pull that transcended both time and space.

Without a word, he took her hand, and as their fingers intertwined, an unspoken connection ignited. The jazz, a melodic symphony that seemed to resonate from the very heart of the city, served as the backdrop to their impromptu dance.

The crowded space with its eclectic mix of jazz enthusiasts faded into the background as they swayed and twirled to the rhythm of the music. The world ,with its indifference and worries, ceased to exist within the warmth of the shared moment. In the heart of Copenhagen, surrounded by the echoes of jazz, Nanami Kento and the mysterious woman moved in perfect harmony.

The music, like a benevolent guide, dictated their steps, leading them through a dance that felt both spontaneous and rehearsed. As they spun and dipped, the energy of the jazz festival enveloped them, creating a cocoon where the troubles of the past and uncertainties of the future held no sway.

The woman's laughter, a melody of its own, echoed through the cobbled streets, interweaving with the jazz notes in a harmonious dance. Nanami, typically reserved and guarded, found himself surrendering to the rhythm, losing track of time and space. For those fleeting moments, the weight of the jujutsu world, the ghosts of his past, all seemed to dissipate in the cadence of their shared dance.

As the final notes of the jazz piece resonated through the air, the applause of the café's patrons brought them back to reality. The woman, still caught in the joy of the dance, turned to Nanami with a bright smile. 

"That was amazing! Thank you for dancing with me," she expressed, her eyes reflecting genuine appreciation.

Nanami, a rare warmth lingering in his eyes, met her gaze. "No, thank you. It was a pleasure," he replied, a sentiment that transcended mere words. 

He tried not to be embarrassed as he stepped away from her and back towards his father and grandfather. They continued to clap and laugh and praise him for doing well. Father even bragged about having taken a video and promised to show it to his mother later. He groaned about it as they continued to walk off and go to the path towards the other jazz musicians.

He did not know if it was the Danish sun that was hot all summer that made him feel so warm.

But as he turned back, seeing the young woman smile and giggle.

He was certain that the warmth he felt would stay with him throughout.

The spellbinding dance in the heart of bright, sunny Copenhagen had not only offered Nanami an escape from his past but had also kindled a connection that felt destined—a dance of a lifetime that he would carry with him, a cherished memory of a summer's day in a city that had become his unexpected refuge.

Restlessness gripped Nanami Kento with an unyielding tenacity, casting a pervasive shadow over the edges of his solitude. Within the confines of his own thoughts, dark tendrils of contemplation writhed like wildfire, unwelcome and intrusive. He loathed this emotional turbulence, an unwelcome companion that had persisted, refusing to release its hold on him even after the passage of time.

Seated with a cup of hot chocolate in hand, Nanami took deliberate, deep breaths, attempting to quell the tempest within his mind. The warmth of the beverage offered a comforting contrast to the internal chill that clung to him. It was a battle against the relentless onslaught of thoughts, a struggle against the emotions that threatened to consume him.

In this moment of quiet reflection, he pondered the futile hope that distance could sever the ties to haunting memories. He had sought solace miles and miles away, yearning to escape the accusatory gazes that whispered tales of abandonment and the painful eyes that spoke the language of goodbyes.

As he sighed, the warm breath escaping his lips seemed to carry with it the weight of unresolved emotions. Nanami couldn't escape the relentless echoes of the past, and even in the sanctuary of a quiet corner with a steaming cup before him, the turmoil within persisted. The hot chocolate, a feeble antidote, offered temporary respite, but the battle against the haunting shadows of his thoughts endured.

It was a struggle against an invisible adversary, an emotional warfare that unfolded within the confines of his own consciousness. Nanami, with each deliberate sip, attempted to find solace, seeking refuge in the simple act of indulging in the warmth of his drink. Yet, the restlessness, like an indomitable force, continued to linger, an ever-present companion on his journey through the labyrinth of his own emotions.

The familiar walls of his grandparents' home, while comforting, seemed to close in on him, urging him to escape the confines of his own thoughts. Sensing his need for reprieve, his grandfather, a sage figure of wisdom and understanding, suggested a simple remedy—take a walk.

The time-worn walls of his grandparents' home, though steeped in familiarity and the embrace of cherished memories, now seemed to tighten their grasp on Nanami Kento. Despite their comforting presence, they took on an almost oppressive quality, closing in around him like silent witnesses to the turmoil within his mind. The quietude of the rooms, once a haven, now echoed with the resonance of unspoken thoughts, urging him to seek refuge beyond the confines of his own contemplations.

His grandfather seemed to recognize the restlessness that brewed within Kento's being. Perhaps his mother has felt this way before too. Grandfather smiled at him tenderly. He was like a sage whenever Kento looked at him. It was as though he was someone who years carried the weight of experience and the gentle wisdom of time. 

Certainly, he sensed the need for reprieve in his grandson's troubled heart. It was amidst this silent acknowledgment that the elderly patriarch offered a remedy as simple as it was profound—take a walk and relieve your heart with the sights of something else.

The suggestion hung in the air, laden with the unspoken understanding that sometimes, the remedy for a restless soul lay not in grand gestures or complex solutions, but in the simplicity of a deliberate step outside. The labyrinth of thoughts could often be navigated more effectively under the open sky, where the vastness of the world provided both perspective and solace.

Nanami, sensing the gravity of his grandfather's suggestion, nodded in silent agreement. It was a tacit acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that transcended generations—the understanding that, in the face of internal struggles, the wisdom of an elder could guide one towards a path of renewal.

As he stepped out into the crisp air, the creaking door behind him seemed to release not just his physical form but also the weight of his emotional burden. The world outside, bathed in the soft hues of daylight, became a canvas for introspection and healing. 

Nanami's footsteps echoed the rhythm of his contemplations, each stride serving as a subtle declaration of his intent to navigate the labyrinth of his thoughts with the simple act of walking—an age-old remedy, whispered from one generation to another, under the watchful eyes of time.

The winter air greeted him coldly as he stepped out onto the cobblestone streets of Copenhagen. With earphones in place, the soothing rhythms of bossa nova provided a backdrop to his aimless journey. Each step resonated with a silent yearning to untangle the threads of his restless mind.

The city unfolded before him, a tapestry of ancient charm and modern allure, and Kento wandered through its labyrinthine streets, losing himself in the rhythmic cadence of his footsteps. As the city whispered tales of its storied past, he meandered through the enigmatic alleys, the bossa nova notes acting as a companion to his contemplations.

However, fatigue eventually set in, and as if guided by an unseen force, Kento found himself standing at the entrance of a familiar courtyard. The air seemed to shimmer with a sense of déjà vu, transporting him back to the vibrant days of summer. It was as if the city itself conspired to lead him to this very spot.

Without much thought, he stepped into the charming café tucked away in the corner of the courtyard. The ambiance was a sensory symphony, the warm notes of a saxophone enveloping him like a gentle embrace. The air buzzed with the lively laughter and animated chatter of cafe-goers, creating an atmosphere that felt alive with shared joy.

Nanami chose a seat near the small stage, drawn like a moth to the enchanting voice of the singer who held court before a captivated audience. The music, a melodic potion, seemed to weave a spell around him, momentarily quieting the restlessness that had plagued his thoughts. The singer, with a voice that resonated with emotion and grace, commanded the attention of everyone present, casting a spell that transcended the ordinary.

In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the café and the entrancing melodies of the festival, Nanami Kento found himself once again caught in the embrace of the city's magic. The saxophone's soothing tones and the singer's enchanting voice served as a balm for his restless soul, providing a sanctuary where the worries of the world outside momentarily ceased to exist.

It was her, singing as though an angel sent from above.

Nanami Kento felt his lips part, but no words could come out.

He felt that same warmth, just as he had that summer's day in her arms.

As the musical crescendo reached its zenith, the singer's gaze, like a beacon in the dimly lit cafe, found Nanami Kento's eyes. In that ephemeral connection, a knowing smile graced her lips, a silent acknowledgment that transcended the audible notes and resonated with the unspoken language of their shared musical experience.

In that moment, it was as if a secret pact had been forged, sealed with the mutual understanding that they were both voyagers on a sonic journey, each note a stepping stone leading them to the heart of the melody.

The singer, bathed in the golden glow of the stage lights, seemed to surrender herself to the intoxicating passion of the music. Her eyes, illuminated with a spark of something indefinable, drank deeply from the chalice of its harmony, as if she were communing with a force beyond the tangible. It was a transcendent communion, where the boundaries between artist and art blurred, leaving only the essence of emotion that permeated the air.

For Kento, the allure of her presence became an irresistible force, a magnetic pull that tethered him to the heart of the performance. As he watched her, he felt not just the music but the very essence of her being infused with the atmosphere.

It was as though she and the music were indivisible entities, two sides of the same coin, each note an extension of her soul. In the canvas of the cafe, where the air hummed with the residue of melodies, life unfolded before him in the form of this captivating songstress.

The symbiosis between the singer and the music was palpable, a dance of mutual surrender. It was as though she embodied the very spirit of the composition, becoming the living, breathing manifestation of the melodies that cascaded around her.

The passion that emanated from her was contagious, and in that intimate space, Nanami Kento found himself caught in the intricate dance between artist and audience, the boundaries between their worlds momentarily dissolved.

In the presence of this goddess, life seemed to harmonize with the cadence of her voice. It was as though the cafe itself had become a sacred space, where the divinity of music and the essence of existence converged, creating a symphony that transcended the ordinary. 

In those moments, as the singer basked in the afterglow of the song's climax, Nanami Kento couldn't help but feel that he had witnessed not just a performance but a manifestation of life's profound beauty.

As the minutes stretched into hours, the atmosphere of the cafe transformed into a timeless realm where Nanami Kento found himself ensconced in the spell of both music and the captivating presence of the singer. The rhythm became a pulse, and time, a fluid entity that seemed to elude the constraints of the clock. She sang, her voice a melodic river that coursed through the air, and Kento, a willing captive, lost himself in the undulating waves of sound.

Her singing was a continuous offering, a stream of prayers that flowed from her lips, each note like a sacred incantation. Kento, seated in the audience, listened with a reverence that bordered on the worshipful. It was as though he paid homage to a goddess of music, and in the repetition of the praises, he found himself entranced by the enchanting cadence that echoed through the space.

In a serendipitous twist of fate, Kento learned that she was a last-minute replacement, a sudden vacancy in the band leaving them without a singer.

Her brother, a member of the jazz band, had called her at the eleventh hour to fill the void. She chuckled at the unexpected turn of events, downplaying the praises that showered upon her. She waved them off, saying she was no singer. That she was no professional.

Yet Kento, a discerning listener, recognized the truth in those praises. They all ring true. Her voice, a celestial melody that resonated with his very soul, had woven itself into the fabric of his being.

When the final notes of the last song melted into the ether, the cafe erupted in applause. The singer, basking in the aftermath of her musical journey, cast a gentle smile in Kento's direction. It was a moment of acknowledgment, a silent exchange that transcended the applause and connected them on a level beyond the tangible.

As she prepared to leave the stage, she thanked everyone for coming. She started to say goodbye to members of the band and grinned at them, joking with them for a bit and kissed her brother's cheek and left the stage. Her brother was doing the next set as just jazz music, and so the claps and cheers finished and began anew as the band started to play once more. The cafe had turned into the bar it was at night.

The warmth of the cafe–bar gave way to the chill of the outside world. Opening the door, she let out a disgruntled sound and started complaining about the winter cold with her thick She started to stepped out into the cold, fumbling with the buttons of her winter coat. In that transitional moment, as the boundary between the magical world of music and the reality of the winter night blurred, Kento felt an unfamiliar impulse surge within him.

Seizing the opportunity, propelled by a courage he hadn't known existed, he stepped forward to bridge the gap between their worlds. The cold air hung heavy with anticipation as he took a chance, driven by an urge to break free from the silent observer and become an active participant in the unfolding drama of the night.

"Wait," the words escaped Nanami Kento's lips, a sudden impulse that caught even himself off guard. The singer turned towards him, her eyes a curious but kind inquiry, as if the melody of his voice had woven its own verse into the lingering notes of the music. "I think I know you."

Her gaze studied his face for a moment before recognition sparked in her eyes, and a smile began to blossom on her lips. "I met you, this summer. Didn't I? We danced together, just nearby!"

A nod from Kento, his heart resounding with each beat, a rhythm echoing the memories of that summer encounter. "Yes, I just... I just thought I was mistaken."

Her grin widened, a playful glint in her eyes. "Well, you weren't. Good for you, hm?"

"I, uh... I didn't expect to see you here."

"Me neither," she responded, her hands finding refuge in her pockets, the winter air lending warmth to her words. "But my brother needed my help, and it's his last gig for the year. I thought I should help him out."

"I see."

"What's your name?"

"Kento," he replied, the syllables escaping almost too quickly for his liking. "Kento Nanami."

"Oh, you're Japanese?" A moment of realization crossed her features, and she gracefully bowed to him. Switching to Japanese, she continued, "It's nice to meet you."

Caught off guard, he reciprocated the bow, his face reflecting a mixture of surprise and astonishment. The unexpected reunion and the sudden switch to their shared language in the heart of Copenhagen added an unforeseen twist to the unfolding moment.

She giggled as she shared her name, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as if Nanami was attempting to etch it into the recesses of his memory.

"I think I should go, Nanami—kun. After all, it's getting late."

"O-oh, uh... of course."

With a casual wave, she added, "Happy New Year, Nanami-kun."

"Happy New Year," he replied, the exchange marking a momentary farewell. Yet, just as she began to turn away, an inexplicable force pulled at him.

He called out to her again. That was what stunned him. He called her name by the pure, unexpected impulse. He did not know if she will turn around. But when she turned, still smiling, he could feel his heart pound so hard in his chest. It hurt to feel so warm inside, so almost exposed to the echoes of life. 

Yet he knew he wanted to be greedy, at this moment.

Nanami Kento thinks he will not be able to not speak his heart aloud.

Because deep within, he found himself reluctant to let her slip away. 

Scratching the back of his head, heat flushing his face, he mumbled, "I don't really do this, and I... I don't really know what will happen after I say it. But I just had to ask."

Her grin persisted, "What is it, stranger?"

"Would you like to have a meal with me?" He mumbles out, barely coherent. "Not here....just. Let's look for a place to eat at."

The question lingered in the air, suspended between the notes of the fading jazz melody, the enchantment of Copenhagen's winter night, and the thread of connection woven through their shared history of a summer dance. 

It was a daring proposition, an invitation that transcended the boundaries of the ordinary, as if the cafe–bar itself held its breath in anticipation of her response.

Her eyes, still carrying the sparkle of their shared memories, held a playful curiosity as she considered his invitation. The cafe and bar, wrapped in the quietude of the aftermath of the performance, seemed to wait with bated breath for her answer. 

The allure of possibility wafted through the space, a subtle hum in the air that resonated with the unspoken possibilities of a shared coffee, a continuation of a story that had begun in the rhythms of a summer dance.

She tilted her head, the smile on her lips carrying a hint of mischief, "Well, Kento—kun, I suppose it would be a shame to let such an unexpected reunion end so quickly, wouldn't it?"

Nanami Kento felt a surge of relief and excitement, the uncharted territory of possibility stretching before them. It was as though this moment just felt right. Everything he felt was right. Everything he felt about life shifted and changed and merged and broke. Everything in this moment was beyond comprehension. Everything about tonight was a once and a lifetime miracle.

"I'd like that," he replied, a sincerity in his voice that mirrored the warmth that had been kindled within him. "Very much."

She hums back, happily. "Hm, me too."

Their conversation, a delightful blend of laughter and shared memories, intertwined seamlessly with the enchanting atmosphere of the night. The lamplights cast elongated shadows on the cobblestone streets, creating an intimate tableau as they meandered through the city's silent alleys.

It was a dance of words beneath the glow, a choreography of sentences and responses that mirrored the ebb and flow of the moonlit waves on a distant shore.

The moon, a silent sentinel in the celestial expanse, bestowed its tender glow upon them, as if lending an ethereal blessing to this rendezvous. Its silver light, filtered through the winter night's breath, painted their silhouettes against the backdrop of Copenhagen's timeless beauty.

Underneath the moonlit canvas, they strolled with a leisurely pace, navigating the labyrinth of streets with no particular destination in mind. Each step was a sentence in the unwritten story of their night—a story that seemed to unfold organically, propelled by the magnetic pull of shared laughter and the quiet understanding that words could convey.

As they wandered, the city's pulse seemed to quicken, echoing the cadence of their conversation. The facades of historic buildings, adorned with tales of centuries past, watched over them like ancient guardians privy to the secrets exchanged in the moonlit embrace of the night.

The chill in the air did nothing to cool the warmth that radiated between them. Their breath mingled with the winter mist, creating an ephemeral veil around their steps. It was a dance of tenderness, orchestrated by the moon's watchful gaze and accompanied by the distant symphony of the city—footsteps on cobblestones, the occasional rustle of leaves, and the murmur of waves caressing the nearby shore.

As they continued to amble through Copenhagen's nocturnal embrace, the moonlight etched a silent poem in the sky, an ode to unexpected reunions and the timeless beauty of shared moments beneath its watchful eye. The city, in its slumber, whispered its approval, its ancient heart beating in harmony with the melody of their conversation. And in that tranquil interlude, two souls found solace in the delicate dance of words and the moonlit romance of a winter night in Copenhagen.

The cafe and bar was long behind them, and the echoes of jazz lingered in the little hums from her lips, accompanying them in their steps as they ventured into the winter night. In that quietude, they began leaving behind the remnants of that dance in the summer and that night in the jazz bar, stepping into the unscripted chapter that awaited them.

Tomorrow was a new year, and in the cold winter streets of Copenhagen, both of them were certain—it was made for being together.

fact about nanami and his wife this chapter: nanami's parents visited and attended a jujutsu sorcerer christmas party. his parents showed gojo the video of young nanami dancing with his wife in copenhagen. needless to say, nanami is not pleased. nanami's wife often comes to her brother's rescue when the singer of their band makes excuses. she has a really good singing voice and it helped nanami during sleepless nights or after a nightmare. she's been recruited a couple of times to be a professional singer, but she prefers writing! nanami's wife can speak japanese because her favorite uncle married a japanese woman. she wanted to be able to speak to her, so she and her aunt learned japanese and danish together. i always imagine nanami's wife's voice be like narumi from wotakoi while i write her dialogue. she sounds soft spoken but energetically bright to me. she was played by arisa date. here's a sample of narumi's voice. nanami's top three favorite music genre is hard rock, alternative rock and jazz. but he would listen to all types of music too. nanami's wife likes a lot of sorts of music, but she grew up around jazz, pop and ballad. the day of their wedding, gojo's present to nanami's wife was a giving her a flash drive of second year nanami kento singing and jamming out to evanescence's bring me back to life. his wife calls it the best video ever. nanami has tried to take the flashdrive but his wife has made subsequent copies! copenhagen is nanami and his wife's favorite city to be in whenever they're in denmark. its everything to them to be there on july, when the jazz festival happens when they first met and near new year when they had they met again. the years after this, when they confessed in snow flower, on new year's eve, when he and her came back to the jazz bar and ate at the same place as their first date as a couple.

[childlikegoblinqueen]

Pre-Belos Grimwalker Tale Exclusive!

I'm going to post this on AO3 eventually, but this is in response to an ask about eventually exploring the Evoldo's rise to power and the Kingdom of Lovoed/Nommeking where Osran's spirit servant was first sacrificed.

I'm not going to tell anymore of their story (yet), but I wanted to leave this here:

TW: suggestive language, mentions of enslavement and violence, blood, and abuse.

This is a bit more mature than some other stuff, so I am putting it below the veil.

Off to work on Blight of the Living Dead AND some more post SCOM projects.

Root of Evil

The young man took note of his reflection in the mirror outside the old clothing vendor. 

Pale skin. Pale hair. His horns curved back on either side of his head. He looked right. He looked left. Everyone always said they were his finest feature, the way they accented his pointed ears perfectly. 

He drew a spell circle weaving small braids on either side, and with them, tiny springs of lilac flowers and ivy. 

Adjusting his tunic just so, he flicked his tail in satisfaction, and checked the clasp on the green gem he wore dangling from his left ear. The color matched his eyes perfectly.

“I see you are already a witch of taste, sir gardener,” the merchant chuckled, “but I am certain a gentlewitch of your standing would not be wearing your work uniform during the evenings you have not come from work.”

“Ah. You would be surprised,” the young man cleared his throat, “King Alder has made sure that his royal gardeners are held in high regard for our work displaying all the beauty the of the Titan’s flora.”

“Hmmm. My own husband is enamored with the field of firecracker crocuses this time of year.” he nodded.

“Ah!” The young man’s eyes lit up, “That was my first assignment when I got this job! Those fields were pretty enough when I arrived at my post, but the real work in making them that lovely was recognizing where the weeds had set into the flesh beneath the soil.”

“And how would one figure that out?” The shopkeeper scratched his chin.

“Well!” the young man clapped his hands together, “where I was born, my parents taught me how to recognize rash weeds on the Titan’s skin. If you scratch them at just the right place you can relieve all of them and your plants – crocuses especially will give bigger fireballs in the sunset.”

“And this is why the king hires real witches to do this work. To pull up the weeds by the roots that is.” the shopkeeper snapped his fingers, “CLAVI!”

A thin boy, no older than 15 padded out of the shop with a snake measure. 

“Take this gentlewitch’s measurements for one of the new suits.” The shopkeeper ordered. The boy, Clavi worked quickly. Thin cracked hands measured the young man’s chest and lithe shoulders and the space between the middle of his shoulders and his neck. 

Without another word, he disappeared back into the shop to return with a fine deep teal jacket woven with some of the favorite symbols of Lovoed. Stars and swords and snapping snapdragons. A stonesleeper in a muzzle. A basilisk. And galderstones, of course. 

“It’s lovely, truly.” The young man ran a finger over the fabric. He knew he would best save his snails for a day when the rain boiled at its worse, but he’d received a bonus for his last weeks’ work and sent it all to his parents and what harm would it do him to look nice? 

Clavi, smiled slightly from beneath his dark hair. As if he was pleased that the young man admired this garment so much. 

“Did you make this?” he asked the boy. 

“Of course he didn’t!” The merchant stepped in. “I wouldn’t allow its hands on anything in this shop…” he eyed Clavi’s actual hands. Chapped and shaking. Touching the lapel to make sure it sat smooth over the young man’s chest. 

“I mean, to make the item!” The merchant swatted the boy. His ears flicked and he quickly retracted his hands. “The clothing at this shop is 100% made by real witches.” 

“Hmmmm. Is that right?” The young man said steadily. “Real, witches you say?”

Clavi’s shoulders drooped slightly. 

“Oh. don’t expect an answer from him.” The shopkeep laughed. “He had a nasty habit of speaking out of turn when we bought him, so we cut out his tongue.” he leaned in. “Clavi. You and your breed do not sew the items we sell here, do you?”

Clavi raised his tired red eyes to meet the young man’s. Slowly, the boy shook his head. 

“I think that tells me all I need.” The young man slipped out of the jacket. “I thought this was grift avenue! I have to spend my wages carefully, I won’t have any part of my leisure wardrobe be made in a sweatshop full of grimwalker werms.”

“I already told you,” the merchant growled. “that my wares are made by REAL witches. When you say this, what you are truly saying is that there is no fine spider silk from my shop that you would find yourself better dressed in?”

“If you prefer!” The young man snorted. He slid his green eyes over Clavi’s thin body, “but you and I know the truth? Eh?”

“Full of yourself, are you?” The merchant hissed, “you are still just a gardener, you know? Don’t act because you play around in the dirt on the Titan that you are some sort of actual noble! We honest witches are all here to make an honest living! I’ll have you know that Clavi’s ortet was a fine boy with the best embroidery skills and when he was lost in the war, we went through three more attempts to make sure we grew at least one that was up to scratch!”

“You’ll have no luck with this one!” A high pitched voice chuckled. The current head gardener clapped the young man on his shoulder. “His tastes are far beyond what a tourist trap like this could possibly offer!”

The merchant scowled at the newcomers. A band of three more witches, all dressed in the finery that indicated they worked as royal groundskeepers. “Very well, mistress.” he told her. “I suppose none of you – just three steps above scullery maids – would want to wear anything tasteful on your way to the whorehouses full of grimwalker werms?” 

“Ah!” The head gardener laughed. Her three eyes turned up, closed. “You know you may be right there!” she shared a smile with the others, “but our boy here has much more discerning taste than the rest of us!”

“Right.” Chuckled another gardener, “He wouldn‘t lower himself to partake in the fruits of the red eye district.”

“That’s enough.” The young man grumbled.

“Too bad,” the merchant smirked, “You’ll find they are quite compliant to whatever you want. And if not? Well if you pay the house enough, they will make sure the grims comply.”

The young man rolled his green eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will duck out on tonight’s festivities,” he told the head gardener. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Ha!” one of the gardeners chuckled. “You’ll find clothing isn’t the only thing that this one has a discerning taste in.”

“That’s none of your concern,” the young man smirked. “I’ll take my leave, if its all the same to you, mistress.”

“It’s your evening off!” chuckled another gardener, “You don’t have to ask!”

“Already have plans without your coworkers, sir snob?” the merchant taunted. “I suppose he has some silly paramour who is enamored with his station in the castle?” 

“He’s enamored with some noble. It’s obvious.” The head gardener chuckled, “we just haven’t figured out who he’s playing with just yet. Now.” she turned to the merchant. “I would LOVE to see what you have for a night of leisure. I’ve not spent my snails on a new bodice and set of silk trousers since last the wailing star passed by.”

____________________

The whistling sound wove its way through the air. The young man waited for the answer. It led him to the walls of the old locked garden with ribbons of red. 

When he finally arrived, he drew three spell circles. One to summon stairs up to the top of the walls, one to rebraid his hair around his horns, and another to grow a bouquet of flowers. 

“Cliche isn’t it?” the witch asked as he stepped over the garden wall, stairs crumbling into the ground behind him. “A royal gardener, wooing a princess?”

She smirked and tossed her tight black curls over her dark shoulder. 

“No more cliche than a princess who is in love with her royal gardener,” the young man chuckled. 

“Hmmmm.” she hummed playfully, “who said I’m in love with you?”

The young man felt his entire armor melt immediately. He let his shoulders fall and his tail twitched with interest. “Guess I’ve got to give these flowers to some other witch then?”

“Oh please!” she rolled her eyes, “come on over here.”

They sat for a while, Shoulder to shoulder, saying very little. Watching the stars reflect over the top of the knee high above. 

“Why did you want to meet here?” he asked quietly, “Instead of in town? Or you know… uhhh.?”

“In my room?” the princess’ smile grew playful. “My father is entertaining guests. Traveling oracles from the left palm I think.”

“Your father. King Alder, is entertaining foreigners?” he mocked a choke, “That would imply that he agrees to admit that there's parts of the Titan that do NOT belong to him.” he narrowed his eyes, “What’s his game, Thistle?”

“No clue.” the princess sighed, “But he’s been looking for a royal oracle for years. He must be pretty desperate since this one set up shop in the middle of town. My brother seems pretty taken with the older of the two though.” 

“Your father would never marry off his prize possession to a traveling oracle.” the young man shook his head, “not unless they could bring him a pretty hefty prize.”

“True.” Thistle laughed, “But they can have fun without a marriage contract. Unlike a spare, like myself, The Titan has plans and Calix is meant for great things. I am but a pawn to be married off to some minor cousin of a noblewitch to increase the king’s reserve of galdorstones!”

The young man’s chest went heavy. 

“I didn’t mean…” Thistle shook her head. “I had to fake a headache to get out of the banquet tonight. Calix is all MOONEYED over the older guest like he wants to have a very particular kind of Midnight Conjuring with him.”

“That’s a terrible joke, Thistle.” The young man laughed. 

“Like you haven’t thought of that one for us” Thistle shook her head. Their gazes met. “Anyway, the younger brother gives me the literal creeps. It’s like he’s using his sight to see what’s beneath my skirts.”

“So don’t wear skirts?” The young man raised a brow suggestively. 

“Oh shut up!” Thistle threw her head back. “You know I prefer my market slacks anyway!”

“So.” The young man cleared his throat, “Before the merchant oracle sweeps you off your feet for a cliche tryst, do you think I might be allowed a kiss goodbye?”

“Oh, please.” Thistle smiled. She slipped her hands over his chest, “You know the only ‘cliche tryst’ I’m interested in is ours.”

The young man leaned in. The heat of their lips nearly pressed together, when he felt a weight on his left ear. 

“You know I won’t kiss you,” the princess said, “unless I can look at you as you actually are.” 

The young man nodded slowly. He let her release the concealment stone. 

“Thistle –” he whispered. He could see his bright magenta eyes reflected in her dark gaze. 

She smiled and closed the space with a kiss.