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inquisitornocturn · 5 months ago

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⊱─ 𝕥𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕦𝕤 𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕫𝕠𝕟 ─⊰

➺ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Cazador Szarr x f!reader the vampire spawn

➺ 𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: no y/n is used, rating - E, POV second person, mentions of torture, fear, canon-typical violence, fear play, smut, dubcon, hand job, vaginal fingering, praise kink, cockwarming, corporal punishment, spanking, blood play, anal, blood as lube, masturbation, no aftercare.

➺ 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: Master Cazador wants to see you and that rarely means anything good. You dread going to him, but as his spawn you have no choice, disobedience is not tolerated in Palace Szarr after all. Yet you can't help but wonder what he has in mind for you tonight. Another punishment? Another torture? Something worse that even your frightened mind can't come up with? You will learn soon enough, you know that as you stand in front of the door and knock.

➺ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 8,663

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: this has been sitting in my drafts for so long, unfinished, until lo and behold - i finally finished it! i'm delighted to finally share this, i enjoyed writing slower pace and different approach to Cazador, dipping my toes in writing Master/Spawn dynamic. sign of things to come, perhaps? haha, i won't tease, but please do enjoy♡

When Chamberlain told you that Master wants to see you, you didn’t know what to think. Usually he compels you all, a swift command striking through your thoughts and your very brain, making absolutely sure that you go where you are needed. But not this time and that makes you scared more than anything. What could it be? Did you do anything to be punished? Oh gods, not the punishments again. Last time Master made you pull out your own fingernails with your teeth, simply because you started gagging when he served you a putrid rat. His type of a joke that got only him laughing. He has many of those.

As Chamberlain pushes you out of his room, you slink through the corridors, feeling the walls around you squeezing the very air out of your lungs. Not that you need to breathe being a vampire spawn, but this is one luxury you allow yourself among the bricks of the palace and the bars of cages – last shred of mortality in a form of a memory you keep repeating again and again, making your chest rise and fall. It gives you comfort, except for when you scream.

You keep your eyes down as you drag your feet towards Master’s study room. You know you should hurry up but you can’t. Cazador, your vampiric master, has turned you only seven months ago but those seven months already have been filled with lessons you don’t think you will ever forget, even if you fail to follow them sometimes, which leads to even more brutal reminders who you are and who you serve.

One such reminder came early one night when Master Cazador invited you to one of the empty rooms and told you to strip. When you did, he had you lie flat on an empty table, face down, and with candlelight assisting him, he proceeded to carve a sonnet onto your back with an enchanted razor, the sun-like magic burning and not letting you heal, making sure that the scars will remain for eternity. You held on as much as you could, but apparently the more you screamed, the more mistakes he made. And the more editing was required. You experienced different horrors before that night and after, but that specific night has carved itself into your memory just like the razor did into your body. The tender touch of your Master’s fingers against your skin and the sharp, mind-numbing pain that made your head swim.

You dread another such artistic endeavor as you trudge towards the study room with your feet made of lead. You swallow hard and breathe, trying to soothe yourself, trying not to imagine what other poems Master Cazador could carve into you and never let it heal. At least the one on your back is merely more than a collection of scars now and despite your luxurious diet of pests, you still heal faster than a mortal would, thus you feel at least grateful for that, but being your Master’s canvas to mutilate at a whim because of it, is the downside of immortality and eternity.

When you reach the door your feet stop on their own. You’ve come this way many times but was never let inside. You spoke to other spawn and seems no one but Master Cazador himself and his victims are allowed, yet here you are, nearly shaking with fear to knock on the door and enter, if permitted. But you can’t just stand here like one of the statues adorning the ballroom. Master doesn’t like indolence, he will punish you if you’re not obedient enough. So you rise a shaky hand and rap your knuckles against the hardwood door.

A pause, silence follows. You wonder if you should knock again but then you feel a wordless permission entering deep within your brain and you sigh.

As you take the door handle and push it down it feels like years are flying by. Your terrified mind slows time itself for you alone while you watch yourself open the door and enter, as you rise your eyes and see the open door at the end of a short corridor, the maw of the empty frame feeling like a mouth of a dragon just waiting for you to sacrifice yourself on the altar of blood and jagged teeth. Your legs move and you get closer and closer, beginning to see more of the room. The elevated platform upon which Master Cazador’s massive desk sits upon, the bottles of most likely blood on one edge, a candleholder on the opposite. A quill running across the parchment with swift, precise strokes and then you stop as you are just past the entryway, finally witnessing your Master.

You swallow dryly if at all while your eyes take in the figure behind the desk. He doesn’t raise his gaze, focused on the parchment, and you study his expression that would look almost relaxed if not for his knit eyebrows and the glow of his ruby-like pupils, giving a visage of a Lord. He is one, after all, a Lord of your very life and death, until he releases you. Or destroys you.

Not uttering a single word and not moving even a muscle you stand there as if planted, watching Master Cazador write whatever it is he is focused on writing. Steel noses of his boots under the desk and a royal coat he’s wearing tonight are making him look particularly imposing, especially with the sleeves split at his elbows, creating an image like he’s wearing a cloak, like he’s dressed for battle. You just hope that you’re not here to be the duel he may be looking for.

At last Master Cazador stops his hand and lifts his eyes to you, red embers of them burning into you immediately and with such force you nearly waver and step back. You try to swallow again but this time your throat is completely dry.

“You asked for me, Master.” You say with your tone polite and with your words measured, you won’t make a mistake of disrespecting him.

Your presence, however, seems to delight Master Cazador and he smirks at you, lowering his quill onto the desk and leaning back in the armchair, the backrest of it rising tall behind him and making him look as if he’s sitting on a throne. And he is a master of his home, patriarch of his coven, governor of your very being. He is all powerful in his domain and you’re just a small trinket among the vast amount of his possessions.

A pause, it’s like he’s thinking what to say or, rather, what to do with you now that you’re here and you keep standing still, trying not to show emotion. Sometimes even as little as a frown or expression of sorrow will end up with him losing patience and letting his fury descend upon your trembling form in a form of a fist, a staff, a dagger. Sometimes in a form of his teeth or claws ripping at your throat, making sure that what little blood you manage to keep in your starved body is spent uselessly, forcing you to grovel and beg for seconds. But Master Cazador rarely gives anything supplementary, unless it’s pain.

As he gazes upon you with cold cruelty in his smile, you wonder if you should speak up again, but thankfully you don’t have to. You watch your vampiric overlord slide his right elbow onto the desk and prop the underside of his jaw with a relaxed fist.

“Undress.” A simple command but said with enough authority that he doesn’t need to use his link to you to enforce it. He knows you will obey.

And obey you do.

You hesitate only for a split second, this is all you and others like yourself are allowed in Palace Szarr, just a fraction of a moment before fear gets treated as disobedience, and disobedience gets disciplined. Until it sticks – the Ruler of Kennels likes to say as he too works hard to please the Master. Master is most pleased when he hears screams. Sometimes you wonder if they drown out echoes of the sins he has committed, but you do not linger on those thoughts. It’s not for an ant to question reasons of Gods.

So you undress. You don’t just drop your clothes, no, that’s not permitted. You fold each garment and place it neatly on the floor next to you, continuing to do so until you’re naked. You still feel a degree of shame when your body is exposed to a man who sees you as nothing but a tool, but this is not a place for pride or dignity, you can’t afford any, the price is just too steep.

“Put the clothes on the chair, child.” Master Cazador commands with a wave of his unoccupied hand, gesturing a specific chair for you to put your unworthy clothes on and you do as he wishes. “Come closer.” You don’t pause and don’t hesitate, you simply walk to the desk even if your knees feel weak, even if your brain is conjuring sensations of life: a sound of a heartbeat in your ears that stopped months ago, a rush of blood to your face that your starving veins would crave to absorb if given an additional drop. Still, you stop by his side on his left and Master Cazador watches you with chilling amusement. Maybe he senses what you’re feeling and thinking, but you don’t dare ask.

Another moment passes and his burning gaze slowly slithers down your body, taking in everything that you are in this very moment, and you can swear you can feel the heat of his eyes on your skin. It’s both pleasant on your cold, famished for warmth body, and deeply unsettling at the same time, making you live through sensation of insects under your skin. You just pray to whatever Gods that might listen that Master Cazador doesn’t turn these imaginary impressions into a memory that will threaten to slice your sanity into shreds.

“Turn around.” There’s a strange softness in Master’s voice now but you don’t allow yourself to linger on a vain hope that this night might not end up with your screams splintering your vocal cords. Instead you turn around, feeling exposed not only in flesh but in soul as well, and your throat contracts again in an attempt to swallow saliva that is not there. “Back to me, child.”

When you turn back to your Master, you still see the same mildly amused expression playing on his sharp features, the same satisfied smirk making him look almost humane and you may wish to forget what a monster he is if not for the cutting reminders circling in your mind like eels that are waiting for a morsel of hope to drop so that they can devour it without delay.

“Your hand.” Master Cazador lifts his arm, palm upturned, awaiting for your hand to be obediently placed there and you do as he wishes, raising your hand and hoping that he doesn’t see the tremor in your fingers, yet you know he will feel it once he touches you.

With your fingers in his palm he grips them gently like a lover and it gives you a pause, your eyes now looking for any hint in his face of what his mind has brewed this time, but Master Cazador just holds your hand for a moment longer then guides it towards him, and as your mind reels in attempt to prepare yourself for whatever is to come, your hand is pushed against the hardness of his crotch. Your eyes widen before you can stop yourself and you glance down, then up to his face again, seeing the sea of red nearly engulfing your senses completely.

A moment passes, a tik of a clock somewhere inside the room, and you manage to return your expression to neutral once again, too scared to show more emotion than you already have. Master notices this and grins, his mouth displaying his sharp fangs that more than once found their way into your neck before and will again, for as many times as eternity lasts. You manage to stifle a tremble threatening to wash over your body and Lord Cazador raises an eyebrow at you.

“Good. You learned how to control yourself.” He rubs your palm over the hardness in his pants slowly, near teasingly and you move your clenched jaw ever so slightly as you watch his face, looking for any hint to help you guess once again what your cruel Master has thought of tonight.

Master Cazador releases your hand but you keep it there without command. Everything you do has to be predestined by his words so you wait until his arrogantly smug expression instantly turns into a frown.

“You impotent idiot! Undo my pants!” He snaps with tone as sharp as a dagger and you flinch as if hit.

Near panicked now you move your trembling fingers to lift the edge of his shirt and find the belt there. You struggle and fumble with the buckle, feeling your anxiety rising with each passing moment. Suddenly you are hit, a slap on the side of your face so hard it sends you reeling backwards at least two steps before you collapse to your knees. Your head swims, everything becomes shades of red and black, the lines of all around you double as if they are being haunted by ghosts of selves and you raise your shaking hand to your cheek. It hurts so much, but every touch Master Cazador inflicts in rage hurts, you just learned to appreciate that nothing will hurt again like dying did.

“Finish what you started and you better hurry, girl.” Your overlord commands and you crawl on your hands and knees to his chair, scuttling not unlike a rat to perform your duty.

But what duty is that exactly? You don’t know yet and you are afraid to know, not being able to hide the tremor in your hands and fingers any longer as you reach for the belt buckle again, your gaze downcast with obedience but also shame – you made a mistake once again, despite trying your best not to. You were lucky that he only hit you once, usually Master makes sure that you remember your every transgression and the lessons that follow with excruciating precision.

With your cheek throbbing and your fingers still trying to disobey you and the Master, you tackle the buckle again, this time succeeding in being faster and more precise and you hear Cazador push air through his nose, indicating that he was about to strike out again but won’t have to anymore, you earned yourself this small mercy. You clench your jaw and unbutton the fly of his pants now, your eyes watch your own fingers and your mind is blank as you try not to waver anymore, not pause yet again, letting your mind focus on the task and the pain in your face that is quickly dulling to almost gentle beats of ache.

Pain that is common in your life now, like a whimsical lover that comes and goes as he pleases but always reminds you that he will forever remain with you, even if he occasionally leaves you. A constant presence with a ghost-like soreness that you’ve come to anticipate and sometimes even appreciate. Most often it feels like it threatens to cleave your mind in half, but sometimes it’s the only thing that anchors you, grounding you to your body, grounding you to your reality even if you would sacrifice everything to have a different one.

Still, once your fingers finish unfastening the buttons, you pause again and glance up, meeting Master Cazador’s eyes looking down at you with fierce fire in them and his expression a familiar frown.

“What?” He suddenly chuckles, making your insides clench at the sound. When Master is angry - you witness his fury, when Master is happy – you experience his cruelty. “Your task is not done, child. Take it out. You know what to do.” Lord Cazador says and his voice is almost relaxed, almost cheerful, as if he’s finding joy in seeing fear permeate every cell of your body.

You quickly and curtly nod back to him and lower your eyes again as you carefully part the fly of his pants and slide your hand in, grasping at his hard cock and maneuvering it from beneath the fabrics he’s wearing. Without delay you first use one hand to begin stroking him, then add the other hand, feeling your knees become quickly painful from kneeling because the thin carpet is not cushioning the hardness of stone underneath it.

“Good, keep going.” Master Cazador’s voice is a satisfied coo and your mouth contracts in yet another attempt to swallow, your nerves so taunt you feel like they might snap any moment, like a bow that has not been properly strung.

With your eyes focused on Lord’s length you see every little detail. The veins that snake around the shaft, the color that changes slightly near the smooth tip of his cock despite his undead state, the tip itself, velvety and soft when you pause to gently rub the pad of your finger against it until a drop of precum escapes it. You swiftly lean in and swipe at it with your tongue, knowing already that Master Cazador doesn’t like messes, even his own.

“Such a well behaving child you can be.” He expresses the closest thing to a compliment he ever bestowed upon you and you relax just a little bit. Maybe not all is lost tonight, maybe you still can please your Master and make him spare the cruelties he could have in his mind that are meant only for you. Maybe, if you try hard enough, if you obey quick enough, all you will have to do tonight is pay attention and submit, which you have already been trained to do well enough, like a dog beaten into obedience until it knows nothing else.

You proceed to stroke his length, knowing from experience what pace and strength of your grip he exactly prefers and you consider yourself succeeding in this because another strike doesn’t come even after his approving comment. Your eyes wander over his cock, so close to your face, but you know that if he wants you to take it into your mouth – he will tell you so, or more likely grab your hair and force it deep into your throat without a warning, because if you gag or sputter then you give him another reason to make sure that you won’t do that again. Your eyes wander to his balls, sitting in the nest of his pants and underwear underneath it after you pulled his cock out, you see the smoothness of them, wondering if you should touch them, fondle them. Master Cazador does like that sometimes, but you’re too scared to take initiative, you are sure he will give you permission for that too if he feels in a mood.

“Stand up.” His voice is like a strike of thunder because you were distracted by your thoughts and you immediately stop your hands, then release his cock, seeing it waver without the support of your grip and then rest against his shirt.

When you stand up and look at him, you see a small pleased smile tug at the corners of his lips, his eyes showing actual satisfaction with your performance and you wish you could sigh with relief, but you stop yourself before you do, you stop before you even inhale. You won’t ruin this, the rare occasion when he’s willing to show patience with you, you don’t know when another such occasion will happen, if at all.

“Hm.” Master Cazador hums to himself as his gaze sweeps over your naked body then he finally moves one hand, you see a flash of red and silver of his family ring as it reflects the candlelight for a brief moment before he turns his palm up.

You watch the movement and stiffen, your mind reeling with million possible outcomes, most of them predicting pain, but no, Lord Cazador’s fingers simply graze over the mound of your pubis and then slip between your legs, two of them pressing against your folds and sliding up to your clit. You don’t react at first, too stunned by his sudden touch that is nothing but gentle. A soft touch, so rare, so precious, and your lips part to ask a question but thankfully you stop yourself before you do.

Master’s eyes narrow as he smiles wider, gloating at you while his fingers quite expertly begin to massage you, fingertips parting the folds to dip inside of you for a moment only to return to your clit and rub it. There’s silence between the both of you as he does this and you know he’s waiting for your body to respond to his ministrations, to give in to the sensation and leap at the smallest promise of pleasure instead of torture. You feel yourself drowning into the crimson sea of his eyes as you do begin to relax, your muscles losing their tautness, your jaw unclenching and your lungs expanding as you allow yourself to slowly inhale through your parted lips.

Your body gives in, you feel it succumbing to Master Cazador’s touch the next time he dips two fingers into you, deeper this time because you’re becoming wetter. When he pulls out his digits he smears your arousal on the outside of your folds and teases your clit again, gently flicking the underside of it and eliciting a smallest gasp, a suppressed half of a moan, out of you. He grins widely, showing you his teeth and his fangs as his eyes become burning gems, focused on your face only.

“You are here to accompany me tonight, child. You are to sit in my lap and not move until told so. You are to remain silent until told otherwise. Is that understood?” Master Cazador asks and you quickly nod as you try not to moan again because his fingers are still moving between your thighs with ease, your clit beginning to throb with need to be attended to with appropriate attention, something you do not expect to happen at all but crave for anyway. “Good girl.” he hums and even though you know better, even though you know how Cazador likes to toy with people, your chest still swells with yearning to hear his praises again, urging you to do everything you can within your limited power to make him speak the honeyed words again.

But before you can even begin hatching a plan of how to make this night a night of reward instead of punishment, Master pulls his fingers away from your body and raises them to your face. You immediately know what to do and lean over them, taking them into your mouth and obediently sucking on them, cleaning his digits from remnants of your body’s surrender. Master Cazador is still smiling as you do so, his eyes locked on yours and not shifting from them even for a second, then he moves his hand away and for a moment you make a smallest step to follow the journey of his fingers through the air with your tongue but stop yourself. A surprise chuckle escapes Vampire Lord’s lips and you look at him again, finding his expression relaxed and amused.

“Such an eager pup. I’m satisfied to see that the lessons are finally sticking. Maybe I will even reward you with privilege to reside in Favorite Spawn Room next month.” Master speaks as he wipes remnants of your saliva from his fingers onto the skin of your chest. His words - a promise so sweet to your ears that your stomach recoils from sudden anxiety and nerves gripping you.

A reward, an actual reward if you please him, a chance to sleep without other spawn wailing their laments every dawn and a bath, all for yourself. You know you have to keep a gentle touch on this fragile bird-like opportunity lest you release it by accident or crush it by yearning too strongly. You have to be careful and you cannot let this chance slip away from your grasp, because you have so little in this existence as is.

“Come now.” Master Cazador turns in his seat, fully facing his desk again and he pushes the chair he’s sitting on from it just enough to make space for you.

You lick your lips, still tasting remnants of your arousal on them and your eyes move over his form, watching him rest his arms on the armrests. Again you hurry to obey his command, even if this time it’s soft like a feather brushing against a bleeding wound. Throbbing in your face is gone entirely now and you forget the heavy hit as the promise of prize lures you with hope.

Slowly and carefully you begin to move your naked body. You step closer to your vampiric overlord, moving conscientiously as you place one knee on the edge of his chair and pause just for a second, your eyes finding his calm gaze while he waits for you to position yourself upon him. Your throat clamps on itself when you rise your hands and place them upon Master Cazador’s shoulders, allowing your fingers to clutch onto them through the soft fabric of his coat. You notice him rising an eyebrow at you in response and fear grips at you again. You quickly begin to worry that you’re taking too long, that another strike is coming, that his rage once more will etch itself into your body and flesh in form of bruises and lesions.

The terror of possibilities urges you and you pull yourself into his lap, feeling so stressed that you could throw up if your stomach was full the moment you come face to face with your Master. He lets out a small, irritated noise and you feel his palm on the small of your back, pushing your body against his.

“Take it in.” He says simply and you can’t help but pause, trying to understand what he wants from you, what is this command exactly, while you settle into a straddling position upon his seated form.

Then it dawns on you.

Your lips part with a tremble and Master Cazador grins.

“Hurry up, girl. I don’t have all night to wait for your meager thinking capabilities comprehend even the simplest of tasks.” The tone of his voice is slightly irate and your stressed nerves nearly scream with panic that threatens to overtake your senses.

Without any more delay you grab Master’s right shoulder with increased firmness and lift your hips so that you can use your other hand to grasp his still very much hard cock at the base before you bite your lower lip and guide it to your seeping cunt. The moment you nudge the tip of his length against yourself you have to stifle a moan, your starving for affection body and desperate for praise mind working against you in most excruciating way, making you crave for this in a twisted way, telling you that your Master can be kind, that he picked you because he appreciates you. All the lies that sound so sweet in your head right now, burying the reality underneath them.

When you begin sinking upon Master Cazador’s cock you let out a small whine, at which you feel his fingers twitch as they rest on the small of your back, but he says nothing, letting you proceed until his whole length is inside of you and you’re biting your lip so hard you’re nearly breaking the skin. Then you lift your eyes to his face once more and see his expression - serious, but calm.

“Keep yourself close to me and out of my way.” He orders and you immediately press your chest against his, wrapping your arms around his neck and squishing your mouth against his shoulder just in case your throat decides to compromise your chance at pleasing your Master. “A little closer.” Lord Cazador’s palm on your back pushes your hips closer to him, letting his cock bury itself even deeper and you move yourself over him until you finally feel his palm leave your skin.

You look over his shoulder at the curtains and the stained glass peaking from behind them, intricate lines and colors distracting you for a little while after your Master picks up the quill and begins scribbling again. At first you feel your cunt clench upon the bittersweet intrusion but as minutes tick away your body relaxes, making you think that this is going to be easy if this is all he wants from you tonight.

But you are not so blessed as you wish to be. Maybe fifteen or so minutes later, when the stained glass is not as interesting anymore as it was at first, your brain signals your muscles to move. You can barely stop yourself from doing just that and your eyes widen with shock that you allowed yourself to forget your situation. Your body shudders and in your embrace you feel Master Cazador tense for a moment, his quill falling quiet. He’s waiting for you to tremble again, he’s waiting for you to fail.

“Master-“

“Not a word from you, girl.” Your vampiric master immediately stops you with a tone that’s near as punishing as a whip on your flesh and you wrap your arms around him tighter, trying not only to stop yourself from speaking but from shivering as well.

The sound of a quill on parchment resumes and you close your eyes for a second, trying to soothe your nervousness, but then your eyelids snap open when you feel Master Cazador’s left hand moving, leaving the armrest it is on, and land on your naked thigh. His grip is firm as he squeezes your flesh, his nails digging into your skin and breaking it, but he only does it to adjust you upon his lap. Despite you clinging to him you have started slipping off it seems, or maybe he just decided that he wanted you positioned slightly different. He adjusts your body, your hips moving and making you grind against him ever so briefly, your clit pressing against a bunched-up end of his belt under the shirt and you clench your jaw because you find pleasure in it.

You can feel your cunt squeezing Master Cazador’s cock and you shut your eyes, pressing your eyelids hard and waiting for another correctional command or maybe another brutal grip on your leg, but as seconds pass nothing happens. If anything, Master’s grip on your thigh relents but stays there comfortably like a touch of a beloved partner.

Yet when you open your eyes again you realize that you cannot distract yourself anymore. Neither the curtains or the windows can draw your attention and nothing else exists in your narrow field of view, worthy of even a glance.

Instead you sense Master Cazador’s hair against your left cheek, you feel his body against yours suddenly making you realize that he’s simulating breathing just like you. Chest to chest like this with him, snuggly close as if you are entombed in a single coffin, you again are barely in time to stop yourself from moving, your body instinctively demanding that you ride his cock, grind it deep inside your cunt, stimulate the spots that are begging for attention.

No, you can’t allow yourself that, your instructions have been clear and you know all too well that this relatively pleasant task can turn into a brutal lecture about failures of your very nature. Some of the past ones still sting despite having healed without a trace. Now with desperation you try to think of something else, your mind wandering to his resting touch on your thigh and a pain that already faded from when his sharp nails dug into your skin. You try to think of what he must be writing, why he wanted you here, in this position, you try to think of nothing else but questions you will never be permitted to ask, but Master’s cock twitches inside of you and all the feeble attempts to keep yourself focused crumble down immediately.

Your muscles begin tensing again and this time you cannot relax even if you shout at yourself inside your skull. The strain you are starting to feel would send your heart racing from panic if it still beat in your chest. But instead you just try to remain as still as possible, your eyes widening as you begin feeling an approaching shudder and know with cruel clarity that you won’t be able to stop yourself this time.

Then it comes, the shiver that starts at your hips and runs up your spine like a tickle of a mischievous tongue, trying to get you in trouble. As it reaches the back of your neck you can’t help but throw your head back, your lips parted and ready to let out a moan that’s been stuck in the back of your throat since your Master shushed you last, and your cunt rubs against his belt, stimulating your clit again ever so briefly but so deliciously.

You can’t stop it.

You can’t help it.

“Be still, idiot!” Master Cazador’s words cut suddenly and sharply, making you immediately freeze before any sound leaves your mouth and you turn your head just enough to see his profile, so near for the first time ever. He never let you get this close before.

So for a short moment you let your eyes study the side of your Master’s face. You examine his dark furrowed brow that peaks with a sharp angle near the end; his vermillion eyes with a ring of deep brown around the iris which never stops glowing as he keeps spawn like you in his thrall; creases around his eyes telling you about the life he lived before he was turned into a vampire himself; the imperfections and spots on his skin make you wonder who he was before he became a Master but at the same time, in your eyes, they also make him look more like the elven man of his ghostly past than a sadistic Vampire Lord of your present; you closely see his nose that has a gentle curve in the middle and yet it still doesn’t make his features look any softer, on a contrary – it emphasizes the angles of his face; finally your gaze lands on the bend of his upper lip, resting calmly against his bottom one, making you realize just how alluring his lips must be when he’s feigning honesty and flirtation.

You only notice you’re taking too long staring at Master Cazador’s face when his jaw moves, briefly pushing his strongly round chin forward for a moment, and you swiftly burry your own face into the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Master.” You murmur against the fabric of his coat.

SLAM.

You near jump in Master’s lap when he slams something against the desk.

“Get off!” Lord Cazador commands with anger in his voice and you can’t stop your entire soul from shrinking within you. You failed.

Youfailedyoufailedyoufailed.

Too terrified to upset him even further you lift your hips, releasing his cock from your body with a wet sound, making you chew on your bottom lip as you proceed to move off of him and find your footing before you let go of his shoulders. There’s not much space between your Master in his chair and the desk, so you hurriedly try to move away, scuttling away like a pest that’s about to be squashed if it’s not fast enough, but before you move even one step Cazador grabs your left wrist with such force you feel your bones grind against each other.

With a wince and horrified eyes you look at him, being near his face level even though he’s sitting, his imposing figure not letting you forget about it even now, and you see rage in Master Cazador’s eyes as his nails dig into your wrist, drawing blood just like they did with your thigh earlier.

Wordlessly he stands up, pushing his chair across the carpet behind him and you near whimper when he suddenly is towering over your naked form. You want to shrink, to disappear, to become just one of the specks in the stone that’s under the carpet at your feet. Suddenly he releases your wrist and smirks, the expression cold and cruel. Master raises his finger and points.

“Turn around and bend over.” Despite his explosive anger just seconds ago, Lord Cazador’s voice is level again and you obey without delay.

When you turn around you see the parchment, quill and inkwell he was using until now. The quill is broken and the inkwell has tipped and spilled over the parchment, probably when he slammed his fist against the top of the desk, and you shrink at the thought that your little mistake cost him a whole letter. From quickly catching the amount of words written on it, you realize he was writing the same thing the entire time. You fear the punishment that you are sure you will receive because of this.

Yet you have no other choice but to bend over the desk. You try not to press yourself against the spilled ink, carefully placing your palms on the desk away from the puddle, but your nipples threaten to dip into cold liquid if you lean down any lower.

Your attempt is wasted anyway as Master Cazador suddenly digs the heel of his right palm between your shoulder-blades and forces you to lie flat on the desk. You gasp, partially from pain and partially from the wet, uncomfortable feeling of ink immediately coating your skin, but you make no sound.

“As you can see, idiot girl, you caused me to ruin my letter.” Lord Cazador says behind you, his palm leaving your back because he knows you will remain as he put you no matter what. Disobedience is the first thing he beats out of every new spawn, after all. “At first I just wanted to teach you a lesson in patience. Which you failed like a mongrel bitch you are.” A sound of a slap followed by a sharp sting makes you wince when Master Cazador’s palm connects with your rear. “I keep trying to teach you all the important things, to make you better than what you are and how do you repay me?” Another slap and you whimper as tears gather in your eyes. His hits are hard but you are just relieved he’s not using his left hand for them, where the Szarr family ring rests on his fourth digit, because you know the platinum of it would split your skin faster than his strikes. “But it is clear to me now that without my constant corrections you are still less than nothing.” And another hit connects, making you cry out this time and you feel your skin not withstanding this attack, it begins oozing blood that you quickly notice dripping down your skin.

“I’m sorry, Master!” You respond because you can’t keep silent any longer. Sobs choke you when you try to speak but you get the words out anyway as your tears erupt onto the desk surface where the side of your face is pressed.

“Yes, I know you are sorry, but have you learned anything? I very much doubt that.” Yet another sharp hit, this time even more painful as your blood makes his palm connect to your flesh much stronger, the impact of his strike making your knees buckle and you scramble to grab the front edge of his desk before you crumple to the floor, because you know that you will be punished even harder if you don’t remain as he propped you up.

“I’ll do better, Master! I promise!” You can’t stop yourself from openly sobbing as you plead for mercy and you expect another hit, another pain that raises from your backside to the very roots of your teeth, but nothing comes.

Instead of another correction in pain you feel Master’s fingers trace ever so gently over the spot he hit, smearing his fingertips in your blood.

“Hm. You always promise.” He muses and his touch leaves your skin but when you strain to listen you hear the softest sound of his tongue against fingers as he tastes your blood on them. A heavy silence falls while you try to stop your sobbing, forcefully ceasing your breathing to prevent your throat from contracting until Master Cazador confers his ultimate mercy: “Fine then. I will forgive you this one time. You are trying, this much even I can see among all your failures.”

Immediately you sigh with relief and your body relaxes upon the top of the desk but then your eyes widen as you feel something against the burning flesh that sustained considerable abuse even from as little as his palm striking it. Something soft but firm rubs against it until you realize that Master is coating his hard cock in your seeping blood. You bite the inside of your lip and try to remain quiet as pain radiates at every stronger nudge and sigh when you feel it retreat. Whatever warped satisfaction he got from that – it still felt like a caress compared to how he touched you just moments ago, with force and brutality.

“Tell me you’re sorry again, child.” Master Cazador demands and you obey.

“I’m very sorry, Master. I will do better. I’m deeply sorry for my mistake.” Words spill out of your mouth faster than you can string them together in your mind but you don’t care if it allows you avoid the pain.

“Do you think you still need to be reminded of your teachings?”

You pause now and not only because you hear sinister gloating in Lord Cazador’s voice, but because you thought he has forgiven you, he even said so, so why…

“Y-yes, Master. Please remind me.” You hear yourself say, your words coming out with ease of a childhood prayer.

“Good girl. I do have such high hopes for you.” Master’s grin is evident from his tone and you immediately grit your teeth as you feel his length press against your hole, making you understand why exactly he was coating it in your blood. Sickeningly twisted but you just close your eyes and accept it. “Your instructions were clear and they remain. Do not move.” Last command before Cazador begins pushing his cock into you against the resistance of your body. He has used your body in variety of ways before, even this one, so the sensation of being filled like this is not new and it’s somewhat easier to bear when your blood eases the invasion.

“Yes, Master, I won’t move, Master!” You hear yourself babbling before you cut yourself off with a moan as he thrusts himself deeper and the side of his hip presses painfully against your right buttock, the one that you suspect is still bleeding. Yet the cold touch of his skin against yours that is achingly painful feels soothing, almost comforting.

“I expect you not to.” Master Cazador’s tone is irritated but that doesn’t matter because you feel his strong hands grip your hips like a vice, his thumbs press into the small of your back and then he begins thrusting.

You squeeze the edge of the desk again as he begins to fuck your ass, right from the start his pumps are hard and unrelenting, showing no mercy either to your hole or your sore flesh that he keeps slamming his body against, making you wince and moan consecutively.

“If I didn’t know any better I would think the only lessons you truly remember are the ones taught with my cock.” Lord Cazador grunts as he rams into you again and again, it’s like he’s trying to get back at you for ruining his letter, for making him angry, for failing him yet again.

“No, Master, it’s not-“

“Only sound I want to hear from you are your cries.” He snaps at you and you swallow your words before they threaten to emerge again. Instead you let your voice punctuate his every thrust with a loud cry.

Pleasure is quickly becoming bigger than the pain but that’s not enough, you want more. Forgetting yourself, forgetting your Master’s rages and disciplines, you release the grip on the edge of the desk with one hand and begin to move it, twisting it and maneuvering it as you try to avoid touching items on the desk even though it’s hard, with your eyes heavy lidded from increasing physical gratification that your body is granted. Then you hear a mocking chuckle.

“I see what you are trying to do, you greedy little pup.” Master berates you while you keep moving your hand unless you’re told to stop, you take the risk despite having perfect knowledge of what will happen if his mood suddenly shifts. “Very well then, touch your harlot cunt, you slattern.” Cazador’s words do not relent as he keeps fucking you, granting you yet another mercy that he hasn’t before.

For a moment you even think it’s a trap, to test your resolve even in this situation, but again you take the risk and let your slender fingers slide to your side, over the bend of your hip and between your parted legs, finding your soaking folds and you finger them for a moment before you are permitted a second of stillness to focus on your throbbing clit.

“Yes, touch yourself and let me hear you, let me hear how your Master is merciful to you, child.” Lord Cazador speaks in strained words and you know you are running out of time before he spills himself inside of you.

He won’t wait for your pleasure, of that you are absolutely sure, so you frantically move your fingers over your clit, moaning loudly and frequently as his cock in your ass makes your body shiver and tense. You rub and circle, massage and stimulate, until the heat begins to spread all over your body. You can’t deny it – it rarely feels this heavenly when Master lays his hands on you, so you allow yourself to indulge in this pleasure to the fullest. You deserve it, you need it. Were you not good to him? Have you not tried with all that you have?

Suddenly you realize that you hear your Master’s voice, strained and barely above a mumble and you glance over your shoulder at his face, seeing sweat on his face and his eyes on his cock as it impales you again and again in increasingly erratic rhythm. His lips are parted and he’s speaking to himself, language you don’t recognize, language that you guess might be Kozakuran but you have no way to be sure and it doesn’t matter either way. Master is pleased and when Master is pleased then you don’t suffer.

You close your eyes and let the sensations engulf you. Your fingers are beginning to get tired from the straining angle you have your hand positioned at, but you don’t want to stop, you’re so close. Suddenly, with a groan and a fierce grip on your hips with sharp nails digging deep into your flesh Master Cazador comes, his few final thrusts having so much power behind them that you hear his desk scrape against the stone floor as it moves. As he spills inside of you, just as you expected him to, you rush few more rubs of your fingers against your clit before you climax with a cry and a shudder of your whole body. You move your fingers as your orgasm rips through you, clenching around Cazador’s cock and making him spend every last drop of his cum inside your hole before his thrusts finally stop.

As Master stops you stop too, letting your arm drop limply while your other hand remains desperately grasping onto the desk so that your knees don’t betray you once again. You pant heavily, letting yourself a precious moment to enjoy the aftermath of your bliss but serenity doesn’t last.

Not before long you feel Master Cazador grunt again and pull out of you, then his nails slide out of your flesh and you hear him stepping back. You’re about to gather yourself up from the top of his desk, but you feel his hand grip your left buttock and pull it to the side as if he’s inspecting just how well he filled you. And well he did indeed fill you because you feel moisture beginning to seep out of your hole downwards, dripping over your soaked folds.

“Hm.” Is the only thing you hear and then he releases you. “Get up.” Lord Cazador commands and with shaky muscles you begin picking yourself up from the desk.

As you push yourself up you find your footing, then you slowly lift yourself on your palms, seeing front of your body completely painted in black ink. Yet this is not a reason for you to do anything else than obey his order and you finally straighten your back and turn to face him. It looks like while you were doing all of that, Master already made himself presentable with his clothes fully in order as if nothing happened.

His cold eyes sweep over your body, noticing sweat, blood and ink mixing on your clammy skin and he raises an eyebrow before his gaze meets your still cloudy one.

“Go clean yourself up. You disgust me.” He snarls and you bow your head, then in silence step away from Lord Cazador’s desk when he moves to the side, permitting your exit.

With your feet shaky and unstable, you almost forget to gather your folded clothes, and you sneak a glance back at your Master, noticing his mildly approving look that you remembered this detail, then his attention turns to his ink-covered desk.

“Go to Dufay. Tell him to come here immediately, girl.” His voice is calm and not even a hint in it of what just happened.

“Yes, Master.” You respond and turn, walking to the door as quickly as you can, knowing that your presence is no longer needed or desired.

As you open the door and slip outside, you turn back to close it and at the end of the corridor, the one that made you feel much like marching towards the gallows just earlier when you arrived, you see your Master picking something off his desk, casually inspecting it, then tossing it aside, seemingly not a care in the world.

You sigh and close the door carefully, trying to be quiet, not unlike a mouse hiding from a predatory cat. Among all the cruelties that Master Cazador has and will do to you whenever he desires – at least this night was the best you had in his usually unwelcome company so far.

A small hope begins to bloom in your dead heart. A hope that you know you shouldn’t let grow, one that you know you should immediately snuff out like the last ember in the firepit. And yet it grows with each step you take across the ballroom towards the massive metal door.

Maybe this night is a sign of possible better future under Master’s boot that is pressing onto your neck for every moment ever since he turned you. Maybe if you obey well enough, just like you did tonight, he won’t punish you as harshly or torture you so sadistically.

Hope.

Before he snatches it away.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #reader insert #cazador szarr #cazador szarr x reader #female reader #x reader #cazador szarr smut #cazador szarr x female reader #cazador fic #my fics

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mjrtaurus · 1 month ago

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Thanks for reminding me how much I love Dadan!! Here’s how I imagine her Monkey D Adoption

Dadan was sure she had gotten kidnapped.

Kidnapping, as she would put it, is just people stealing. Her parents would do regular stealing all the time! Yes they got caught and hightailed it out of the East Blue but it wasn’t their fault! It was all that stupid Vice-Admiral! He’s the reason she’s been chased out of every establishment in Goa! He’s the reason she’s living out in the forest! He’s the reason she’s…alone now.

She had been at the market when Dadan heard the most agitating grating voice.

“It’s you! Forest girl! You’re not in the forest today!”

While obviously incredibly annoying, Dragon was, objectively, not the worst kid to run into. Dadan had apparently scared away some bullies of his once. They had been too loud with their jeering and had interrupted her nap! That’s all! She didn’t even know he was there! But ever since Dragon made it a point to seek her out and ask her to play or come hang out at his house, like she wanted to do either of those things!

“How come you’re not in the forest today, Forest Girl?”

“There’s not much to hunt so I came to relieve the market of some bread.”

“Stealing isn’t right, Forest Girl!”

“Well you could come over to my place for lunch! My mama makes the best bocaditos in the world! I’m sure you’d like it!”

“Yeah that’s exactly what I was thinking, how’d you know?! I’ve just been dying to have lunch at your house!”

Dragon seemed to have gained a little sense in her presence because he scurried off after that. Good! Now she could focus on distracting the baker long enough to pilfer some bread rolls.

Unfortunately that brat returned and to make matters worse, he brought his mother with him. Ugh, not only was this kid annoying but he was a snitch too!

Dadan didn't trust any adult as far as she could throw them, this ‘Mama’ was no exception not even when she bent down to meet eye to eye.

“Hello there little one. You must be the famous Forest Girl Dragon's told me so very much about.”

Dadan didn’t bother heeding the woman out, too transfixed by her shining earrings. Were those real gold?! If she managed to swipe them, she’d have it made!

She snapped out of her daydreams to the sound of a literal snap, the woman had removed a tree branch from her hair. She quickly stumbled back, grabbing at her tangled tangerine locks with one hand and smoothing out her tattered mud stained dress with the other. Screw this lady, with her weird watchful eyes, maybe Dadan liked that stick!

The next thing she knew she was being walked to her current fate. Past a field of lettuce and pumpkins, weaving through a small sectioned off area full of wild Den Den Mushi snails, she was lost throughout it all. The woman (who told Dadan to call her Mrs Urpi, pfft yeah right!) had given her a bubble bath that smelled like citrus and sunflowers. She had washed and brushed Dadan's hair so gently that she impulsively screamed that she wasn’t glass damnit! She was a tough as nails bandit! The older woman had just chuckled and agreed but added that even the toughest of people deserved a little care. Dadan just sunk herself a little lower into the soapy water, face flushed but only because how warm it was in that bathroom! She was NOT getting soft for a potential mark!

And yet a short while later there she was, preening like a peacock in front of a mirror. The dirt that seemed like it would be permanently attached to underside of her fingernails? Gone! Her mud soaked feet? Scrubbed, lotioned and put into the cutest pair of frilly socks and Mary Jane’s she’s ever seen! She even had a brand new dress and scrunchie to match! She felt like a princess! Nothing could possibly ruin this moment-

“Forest Girl, it’s time to set the table.”

“MY NAME ISN'T FOREST GIRL YOU SHIDIOT, IT'S DADAN!”

“Oh, okay then. Dadan it’s time to set the table.”

She’d play along with these fools for now, she’ll set the table, eat this so-called out of this world food, and when night came she’d rob em blind! She felt the oddest twisting of her gut at the thought of how devastated they’d be…but serves them right! It’s their own fault for letting a notorious bandit such as herself into their home. What would her parents think if she let them off the hook? No, she couldn’t let them down! She’d prove how good of a bandit she was and then they’d come back!

Dadan caught her reflection in the mirror and nodded, all she had to do now was wait.

And wait she did. Waited and waited and waited… years went by. It just never felt like a good time to go for it, that’s all. She would just have to put up with the Mrs. Urpi and her blockhead kid for little while longer.

Honestly there was no wonder that Dragon punk got bullied… he was weird! He always looked angry but never acted like it! Never looked her in the face when they were talking! His friends were all snails! He had wings! He didn’t like oranges because peeling them made his hands feel weird! He was weird!

But he was nice, and those other kids were being mean to him for no reason! So now she’s stuck with him and his too nice mom, she guesses.

#Dadan is best big sister confirmed #one piece #monkey d family #monkey d dragon #curly dadan #taurus answers

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ave09 · 1 year ago

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Ooh may I please request a cute romance fic of Han Solo falling in love with and marrying fem!Reader (princess of her planet) who is really sweet and patient and kind yet has anxiety so Han becomes a better person through loving her and helping her (I just want aaaaaaall the cuteness)?

yessss i love this!!

princess

han solo x princess!reader

note: the things this gif does to me.

“it’s a pleasure to meet you, captain solo, i’ve heard much about you.”

“good things i hope,” han replied with a short laugh, “and please, han is fine.” you smiled, pleased with the man standing before you.

he was far different from what you imagined.

when leia organa was contacted by your advisor in search of protection, this was the last person you believed she’d send.

despite the empire being gone, you, who had been crowned the princess of mogrouria, had fallen victim to many assassination attempts. these enemies believed you to be a weak ruler, which you were the complete opposite. but you understood why.

you were young, new to the throne, people constantly underestimated you.

which is why your advisor reached out to leia. she was a strong leader, similar to you, and considering she’d led the rebels who’d destroyed the empire, surely she knew someone who could be worthy of protecting you.

which is why you were surprised when han solo arrived in the legendary millennium falcon. many had heard of the general who’d helped the rebellion, but you’d known of him before that.

who else could make the kessel run in twelve parsecs?

“well, han, welcome to mogrouria, would you care to walk with me?” you asked. the man nodded, turning to his wookie friend who’d accompanied him, “stay with the ship, alright?” the wookie growler softly in response.

you took the pilot to the large gardens, where you could talk somewhat privately. “so, i’m sure you know why you’re here.” han nodded, “my mission is to protect you, princess.”

“i’m very grateful you are here. the assassination attempts are getting worse and worse.” you said calmly, but the man took notice of your slightly shaking hands and the way you were picking at your fingernails.

he decided to press a little bit, “if you don’t mind my asking, what sort of attempts?”

you bit your lip nervously, “um. it ranges from a lot of things. it all started with an attack at my coronation ball. one of the servants was hired by someone still loyal to the empire, pulled out a blaster, taking two casualties… and they just worsened from there..” you stopped walking, sighing deeply.

“so many lives have been lost, han. i just want the suffering to stop.”

the man dared to reach forward, placing a comforting hand upon your shoulder, “i’ll do everything i can, princess. you and your kingdom will remain safe.”

he sounded sincere. and if leia trusted him with you and the safety of the kingdom, then so did you.

— — — —

since the day you were born, your entire life had been planned out for you. the only wrench thrown into the life plan was the passing of your father, which had driven your mother to absolute insanity, leaving you to take the up the throne three years ahead of schedule.

but one thing you absolutely didn’t plan on was falling for the man who was sent to protect you.

han solo was unlike anyone you’d ever met before. he was charming, charismatic, stubborn beyond compare. but you’d also seen the kinder side of the man, something he seemed to rarely show.

but he showed you. constantly throughout his actions. and that was enough to make your heart yearn for him.

if only you knew how hard he was falling for you.

“so princess, what’s the plan for the day?” han asked as he strolled into the dining hall. you reached for your mug filled with caf, lifting it to your lips, sipping the drink before speaking, “well, i have to give my speech today.” you said as han slid into the seat beside you.

“fun. can i hear it?”

you shook your head, “absolutely not!” the man frowned slightly, “and why not?”

“because i said so.” you replied. “i suppose i must listen to the princess.” he said, reaching for a biscuit, “are you nervous?” he asked softly, seeming genuinely concerned. you shifted slightly in your seat, your hands falling into your lap as you began to pick at the fingernails of your trembling hands.

“a little bit.” you answered honestly. this was the first time since your coronation that you’d actually be stepping out amongst your people. and you had to fight to be allowed to make this speech, your advisor had explained that this could be fairly dangerous, but you needed to be out there.

your people were becoming restless, they wanted justice for all those who’s lives had been lost.

han glanced at her, catching sight of your shaking hands. slowly, he reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze, “you’re gonna be great out there, princess.” he said softly, to which you smiled.

you then took this moment to tell him something that you’d been wanting to for a while now.

“han, i want you to stand beside me.” he stared for a moment, blinking slowly, “you what?”

“i want you and chewie to stand beside me today.”

“is that because we’re your protection? or..” you shook your head, “not only that.” han arched his brows, “oh really? well sweetheart, don’t leave me in suspense.” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, his hand not leaving yours.

you bit your lip nervously before clearing your throat, “you both mean so very much to me, i’d feel very comfortable with you up there by my side.”

the corner of han’s lips quirked lightly into a smile, “aw, you’re makin’ me blush.” you let out a laugh, “so will you?”

he nodded, “i’d be honored.”

— — — —

your nerves were off the charts. never had you been so nervous in your entire life.

but you were a princess now, not that shy little girl. you had a job to do. as you approached the podium, you could hear mumbling amongst the crowd.

they didn’t seem happy.

you reached the podium, exhaling deeply. “greetings my subjects. i have come to you today to discuss the matter of these attacks-“

“oh to hell with you!”

you were taken aback by the outburst. you hadn’t even made it past the opening and yet people were already angry.

“you are up there parading around in your palace while we are out here dying!” you bit your lip nervously, glancing over at han who stood a foot or so away. he gave you a reassuring nod. so you tried to continue.

“i understand your frustrations, i do. but i am here today to tell you-“

“we don’t wanna hear it! you’re a shitty princess! were we under queen charlotte, we’d never have to deal with this!”

“people are dying! our people, and you do nothing!”

“when will justice be served?!”

“our children are dead and yet you dine in your palace!”

it was all becoming far too much. your heart was pounding rapidly, your chest tight. you feel as though you couldn’t breath.

so you ran. as far away as possible.

gasps echoed through the crowd but you did not stop.

han immediately broke into a sprint, rushing after you. “princess!” he didn’t know where you were now. “princess!” he shouted again.

he turned the corner, and then he found you curled into a ball, head buried into your hands. he dropped to his knees, “hey, hey, what’s going on?”

“i-i can’t breathe.” you muttered, voice strained. han didn’t really know what to do now. “uh.. okay.. okay..”

“i think i’m having a panic attack.” you whispered. ah, this made sense. you’d been nervous, and this whole ordeal obviously has shaken you.

“oh-okay. uh. just-“ han was never good at comforting anyone, nonetheless helping someone through a panic attack.

“what.. what can i do? how can i help?” he questioned, his voice soft. you glanced up at him, eyes bleary with tears, “hold me.” is all you said.

and he did. he inched closer to you, carefully wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. he took a large hand and ran it down your back soothingly. “breath in ‘n out..” he didn’t know if this was even helping you, but he was trying.

the two of you stayed that way for a long time. and slowly but surely, you began to feel a little bit better. your heart rate slowed, your breathing returned to normal.

you sniffled, glancing up at the man with bloodshot eyes, “don’t leave me, han. please-“ your voice cracked slightly, “please don’t leave me.” you begged.

han smiled softly, leaning in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, “i’m not going anywhere princess.”

— — — —

you stood on the balcony of your chambers, overlooking your kingdom that was in shambles. how had things come to this?

there was a loud knock that echoed throughout the room. “door’s open!” you called.

the door was pushed open to reveal han. you smiled at the sight. “hello captain.” “hey princess.” he greeted, walking towards you, his hazel eyes peering over the edge of the balcony. “this is one hell of a view ya got here.” you nodded, “yeah, it’s nice.” you glanced up at him, “what are you doing here han?”

“i wanted to see you. see how you’re doing.” your smile grew a little larger, “i’m alright, han.” the man took a step closer to you, “y’know, none of what those people said was true. you’re doing an amazing job.” you averted his gaze, “but they’re right. i could be doing more. and i’m trying, i really am-“

“sweetheart,” he placed his large hand over yours, “you’re doing great. okay? who gives a shit what other people say? you are doing great, you understand? your leadership could be compared to that of leia organa, you are a phenomenal princess, and i am happy to serve you.”

your eyes glossed over with tears, and before you could even stop yourself, “i love you.”

han furrowed his brows, hazel eyes wide, “huh?”

you wished to take it back, but at the same time, you didn’t. and yet, you found yourself saying it again, “i love you, han solo.” you watched nervously as the man’s lips quirked into a smile. “yeah?”

you nodded, biting your lip, “yeah.”

he took another step towards you, “funny..” he began, leaning down slightly, “i love you too, princess.” he dipped his head, smashing his lips against yours. it caught you by surprise but you responded with a deeper passionate kiss. there were fireworks, everything anyone had ever said about kissing the love of your life was true.

after a moment, you pulled away, taking a moment to admire the man before you, who had a grin on his lips. “never thought i’d fall for a princess.”

“and i never thought i’d fall for a scoundrel.”

#han solo #harrison ford x reader #young harrison ford #harrison ford #harrison ford movies #star wars #han solo x reader #indiana jones x reader #indiana jones #indiana jones and the temple of doom #empire strikes back #a new hope #return of the jedi #han x reader #han solo fanfic

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healeroflightanddark · 10 months ago

Text

Bonds of the Soul, Chapter 1: Defused

Yuya closed his eyes again and winced for what must have been the millionth time that day. His head was pounding in his head, and the slightest sound grated on his eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. Unfortunately for him, he was at school so he was unable to avoid the noise.

Yuto was trying to help Yuya in any way he could, but short of swapping places with him there was really nothing he could do. And Yuya wouldn’t let him swap places with him right now. He didn’t want any of his counterparts to suffer the way he was.

But his head was hurting so badly right now! He could hardly make out what his teacher was saying, and Yuri and Yugo were only making things worse by fighting in Yuya’s head.

“How do you know it’ll work?” Yugo demanded. “We’ve never done something like that before! I bet you’re just making stuff up!”

“Careful, you’re making Yuya’s head hurt worse!” Yuri said with a smirk. “Not that I don’t find his pain amusing!”

“Stop it both of you!” Yuto ordered, gently placing a ghostly hand on Yuya’s forehead in an attempt to comfort him.

Suddenly, the teacher noticed that Yuya wasn’t paying attention. Again. He threw a piece of chalk at the tomato-haired boy. Said tomato-haired boy didn’t even notice as the chalk hit him in the head through Yuto’s hand.

“Pay attention, Sakaki!” the teacher snapped. Yuya winced in pain at the wretched noise on his poor ears. The pain was starting to make him nauseous.

It was then that the teacher noticed that Yuya’s face was very pale. Suddenly it occurred to him that the boy may be sick. “Sakaki, are you feeling alright?” he asked.

“I-I… I—” Yuya couldn’t even muster a response. Then the pain in his head spiked so high that he passed out, his head hitting his desk with a painful sounding THUNK!

“Sakaki?” the teacher started towards Yuya, but then something very strange started happening. Yuya’s body started glowing and blurring a bit. Before anyone could react, his body seemed to split into four.

Yuto, Yuri, and Yugo now stood in completely visible and solid bodies around the still unconscious Yuya. Yuto immediately focused his attention on the passed out tomato, while Yuri and Yugo continued their fight.

“See? I told you it would work!” Yuri said smugly.

“You didn’t say it would hurt him!” Yugo yelled.

“He’ll be fiiiiine,” Yuri rolled his eyes.

“How do you know?” Yugo screeched.

“He better be fine,” Yuto said, glaring at Yuri. “If he’s permanently damaged—”

“Aw, look at you getting all protective of him!~” Yuri cooed. “It’s almost cute!~”

The rest of the class was just staring in silent shock. Sure, pretty much everyone in the city had heard that Yuya had absorbed three different versions of himself that had been living in his head, but not many of them had actually believed it! But now his three counterparts had clearly defused from him, leaving Yuya unconscious.

Yuto turned to the teacher, who was staring with wide eyes and his mouth agape. “Sorry about that… We don’t know how long Yuya will be unconscious. I think it may be best if we take him home.”

“A-ah–ahuh—” the teacher couldn’t form any words as he nodded dumbly. Yuto turned back to Yuya and gently picked him up bridal style, holding him close to his chest. He started carrying Yuya towards the door as Yugo ran to open it and Yuri, after a moment’s consideration, grabbed Yuya’s belongings and followed.

They walked through the halls to the locker room in the front entrance of the school where the students stored their shoes. Yuto stopped in front of Yuya’s locker and frowned.

“One of you open his locker so we can change his shoes,” he said.

Yugo studied the combination lock. “Um, what’s his combination again…?”

“1-18-3-5,” Yuri recited boredly, examining his fingernails like the whole situation was beneath him.

Yugo put in the combination, making a sound of triumph when the lock clicked open. He opened the locker and pulled out Yuya’s street shoes. Yuto carefully sat down and took Yuya’s school shoes off, exchanging them for the street shoes. Yugo put the school shoes in the locker and locked it back up, and then the counterparts started on their way to Yuya’s house.

As they walked, the people they passed all did doubletakes and stared at them. Nobody knew what to make of the four counterparts. A few people even started to take photos, at least until Yuto gave them a very scary death glare.

About halfway to Yuya’s house, Yugo suddenly asked, “So, uh, how are we going to explain this to Yuya’s parents, exactly?”

Yuto sighed. “We’ll just tell them what we know, and hope they understand. They seem like nice people. They definitely love Yuya.”

Yuri smirked, imagining the look on Yusho’s face when he saw them. Oh boy, he couldn’t wait!

#cross posted on ao3 #cross posted on quotev #cross posted on wattpad #yugioh arc v #yugo #yuri #yuto #yuya sakaki #dimensionshipping #post canon

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brashzine · 11 months ago

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My college essay

My name is Lola Ray Battenfeld. I was born in the Portsmouth Naval Hospital, VA, on October 31st, 2004. I am the oldest daughter, and my sister is 2 years younger. My father was born in 1982, and my mother was born in 1983. For most of my childhood, I lived in Ocean View, VA. My great-grandparents on my father's mother's side were immigrants from Ireland. My mother's father lived and passed in Berlin, Germany. My grandfather was there when the Berlin Wall was torn down. I have chunks of the wall in my attic. So, I am very Irish and very German. My family, for better and for worse, made me the person I am today. My name, Lola, in German, is short for the word Aloisia, meaning "Sorrows." I was named after the 1998 experimental German film "Run Lola Run," Which is about the profound impact that small, spontaneous decisions can have on life. Being named after this movie was a harbinger of events in my life. My earliest memory is being in my childhood home's backyard and watching my dog, Blue, jump feet into the air to maul birds flying into the tree hanging over our fence. Not long, the birds decided to defend their nests and start attacking Blue. I watched in wonder until my father finally noticed what he was doing and ran out with a shovel to swat the birds away; the whole time, Blue had one in his mouth. It was pure Absurdity. My favorite author, Albert Camus, defined the absurd as the futility of a search for meaning in an incomprehensible universe devoid of God or meaning. Absurdism arises from the tension between our desire for order, meaning, and happiness and, on the other hand, the indifferent natural universe's refusal to provide that. I think about this philosophy when I ponder my childhood. Growing up in Ocean View was a mixed bag. On the one hand, it is a colossal suburb, and the Bay is within walking distance; on the other hand, it is devoid of community. Most people there are working-class people with more significant issues than what their kids are getting into. This is unfortunate, but it also makes me incredibly grateful that my mother was invested in ensuring I had all the skills I needed to make it in the real world. My mother was my entire world in a wrong and reasonable way. She was bipolar and unmedicated until I was 13. People with that disorder often have "favorite persons," which means their entire mood is sometimes dependent on that favorite person's mood. I was her everything, but I was also a child who could not regulate or even understand their emotions like an adult could. This led to a lot of abuse. It also made me an incredibly empathetic and understanding person. My relationship with my mother got better after I was 13, and every day, I wish I could relive those good memories; sometimes, I miss her so much; I miss her yelling at me. She passed my first year of high school. It was sudden, an accident, Absurdity. After my mom passed, I decided I wanted a family and that I wanted to be a teacher. I want to love my children and for them to love me, too. Motherhood is something you can only understand when you lack it. It gave my mother purpose. Now that I am older, I know why my mother was like that: the pressure on her shoulders, the pain that was built into her and ricocheted into me. Sometimes, I have been regressing into more immature behaviors as the years have passed. Missing the girl that was so wise and controlled for her age. Then I remembered where I was living and what I was living through, which never allowed me the chance to approach and experience my life as a teenage girl. I was forced to expedite my maturity to be able to survive peacefully. Now that I am older and more separated from that, building my own life, the teenage girl inside me climbs out of my jaw at every chance she gets. She scrapes her fingernails in my throat and digs her heels into my tongue in moments when I know I should control myself, screaming, "I'm not done here!"

#fiction #nonfiction #college #essay writing #personal vent #personal post #personal essay #writers #writers on tumblr #my writing #writers and poets #narrative #college essay

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merakiui · 4 years ago

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Frostbite

yandere!childe x (gender neutral) reader art credit - GNSN_FA on twt cw: yandere, blood, minor gore (lacerations), unhealthy behaviors/relationship, mentions of death/hypothermia, fighting

It’s borderline animalistic, the way you cling to warmth and life like a starved, neglected hound. Your fingers stiffen in a vain attempt to flex—to successfully grasp your sword like a true warrior. The furs that were once draped over your body are ragged, torn to shreds from a dangerous battle between the elements and him. There’s no mistaking the excitement that lights his every nerve like bulbs hanging from a Christmas tree, coated in the maddening swell of potent bloodlust. If surrender was an option, you would have done it long ago.

Even then, you’re certain he wouldn’t give you such a benevolent chance no matter how hard you were to beg and plead.

Your breath materializes like a phantom in front of your face, a cruel reminder that you’re still breathing in a battered body. Your fingernails are chipped, blood running down the tips from an icy struggle, but you refuse to succumb to the cold. Instead, you allow yourself to be swept up in his electrified stare.

“What’s the matter, comrade?” There’s a wry smile pulling his chapped lips apart, showcasing flawless teeth aligned in a perfect face. Despite the brutal wear of this current fight, he’s still handsome. And that makes you sick. “I thought you said you’ve gotten stronger. If I wanted a real battle, I would’ve challenged one of my subordinates and that’s nowhere near as fun as this!”

Keeled over in the snow, your lungs burning with each rattled inhale, you struggle to meet his eyes. The deathly chill of the Snezhnayan climate claws at your exhausted form like the porcelain fingers of a skeleton. You might as well surrender to the freezing temperatures. After all, the frostbite is far kinder than the fighting machine looming over you, the toe of his boot nudging your trembling self.

“I... I am strong,” you manage to say before the dangerous wind pierces your throat like a dagger. Like the icicle Childe’s wielding, a happily convenient reaction between Hydro and Cryo elements. You cough and crimson paints the snow. “Strong. I’m strong.”

“Then get up.” There isn’t any warmth in his tone. Cold like ice and devoid of his former playfulness. Under all of that nonchalance, a fierce, chiseled warrior lies in comfortable wait. When his eyes trace your hunched form and he spots the blood that dribbles past your lips, practically freezing as soon as it makes contact with the frigid air, those dull hues widen. Surely he’s hit a weak spot, a vital organ or something close to a fatal blow. He wonders for a brief moment if you’re afraid of death. “You’ll freeze if you don’t move.”

A flash catches your attention and then there is the flow of suffocating water. Sharpened blades of ice surround you on all sides, nearly scraping your arms, so you force yourself onto unsteady legs. Internally, you’re searching for a way out—for a way to give up before you bite off more than you can chew. This sparring match wasn’t your request, but you had been a fool to accept, having been so certain of your strength and wit. But you aren’t accustomed to Snezhnaya, whereas Childe has spent years of his life here: training, learning, and fighting until he was worthy of the Tsaritsa’s praise.

With sloppy movements, you cut through the ice as if it’s butter, eternally grateful for the sharpness of your trusty sword. You can’t tell when this fight will end, but you hope an opening with present itself. As soon as it does, you’re running as far as your frozen legs will take you. Like a feral beast who fights desperately against the unfair hands of the Grim Reaper, you stumble forwards, slashing blindly at your target. He’s thoroughly amused with your struggle, having seen this sort of desperation many times before on the battlefield.

It’s a depressing thing, knowing you’ll be destined for failure and yet you still push onwards. As if that will turn the tide of this battle in your favor. Childe almost admires your persistence, but it isn’t all that special. He’s seen it all before but not quite in the way you portray it. Your despair is far more delectable than that of any low-ranking Fatui soldier. Childe could bask in this for eternity and he’d never grow bored. To have you by his side as his punching bag—it excites him just a little too much.

Naturally, the more he spars with you, the more he’ll grow accustomed to your attack and defense patterns. A strategy is only worthwhile if it rakes in victory. No matter the cost. No matter how many fall and grovel, begging for their pitiful lives. In a way, his moral compass is rather skewed. He supposes that makes him a bad person, but he’s never been one for the hero role.

Childe taps your shoulder and you whirl, slicing upwards with your sword. The blade cuts the air, not the torso of the man who jumps back with such deadly precision. The expression he’s wearing haunts you: a wicked smile, pupils blown wide with the thrill of life and death, and a blooming bruise from where you managed to hit him in your earlier scuffle. In any form, he looks good, be it blue and purple, red and pale, or even frozen stiff by the very ice that reacts to his Hydro abilities. You can’t stand your weak heart, as you’re well aware of the face he’ll bear tomorrow. Friendly and disarming, a total opposite to the grinning madman twirling water-turned-ice blades like they’re circus batons.

Like always, you’ll return his kindness because you’re a fool. Because you like the soft, wholesome Childe that cares lovingly for his family—the side he’s displayed in rare instances that glimmer beyond the gilded portrait of a battle-hardened soldier.

You fall hard on your back, landing in the thick snow with a wheeze. There is no warmth on the battlefield. Only pain, suffering, and the certainty of death. You push yourself to get up, but your muscles won’t move, too heavy and sore. You know you’re strong—you’ve faced many opponents before and you’ve lived to boast of your successes. You can beat Childe. You have to if you intend to avoid fights with him in the future.

“Well, this is upsetting.” He’s frowning now, idly tapping the crystalized water while he circles you like a sharp-toothed predator. “Didn’t expect this to end so quickly.”

Liar. You already know I can’t beat you, you want to say, but the words escape you. Not yet, anyways.

A sneer splits your dry lips and blood trickles down your chin like a woeful river. You don’t need a mirror to witness the damage.

“Teucer won’t like this,” you say, staring up at Childe with dead eyes, hoping to prod at his weak spots. If the mention of his brother affects him, Childe doesn’t let it show.

“He doesn’t have to know,” he retorts, brushing aside such a possibility with ease.

Right. Because you expect me to put myself back together like a toy. Of course, almighty Childe, the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya.

“Well.” You pause to exhale and pain shoots through your side. Through your bleary gaze, you can see a deep laceration. Blood stains what’s left of your attire, and you move your rigid hands over the wound to prevent anymore blood loss. “Congrats. You won.”

“You’re giving up?” Bewilderment flashes across his face for an instant before it melts away into an emotion you can’t place. Anger? Sadness? Is he unhappy with this win?

“What does it look like? I can’t possibly fight with these injuries.”

It hurts to speak and you wish he would just stop. If he could accept the outcome of this battle, this wouldn’t be such a problem. You’d be able to patch and heal yourself up before your condition gets any worse. With the chill seeping into your open cut, harshly kissing slick, wet blood, you doubt you’ll make it inside before passing out. Vaguely, you recall the unfamiliar stages of hypothermia. At worst, if you stay out in this fatal weather, pinned like an entomologist’s butterfly under Childe’s monstrous gaze, you’ll freeze to death. At best, you’ll escape, build a fire, and warm up to the best of your ability. Weighing your options, you’d rather lose a finger or a toe as opposed to your life.

“You can fight.” His blade is at your throat, the pointed tip niggling into your jugular. It’s more of a threat than a warning, a means to spur you into action. “You’ll never get stronger if you’re always running away, comrade.”

Your life has some value; Childe just can’t see that. In his eyes, a fight should be seen through to the very end, even if it’s marred in death and destruction. Yet here you are, choosing to abandon your pride. That must have some strength in itself, right? You hate his face, his childish nature, and the fact that his everything is making you reconsider. You’re doomed to fail if you continue to push your frostbitten body past its natural limits.

“I...” The blade slices along your throat, a mere surface wound. You can’t feel the sting or the sticky blood that spills out like flowing tears, having become as numb as a fish-eyed animal near extinction. “Childe—“

You don’t want to hurt him and he knows this. It twists his insides like a knife in flesh, turning and turning until organs pop and leak into soupy conflict. The blade leaves your throat and another harsh wind blows between the two of you, glacial and prickling. He distances himself, tracking your form in case you happen to move. You’ve stopped shivering at this point, lying flat on your back and staring up at the dark sky. Snowflakes cling to your lashes like the hands of death, pulling you closer to an invisible grave.

“You can fight.” Is that desperation in his voice? You almost laugh at the idea. He’s not a desperate man; he doesn’t need to be when he has it all. “Get up, comrade.”

“I think...I’ll stay here,” you whisper, your heartbeat irregularly slow. You’ve never counted the beats before, but now it makes for a fun distraction. “Good job, Childe. You’ve definitely...”

Gotten stronger.

You possess strength, just not the type Childe wants to experience firsthand. He has no use for a lonely, unseeing corpse. And when your eyelids flutter, closing upon a face that reflects frozen death, he releases a sigh. His blade falls at once, landing in the snow with a thump, and he bends down to gather your fallen frame in his arms. Somehow, whenever he spars with you—whenever he’s within touching distance—he feels alive. As if you’ve breathed meaning into his frostbitten soul, warming the cold beast that lurks and pounces at the sight and smell of fresh bloodshed.

If he’s learned anything, it’s that there’s always going to be room for improvement. You just need to train more, and he’d be over the moon to fight you until it’s your blade slicing through his skin. In the meantime, though, he’ll have to kiss color and life back into your monochrome world of death and despair.

As the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya, it’s only fair if he repairs the damages done to his favorite toy. Break, repair, and repeat. A cycle befitting a messy relationship and an even messier slew of choices. Rinse and repeat, like waves licking up a carcass bound to the shore.

Come morning, you’ll be shiny and new, ready to sit by his side for another leisurely ice-fishing outing. Childe isn’t known as the greatest toy salesman for nothing, and you’re just barely scraping by with each battle scar and bandage—courtesy of such an illustrious, experimental toy salesman.

#genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #genshin impact childe #genshin impact tartaglia #yandere childe #yandere tartaglia #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #yandere childe x reader #yandere tartaglia x reader #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact ajax #yandere genshin impact ajax #ajax x reader #yandere ajax x reader

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no-droids · 5 years ago

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Dove

Part 2 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 19.7K i apologize for NOTHING

Warnings: DUBCON ELEMENTS, SMUUUUUUT, religion kink, virgin kink, authority kink, degradation kink, praise kink, age gap, ohhhhh the list goes on y’all been here long enough

A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time im sorry

***

Obi-Wan feels like he’s going to be sick.

Dinner in the grand hall was difficult enough, forking down mouthfuls of expensive food he’s sure was absolutely marvelous, if he could’ve tasted it. The s’Ziscari clearly splurged on the celebrations—expensive food, expensive decor, expensive everything, down to the silk napkin he studied and fiddled with under the table as he awkwardly waited for you to finish your plate.

He felt uncomfortable, absolutely. He’s felt uncomfortable ever since he shuffled into this blasted, Maker forsaken robe not long after he left your quarters earlier.

Not black, no. Not like yours. Not like what appears to be an overwhelmingly vast majority of the people he’s encountered so far this dreadful evening.

No, his robes are blue.

A strong, eye-catching royal blue, covering his body in waves of fabric—softer than anything he’s ever worn before and leaving him feeling incredibly exposed. The far more practical robes he traded for these atrocious garments are made of a thick, scratchy wool, a testament to the Jedi’s philosophical rejection of fine or expensive materials. And, against all logic—to somehow make matters even worse, the sash tying this uncomfortable piece of attire closed has no place to clip his saber, unlike the leather belt he usually wears. As a consequence, he’s left simply carrying it around by his side.

Granted, for some unknown reason, his robes are still far thicker and longer and more protective than the… stars, the ultra-thin black silk wrapped around your body, but Obi-Wan is so self-conscious about his appearance that he’s not even allowing himself to look at you. Obviously that doesn’t stop him from refusing to leave your side the entire night, and he finds himself rather grateful that only a very few number of s’Ziscari are fluent in Basic, if only to provide him with a valid excuse to socially detach.

Of the very few people he’s noticed wearing robes resembling his, they’re all far younger than him—much closer to your age than Obi-Wan’s, and stars, everything about this celebration is unbelievably unnerving to him—including, if not most of all, your response to it. One of the reasons he knows the food was grand, apart from the immaculate plating and lavish dinnerware of course, is because you momentarily excused yourself from the seat next to him to dish yourself out a second helping.

Even now, even in the skybox seats of this distressingly packed arena, Obi-Wan struggles to keep down what little food he could eat while you stand tall next to him and seem completely unbothered by the situation—and by the Maker, it bothers him. He isn’t used to this. He’s used to you being the emotionally turbulent one, the one whom he has to pacify, and it twists his stomach with the way the roles have suddenly found themselves reversed.

“I think the blue looks nice, by the way,” you lean sideways to mention casually to him, and he knows. He knows you’re just jesting, just trying to lighten the mood, but he feels the bile rising up his throat at the fact that you even commented on it aloud. “Fitting. Matches your saber. Your face, though.” The smallest hint of a smile tugs at your cheeks. “It’s beginning to match the color of mine.”

“Thank you for that, young one; your sense of humor is positively delightful,” Obi-Wan gripes, clutching the metal hilt tightly in front of him with both hands while he gazes out at the stadium before him, bustling with black hooded figures and a rare flash of blue. It does not escape his notice that in complete contrast, your arms are loosely meeting behind your back, your saber dangling in one hand while the other lazily holds your wrist. Your body is… open. Draped in garments somehow equally as opaque as they are revealing, presented to the wide panoramic view of the audience and stage with no qualms whatsoever.

“Wonder who I got it from,” you ponder with a tilt of your head, and… fair point. “How long is this thing supposed to last anyways?”

“Stars—‘this thing’ can’t get over with soon enough,” Obi-Wan grumbles, his eyes anxiously flicking down at the empty stage in the center of the audience. He’s struggling with butterflies and nausea like he himself is meant to have a starring role in this debauchery. “They’ll have… acts. Plural.”

“Heavens,” you sigh under your breath, and oh yes. He agrees.

He’s also painfully aware that he should be using this free time to continue contemplating his decision about… matters concerning later this evening with you, but he’s already feeling massively overwhelmed as it is. Right now, it’s all he can do to just breathe and attempt to face one trial at a time.

But then, as if the Maker is feeling just particularly malicious this evening, Obi-Wan’s stomach drops when something quiet flashes in the Force and the roar of the enormous crowd instantly falls to dead silence. The ominous sign rockets through him and while a Jedi should not know fear, this might be the closest he’s ever felt to truly terrified.

“Ooh, dramatic,” you whisper, but regardless of your laissez-faire attitude, his heart is positively pounding as he watches the figures of robed Force sensitives slowly file out onto the stage, and everything inside him lurches at the realization that—

They’re all wearing blue. Every single one of them is clothed in fabric that matches his current attire, the one that made him feel like a blot on the landscape the entire dinner and subsequent mass pilgrimage to the arena. A bright splash of color in the midst of an almost inescapably giant ring of black.

You’ve stopped talking. Truly, he has no idea if that’s a good or bad thing, not right now. The Force sensitives join hands and create a ring in the center of the stage while every single person in the arena sits in perfect silence, and Obi-Wan feels dizzy. He’s not getting enough air right now, but he doesn’t even want to breathe too loudly and somehow draw even more attention to himself.

Two of the blue robes break off from their fellow acolytes and meet in the middle of the circle, and to simply avoid having a heart attack, Obi-Wan very purposefully chooses to ignore—like he’s done multiple times this evening—the subtle flicker of curiosity he experiences at the significance of the color blue and what it symbolizes to the s’Ziscari. He can’t even bear to watch the way the two of them slowly lean in and allow their lips to touch from under their hoods.

Maker, if he turned his saber on and stabbed himself with it, could he convince you it was an accident? Probably not—no, definitely not, what a stupid thought to have—

“How does she wipe?” He hears your voice whisper, and Obi-Wan’s facial expression immediately screws up in confusion.

He turns to you, his tone equally hushed but the bewilderment sharpening his consonants. “How does who what—?”

Only—you’re not even looking at the scene unfolding in front of you. Your expression is just as confused as his is, but instead of looking down, your chin is lifted and you’re staring directly across the arena at the viewing booth opposite to yours. He still has no idea what you’re talking about though, not until he follows your line of sight and sees the way s’Zerthia has her jaw propped up in her hands on her throne, looking bored as usual, and how the length of her newly manicured fingernails curves halfway up her scalp from this angle.

“That’s dangerous,” you remark quietly. “They’re like talons. Gaudy little weapons she always has attached to her that she decorates, makes them seem less vicious than they actually are. I see them. I certainly don’t envy whoever she picks tonight to—”

You cut yourself off with a bit lip smile and turn your face away from him, and Obi-Wan is almost mystified by how casual you’re able to be about this.

“Whomever she picks to…?” He trails off with a sigh. “Do I… Do I want to know?”

“Never mind,” you tell him quickly, lifting your chin once more while still clearly trying not to laugh. You’re trying not to laugh, while… while that is happening in the center of the audience. “It was, uh… tasteless.”

He blinks, wondering what that could possibly mean. Everything about this is tasteless, the entire thing is just an absolute nightmare coming to life.

Though, after a moment of silence, Obi-Wan soon realizes he much prefers it when you fill the void.

“Members of the Royal Court take turns doing it for her,” he eventually replies, decidedly looking anywhere but where the man is slipping the blue robe from the woman’s body. It takes you a second to register to what exactly he’s referring, but when you finally do, you snort. It’s too loud. A few heads closest to your isolated seats turn as Obi-Wan very quickly thrusts his elbow into your ribs. “Quit being disrespectful,” he hisses under his breath.

“You just—!” You quickly clamp your mouth shut and face forward again, trying not to smile in an appalled sort of way. But then—“Oh,” you blurt, not loud enough for anyone else to hear in this open setting but still loud enough for him to glance around and be slightly anxious about it. “Oh. Wow. I wasn’t… expecting…”

Obi-Wan’s eyes automatically flick down to the couple, only just long enough to catch a quick glimpse of stark nudity in the center of the arena before his gaze immediately bounces back up again and focuses on the incredibly interesting steel beam currently propping up the Queen’s viewing box, clearing his throat. “I… did warn you.”

“Well, yeah, I expected them to…” Your hushed voice trails off and you stay quiet for too long, too long to imply you’re still formulating an end to your thought. You’re distracted by something, but then you appear to snap back to your senses and immediately clear your throat. “I just wasn’t expecting… the, uh. The… positioning.”

He says nothing in response. It… it doesn’t give him great comfort, wondering how you could possibly know enough about this type of profanity to have expected a different sort of positioning. The stark contrast between the color of his ceremonial robes and yours still remains completely unspoken, but it quietly pulls at the back of his mind nonetheless.

“What about it?” Obi-Wan immediately hears himself prompt and oh, no, this is completely inappropriate. Not only should he not be encouraging this kind of talk with you, but he also shouldn’t feel so… so negative, not about something so personal to you and something that’s certainly none of his business. Regardless, he… still has this buried, unexplainable desire to know the truth about it. Regardless of the indirect way he’s attempting to go about it, he wants to know the truth about whether or not you broke your oath, and while he recognizes it’s completely improper of him, the urge is still strong enough to manifest itself using his vocal cords.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just… It’s…” He doesn’t even have a visual reference for what you’re attempting to find the words to describe. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to know what you think about it. “…Bold,” you finally settle on.

Bold. It’s bold. Perhaps Obi-Wan wouldn’t be analyzing your verbal responses so closely if he had something more interesting to look at besides the general coliseum-like structure of the large outdoor stadium, but there’s a certain horizon he just won’t let his eyes dip below right now and unfortunately for him, being so high up above the crowd, the upper hemisphere of his visual field remains relatively dull.

“Who would've thought,” he eventually sighs, blinking up at the star-splattered sky now and attempting to see if he can use the Force to break off a piece of a satellite and have it impale him in a tragic accident. “Considering the s’Ziscari are such a conservative bunch.”

His eyes soon wander back to s’Zerthia, and—Obi-Wan startles to find her staring directly at him with a thin eyebrow dangerously quirked. She motions two long fingers in a V shape at her eyes and then points down towards the stage, her expression expectant and waiting.

Obi-Wan’s teeth hurt at how hard he clenches them together, his jaw flexing but the thick blanket of his beard doing well to conceal it. She’s playing with him, he realizes; he can see the hidden smile on her lips all the way from here.

Maker, maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s—maybe he’s being ridiculous about this. This is fine. This is fine. His stomach feels like it’s all his food might come up at any second, but he’ll do it, he’ll look. He can at least just look, right?

His gaze slowly begins lowering, trying to take in just a few things at a time so as not to overstimulate himself. Thousands of s’Ziscari lining the seats of the arena, almost every single one of them dressed in black. Lower still—the platform leading up to the stage. A perimeter of blue figures now sitting down in a circle and then, at its center, a… a naked man and woman.

Obi-Wan’s heart pounds as he struggles to comprehend the sight, never having laid eyes on a nude woman before. She’s on her elbows and knees, forehead lowered and resting against the floor, and the man kneels behind her, one hand holding her hips and the other wrapping around his—

Stars, Obi-Wan wants to end it all. Right here. His aim will be true.

But then… oh, no, he’s an idiot. He’s a complete dullard, because he forgot. Consumed by his own sheer anxiety and unease, Obi-Wan stupidly forgot an extremely crucial detail of the incredibly little he’s been told about the Sh’inzith.

—the projecting.

All at once, he’s nearly knocked over by the strength of the two Force sensitives at the center of the arena as they deliberately cast their minds out across the entire audience, presenting every sensation and fleeting thought they’re experiencing in all its intensity. Obi-Wan immediately works to reinforce his mental shields as soon as he feels the shockwave about to hit, but there’s thousands of Force sensitives present—all of them congregated into one relatively small area, all of them tuning into the same two signatures and then suddenly… amplifying them back until it’s impossible for him to shut out.

“Oh, uh—” he just manages to hear you mutter through the whirlwind, just the slightest hint of panic in your voice peaking through the symphony of whispered thoughts and pulsing sensations coming from the stage, “—that isn’t good—”

Obi-Wan abruptly stumbles backwards and gasps at the awful, wretched feeling of something brunt pressing up hard against somewhere elusive, somewhere he’s never felt before towards the lower part of his body, and his mind fights viciously against it as he feels you spin around and reach out for his rapidly retreating figure.

“Wait, no—it’s okay, M-Master, it’s okay, it’s—” your voice cuts off and your hands suddenly fist into the robes at his chest, your forehead dropping to his shoulder against the sharp sting just continuing to push and push and push, “—i-it’s okay, it’s oka—”

He trips over his feet in the chaos and falls back on complete instinct and you’re so tightly attached to him that you’re yanked forwards with the momentum, the two of you plunging to the ground in a clumsy heap of grunts and tangled limbs. Obi-Wan immediately starts crawling backwards across the floor underneath you, still trying to escape the horrible, inescapable sensation digging into a part of his body that doesn’t seem to exist, but it’s like you’re of the same mind—you’re scrambling forwards in the same direction trying to get away from the same thing, frantically attempting to calm him and simultaneously deal with the agony yourself, and then suddenly—

Oh—oh, Maker—

Suddenly something gives and surges in, and then Obi-Wan gasps—his elbows buckling under him and as the both of you drop down onto the floor because stars, it’s nearly blinding with impression. Not only the aching, hard fullness stretching sharp and deep somewhere in his lower abdomen—but now a new sensation. A tight, wet silk he feels swallowing him between his legs, concentrated on a part of his body that… does exist, a body part that’s currently pressed up right between your spread thighs.

“Fuck,” you moan hot against his throat, trying to find somewhere to brace yourself next to his shoulders and push yourself up off him, and he tries—Maker, he tries so hard not to, but his hands shoot out to grab your hips before he even knows what he’s doing and then he’s dragging his lower body up into yours on instinct alone, clamping his eyes shut and groaning out a desperate sound he’s never heard himself make before as his head drops against the floor.

It’s staggering. It hurts. He can't even hear your muffled noises anymore, not over the roaring encompassing his mind and body. All he knows is that your hips quickly jerk back and grind down into his in response, sending Obi-Wan reeling while you bury your twisted cry of pleasure and pain into his neck.

The sound of it breaks through everything else.

Obi-Wan’s hands shake violently as they suddenly release you and then frantically shove at your shoulders, trying to push you off without hurting you. He can’t think, he can’t see, he needs to leave—

“Get away,” he rasps desperately up at the sky, blinking his eyes wide but somehow not seeing anything in front of him but blackness. “St-stars, get away from me—”

Suddenly you’re flipping off his body and onto your back next to him, too quick for it to be a mechanical movement alone, and he doesn’t even have the space in his mind nor the processing capacity to figure out if he Force pushed you off him or if it was you who did it to yourself. He just clambers to his feet and stumbles away in a terrified, graceless retreat, bent in half, limping and gasping and fighting for every step he takes.

***

Your Master was right to leave as soon as possible, you think. You were wrong to linger here for just a second to try and gain your bearings, because the more you work to grasp and attempt to organize them, the more mindless and disorienting they become.

You eventually have to heave over and drag yourself after him.

The further away you get from the arena, the easier it becomes to block the projection, but Maker, it’s exhausting. You’re resigned to start out with a crawl—one of those Jedi Core crawls you haven’t had to do since the Academy but this one exponentially slower, forehead dropped down and eyes closed, just focusing on alternating shifting your elbows and your knees forwards and dedicating the rest of your mental energy to just isolating your mind from the debilitating assault.

Consulars don’t usually see much of war—you tend to do absolutely everything in your power to avoid it. It’s the Guardians who experience the horrors of combat most often, who deal with ambushes and onslaughts from enemies of the Republic. But Maker above, every merciless thrust into that poor little virgin at the center of the arena is like a blaster shooting directly at you, but then couple it with the thousands of reflections and ricochets in robes lining the bleachers? You’re in the trenches of a deadly battle you had no idea was even about to break out and you have no weapon of defense besides retreat.

When you finally get far enough away to be able to push yourself upright as much as possible and continue staggering back to the palace on two feet, you have no concept for how long it’s been. You can still feel the projection vibrating and clawing sharply at the edges of your consciousness, but at least the majority of your thoughts are your own now, and it gradually becomes easier and easier to focus and speed up to a clumsy run.

Though, no matter how successful you eventually are at muffling the vibrant sensations and thoughts of the two Force sensitives behind you—when they cum, you stumble down to your knees again and have to bite the back of your fist to keep from screaming.

Maker, it takes you a minute to recover. You don’t even cum, you just feel it—the burst of energy from the Force in every direction, the violent explosion from the stadium that feels like it should fracture the ground beneath you.

You’re able to get up after a moment, if only because they decide to take mercy and finally cut off the projection. You know that it’s a temporary relief, that they’ll likely be at this all night, but you hope the palace will be far enough away from the arena to block out the sensations completely. You wonder if Master Kenobi felt that through the Force or whether he was too determined to block it out that he was able to simply ignore the nuclear missile that just detonated less than a few miles away from him.

You force yourself forwards and you want to hurry, you do—but strangely, in your wild state of exhaustion, stark reality is almost as debilitating as swimming through that endless madness was. It’s quiet around you but the noise of still air pulses deafeningly in your eardrums after breaking free from such a thick mental filter separating you from your surroundings. You still have your lightsaber clutched in your hand, Maker rejoice, and your thin robes are skewed awkwardly across your body, but you eventually find your way to the doors of the palace.

Though, trying to navigate the empty halls back to your Master’s chambers takes you longer than it should. His signature is cloaked spectacularly, concealed to a mere speck you wouldn’t even know was there if you weren’t so closely acquainted with it for more than a decade. You follow the flickering pixel of blue light through the obstacle ridden darkness, adjusting the front of your robes with one trembling hand while you wipe your brow with the other, closing your eyes and doing your best to take deep breaths. He’ll be spiraling right now. He’ll need a boulder to cling to in this tsunami, solid ground to stand on while the stars are falling out of the sky.

You… find him in your quarters instead.

The door is open and his handsome profile is to you, the thick fabric stretching over his broad shoulders now an agreeable light cream, familiar and telling of his intentions. His hands are moving. Setting something down on your bed—your robes, you soon realize. He’s laying out your Jedi robes neatly for you across the fur blanketing the large mattress.

Master Kenobi begins speaking as soon as you step foot into the room, the tone of his voice very clearly impatient after having waited for you for so long.

“Change out of those ridiculous garments,” he tells you hastily, neatly laying out your leather belt across your dark tunic without even turning his head to look at you properly. “We must leave. Quickly. Also—tell me you didn’t forget your saber at the arena, because if so, I’m afraid it’s lost to us forever now. Ilum is only three days from here, perhaps we can stop there on the way back to Coruscant to find you another kyber cryst—”

You drop the hilt of your lightsaber on the floor and step forward, cautiously reaching out for his figure as he continues to ramble. “Master, I—”

Your hand is thrown to the side with a subtle flick of his wrist and you instantly jerk to an abrupt halt, holding your palms out in front of you and keeping completely still while he spins around, his jaw slack and staring at you wide-eyed. He takes a few steps away from you in shock.

“I’m sorry—” he immediately gasps, reaching out towards you even though the rest of his body is still desperately evading yours. “Stars, I’m so sorry—that was just… That was excruciating, young one. Why would anyone ever willingly—?”

“It—it doesn’t always—” you cut yourself off just in time, clamping your jaw shut before you can finish your sentence.

“We must leave,” he says once more as he turns back to your mattress, not appearing to hear you at all and shaking his head, far too frantic to sound like he’s just reminding you alone. “We can’t do that. I can’t do that—”

“It doesn’t always have to be—” Maker, what is wrong with you? Your heart kicks up in your chest and somehow stutters to a halt at the same time. It’s the lingering effects of the assault your mind just experienced coupled with your desperate urge to console him that’s making you so utterly careless, you realize, it’s making your tongue loose.

“Stars, what do you mean?” Master Kenobi finally snaps, and your blood runs ice cold. “How do you know that?”

It takes the sum of all your years of training to keep the raging hurricane of emotion from showing in any capacity. You feel like he’s holding his saber to your neck with how dangerously little you’re even allowing yourself to breathe right now, how utterly and completely still you’re holding yourself in front of him.

Lie, a little voice in your mind supplies quietly, the little voice you keep locked inside an impenetrable box of everything you are but have never been allowed to confront, haven’t been allowed to openly think just in case someone is listening too closely. Lie. Lie, right now. Your silence is giving you away.

Only—you can’t. You shouldn’t. It’s not fair to keep this from him, not when you’re asking him to do something so structurally compromising to his belief system. If… if you tell him the truth, perhaps he won’t judge you too harshly. Perhaps he’ll feel… reassured, knowing he’s certainly not the first Jedi to break a sacred vow when he felt times were desperate enough.

Besides. This might be the only secret that could potentially get you kicked out of the Order, but… it still isn’t your worst one.

“Because.” The word is out of your mouth before you can rethink it, barely above a whisper. “I… know.”

He doesn’t respond, and no.

No, you were wrong. You were wrong to tell him the truth, and the look on his face immediately shoots panic through your whole body.

He doesn’t look reassured.

He looks… alienated.

“‘It doesn’t always?’” Your Master eventually repeats back to you, and fuck—the implication is instantly clear. The implication is made so clear from the sharpness in his tone, the hard edge to it as he rounds out the vowels in the last word that makes your heart twist and throb in your ribcage. He might as well have just asked you how many times you must’ve violated your code of honor to know the difference.

“It’s not.” You clear your throat and flick your gaze up to the ceiling, feeling like he’s using the Force to squeeze your chest in on itself. “That was the absolute worst possible sensation that can be felt during… It’s—it’s not like that. It won’t… be like that. Not.” Are there tears coming to your eyes? “Not… with me.”

Utter quiet. So quiet that if you really concentrate, you can hear the distant sounds of the arena continuing on with the Ritual without you. You bite hard at your lip and wait for him to say something, anything. Yell at you, tell you how disgusted he is, banish you from the Order.

Instead, Master Kenobi quite suddenly… deflates. He sighs—not a heavy, exhausted one, but a soft one. A quiet, accepting sort of sound.

He slowly lowers himself to the edge of the mattress and closes his eyes, running both hands through his hair, and it’s just enough to give you pause. You glance over at him, trying not to let tears fall beyond the plateau of your lower lids with the frantic downward movement of your eyes, and you’re only just barely successful at it.

“It’s alright,” he says gently. “It’s… it’s alright, young one. I… suppose I am in no place to judge. Quite… quite literally,” he murmurs, gesturing to the space around him with a lazy wave of his hand. Maker, his figure is too watery and unfocused to make out his facial expressions, but you don’t want to blink to clear your vision just in case a sudden downpour escapes. “It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t have asked. You’re… not my Padawan anymore. I should have no reason to… even care at all, really.”

There’s something that feels… major in that, something monumental yet incredibly well hidden, but you’re still too full of blind panic to interpret it further. Your breathing is shaky and you wonder, quite stupidly and not for the first time in your life, if it’s somehow possible to use the Force to evaporate the water in your eyes before it turns into tears.

“I am certain it took place in your younger years, a long time ago,” he continues calmly when you don’t immediately say anything. “You did always have a… a rather unconventional relationship with the rules.”

Your only response is a quick jerk of a nod. Yes.

“Yes,” you immediately agree, hoping your tone sounds convincing enough through the lingering tremors. “It was… a long time ago. I’ve changed, since then. Grown up in many ways.”

It’s his turn to nod, and you manage to calm down just slightly. You’re still breathing too hard and you’re a bit too braced, too much of a stance to truly feel like relief, but your heart rate is beginning to settle back into a somewhat acceptable rhythm.

Master Kenobi looks over at you, and he says absolutely nothing about the traces of water still glistening along your eyelashes. He just smiles softly and pats the space next to him.

You cautiously make your way over to him after a moment, feeling more unsure now than you’ve felt this entire mission. You leave at least a half a foot of space separating the two of you once you carefully sit yourself down on the mattress, and you can’t even look in his general direction. You just focus on the long, draping sleeves of your black robe as you look down at your hands and wait for him to speak first.

“Sometimes,” he eventually sighs. “Sometimes I… feel like you’re the person I know best in the entire galaxy, you know. I’ve… I’ve known you far longer than I ever knew my own Master, young one. I picked you out of thousands, and I’d do it thousands of times again. Sometimes—especially since the day of your accolade and subsequent absence, I feel like I can know exactly what you’re thinking, even from across an entire star system. And yet somehow, you… always surprise me. Even after all these years, I am just. Consistently surprised by you.”

You don’t know how to take that. You just sit there in a guilty silence, still unable to turn your head or offer any sort of response.

“I chose you as a Padawan because you surprised me, you know,” he reminds you quietly. “I had certain expectations for you, and you did not meet those expectations. Instead, you presented an alternative I’d never before considered, an alternative that forced me to reevaluate you—and by extension, myself—far beyond what I had previously. That is not a bad thing. It has never been a bad thing. As is made blatantly obvious by the fact that I’m the one currently standing in the way of saving lives, and you’re…not.”

Maker, this is thin ice. You don’t know what to say that’ll express hesitant agreement with his sentiment without making it sound like you’re not apologetic for breaking your oath. You’re… well, you’re not, not really. His response itself is causing you to feel far more turmoil than any legitimate regret for your actions.

“It was—” On instinct, you almost say it was a mistake regardless of the conflicts you’re just so happening to encounter on this mission, but something stops you. You suddenly remember your place here, your goal. To save the galaxy from the Separatists’ reign. And, by extension… sleep with your Master. You can’t call it a mistake if you’re going to ultimately try to convince him to do the same thing. So instead, you scramble to finish your sentence with a different thought, knowing his full attention is pinned to you right now. “…A long time ago,” is all your exhausted mind is able to come up with.

“Yes,” he gives you a small, companionable smile. “It’s alright. Your prior lapse—or, well… lapses in judgement… will forever be safe with me.”

And still, you don’t feel relief. Not when Master Kenobi very quickly appears to look uncertain.

“I… apologize,” he offers after a moment, “if. If I ever made you feel like… like you could not confide in me about any struggles or… or urges you may have been experienc—”

“Maker,” you suddenly interrupt with a frantic wave of your hands, everything cringing inside you, “Maker, we don’t have to do this. None of it, it’s okay. Know what? Let’s just go home—screw the galaxy, I don’t care, just stop talking.”

He snaps his eyes over to you, a sudden bark of laughter escaping him before the rest of his face even seems to register something was funny.

It evolves. Eventually he’s covering his face and stifling ridiculous little snorts behind his hands, trying to apologize in between the chuckles but laughing even harder. It’s almost like… just a form of pure stress relief for him. So far beyond traumatized that it’s revealing itself in a slightly hysterical way, even if what you said wasn’t hysterical at all.

“Now you have a mere glimpse into what my experience has been like today,” he finally tells you with a sparkling grin once he composes himself, lifting his chin as he looks at you and scratching his beard with a quiet flicking sound. “Shall I keep going? If this mission has taught me anything, it’s that no matter what, things can always get worse.”

“They don’t have to.” You say it without thinking, the gentle reprieve caused by his laughter flowing through you in waves and making you throw caution to the wind. The four words serve to shut him up quite quickly however, even though it was the opposite of your intent, and your smile drops. Maker, just freely conversing with him about these things is navigating a minefield for his mental state.

“You… you say that, and yet even—” Master Kenobi eventually responds, cutting himself off with a cough. “Even the things I’ve heard are meant to feel… pleasant, were just.” He shakes his head and blinks his crystal blue eyes over at you. “By all accounts. Agony.”

“I know,” you nod. “I know. Projecting that specific situation was… sadistic of them. A distortion of the truth. Probably rooted in deep tradition, but also a great scare tactic if I ever saw one, playing with us by presenting the absolute worst of it before anything else. It won’t hurt. At all. I promise. In fact—I-I can make it feel—”

Maker, you don’t even finish your sentence, but you must think the general idea loud enough for him to understand. You don’t actually have a specific word in mind—good, great, amazing, euphoric?—and yet, something quiet settles over you two at the silent implication, the mere whisper of the possibility of you pleasuring him.

And him… allowing it.

“Master, I—”

“Don’t,” he quickly tells you. “Don’t call—You don’t have to… call me that. Just for right now, it’s. I don’t—” he takes a breath that sounds shakier than it looks, and then he paints an easy, fake smile on his face following the exhale. You recognize that smile anywhere, though. While you’ve never seen him wear it before, it’s the smile that politicians make when they’re about to present a lesser truth to you, a smile shown to you in negotiations all the time that signifies something… hidden. He’s hiding something, something important, and you have no idea what it could possibly be. “I don’t feel like I even deserve to be called that right now, young one. Perhaps you should be the Master, and I the learner.”

“Ah yes, the circle is now complete,” you can’t help but jest in return, wanting to keep the tone light even though the subject matter is heavy. “Is now when we trade lightsabers?”

“Indeed,” he smiles, this time more sincere, and… you can’t pinpoint when exactly it happened, but it appears you’re physically closer to each other now than you were when you first sat down.

“Do they, uh… actually expect us to…” You clear your throat and wave a hand around, “…Project the entire time like that?”

Master Kenobi quickly shakes his head. “No. s’Zer—Queen s’Zerthia informed me that. Ah. For us, projection will only be necessary during the… well, she called it the ‘closing ceremonies.’”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you nod. “I… see.”

It’s like you can physically feel his body start to break out into a cold sweat next to you at the sudden… realness of it all, the realization that it has to be getting late. Close to midnight, if you’re not already pushing it. It’s come time to make a final decision, you both know it. You want to console him, offer him some kind of solace or reprieve, but stars, you just don’t know how, not when you’re this much of a mess about this, too, but for entirely different reasons. You don’t have a single clue how to make him feel better about any of this.

“I just,” you rush before you lose the nerve, “I want you to know that—e-even if you feel like you’re somehow alone in this, you’re not. Okay? I’m… I’m really nervous, too. I don’t… I don’t actually know what to do at all right now. I don’t know whether to respect your apprehension or tell you it’s unfounded. I don’t know if I should remind you what’s at stake here or whether I should avoid mentioning it at all costs. I have no idea what position I should take, but I’ll—I’ll take whichever one you want me to.”

And it’s odd, because when you first launched into your confession, Master Kenobi gradually began to look more and more relieved, but at a certain point, something just goes horribly wrong. You don’t know what you said, but whatever it was, it seems to rocket through your Master and suddenly his breathing stutters.

For a moment, you think he’s going to reach back, yank your neatly folded Jedi robes up from the mattress and push the dark fabric into your hands. Tell you he’ll meet you at the docking bay posthaste, tell you not to linger, tell you that the mission was a failure. But then—

“Before,” he suddenly says, the word almost startling you with how abrupt it comes out sounding. Almost like he wasn’t quite expecting himself to say it either. “Earlier today, you asked… you asked if there was anything you could do to… make this easier.”

“Yes,” you prompt immediately. He won’t look at you, and for some reason your heart begins beating faster and the inside of your thighs are getting warm.

“I… I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this,” he admits with a whisper, his voice sounding so quietly reluctant, like he doesn’t want to say the words aloud but is forcing himself to. “But… the Council put you in charge of negotiations.”

Your eyebrows furrow, trying to understand his implication. What does that have to do with anything? Is he saying that you’re supposed to be in charge, and therefore he’s defaulting to you? “I’m not sure I—”

“The Galactic Republic…” Master Kenobi enunciates very, very pointedly, still unable to look at you, “…put you in charge of negotiations.”

Specifying—or in this case, generalizing—doesn’t help much. “I’m still not—”

“Maker, for—for the good of the Republic, young one,” he presses under his breath and finally flicks his gaze up to meet yours, sounding urgent and torn in equal parts. “Negotiate.”

Stars, negotiate with who? With—with him? For the good of the…? Is he asking you to somehow reason with him beyond what you’ve attempted to do already, or persuade him to do what’s right for—?

Maker—Master Kenobi is asking you to seduce him.

Shock paints your expression blank and his eyes instantly evade yours once more. You have to sit there for just a second and double-check that you’re not dreaming. None of this seems real. All of it seems like an incredibly elaborate illusion of the Force, ever since you first laid eyes on him at the start of this mission. You know you missed him but stars, did you truly miss him this terribly? Your longing must rival something fierce to unconsciously conjure this wild of a scenario. Is he actually here right now? Have you been speaking to a ghost? Are you actually here right now? Are you going to wake up any second and remember he’s thousands of lightyears away and has been for years, risking his life on the front lines of galactic war while you’re left to play politics and negotiate treaties behind the scenes?

These thoughts aren’t safe to have in normal interactions with him, but nothing about this situation is normal, and while you know Master Kenobi has years of experience reading your signature, he most likely won’t be able to gauge the specific details of your thoughts when you can sense how intensely he’s focused on guarding his own chaotic mind from you.

So you let yourself think. If only for a second, you sit next to him and allow yourself to just… think about him. About how much you care for him, how desperately you ache for him—you let all these improper longings finally have their moment with you. You let yourself confront it, crack the lid of the hidden box tucked away behind your consciousness and brave it, because if there was ever a moment to do so, it’s right now.

Your heart starts slamming up against your ribcage and your hands feel like they’re tingling. He wants you to convince him to have sex with you. He’s asking you to corrupt him. He wants you to negotiate the galaxy’s survival with the last man standing in the way of its prosperity—a good man with strong, immovable morals, a man who understands the consequences that follow integrity around and won’t be easy to tempt.

“This was a bad idea,” suddenly comes Master Kenobi’s voice, quickly backpedaling after too long of a silence. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I said that, we should just g—”

“Would you like to meditate?” You immediately ask him on a complete whim, shuffling back towards the middle of the mattress for the second time today. You’re careful to make sure he doesn’t see you carelessly flick your neat robes to the floor with the Force, clearing the top of the large mattress. “Let’s meditate.”

“Stars,” he breathes, shyly his head turning to follow you, “I’d love nothing more, but there truly just isn’t any time—”

You find it easier than you thought it’d be to pull a playful face at him, crossing your legs and straightening your spine. “Please, you’re a Guardian. You blue sabers practically invented battle meditation, did you not?”

He looks skeptical for a moment, as he has a valid right to be. “Is this a battle?” He eventually asks over his shoulder.

You say nothing in response to that, instead using the Force with a flex of your finger to tug at the loose cream fabric of his robe at his elbow. “Come on, it’ll do us good.”

He looks conflicted for a second, but then ultimately decides to humor you. “Alright,” Master Kenobi finally agrees, turning around and crawling towards you on the mattress, and you’re just quick enough to stamp down a flicker of arousal at the mere sight of it. “It won’t hurt.”

“Of course it won’t,” you agree with just a bit too much air in your voice, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. He just seats himself directly in front of you, facing you, crossing his legs close enough to yours that your knees barely touch, and—

—Maker, he’s lovely.

You purposefully let yourself think it as his eyes slowly fall closed and he takes a deep breath, beginning to tame the wild tempest of his mind. You let the word flitter around your thoughts without instantly repressing it like you always do, and just the mere act of allowing yourself to acknowledge the truth is freeing. He’s lovely. He’s lovely. You could scream it.

Your eyes trail down the lines of his ever softening, tranquil expression, not even bothering to pretend to meditate for his benefit this time. Your gaze roams shamelessly across his face, the way his hair is combed back away from it. The sandy, masculine beard leading down to the thick column of his throat, the broad lines of his shoulders draped in pale fabric, the way his chest slowly moves as he breathes. Lovely. Lovely.

And then you go… lower.

His abdomen is stretched long with how upright he’s sitting, his flawless meditation posture. His thighs are spread wide in this position, pants stretched tight into an elusive drum over his crotch and preventing you from truly seeing anything—but stars is it a thrill even just letting yourself look.

Especially knowing that the more his mind works to compose itself, the easier it’ll be for him to hear you.

You keep thinking, growing bolder the more you’re left alone with this box wide open. You think about how lithe and strong his body is, how it would feel under your hands. You think about all the different things you want to show him, all the… the mind shattering pleasure you can give him if he’ll allow y—

Master Kenobi says your name without opening his eyes.

It doesn’t sound the way you expect, though you don’t really know what you expected it to sound like. A sharp, frustrated bark? An exasperated, pleading attempt to get you to stop?

No—none of those. It’s a quiet, low growl of a sound, and the clear warning in it absolutely burns a hole through you like he picked up his lightsaber and used it instead.

You take practiced breaths, trying to calm yourself down. Stars, he just said your name, he’s said it so many times before, and yet hearing it in his mouth with that tone in this context feels like he just strapped rockets to your ankles and told you to stay put. You’re impatient. You’re turning yourself on, working yourself up, trying to get to where you can actually make a move on him after dedicating so many years to desperately repressing the longing to do so. Once he told you to negotiate this deal with him, however, it’s as if every ounce of the impeccable self control you’ve practiced so spectacularly throughout most of your life slowly started to unravel.

Reaching out tentatively so as not to startle him, you wrap both of your palms around the bend of his knees and squeeze gently. Master Kenobi displays no physical signs of—well, anything really, keeping his body completely rigid under your hands with no noticeable alterations in his breathing pattern. Biting your lip, you begin to slowly rotate your thumbs, making sure to keep your movements slow and perfectly symmetrical. Complete relaxation is your ultimate goal here—coaxing your Master into a serene state where physical contact is desired, not obligatory. He's so uncomfortable with the concept of intimacy in and of itself though, from the way his eyebrows start to furrow and his spine begins gradually tilting back and away from you, it's almost as if your ministrations are dampening rather than fueling.

“Relax,” you murmur, and stars, even though you make it sound quiet and gentle, it’s like the melodic lull of your voice appears to startle him more than if you’d just spoken normally. Maker—it’s counterintuitive; how are you supposed to turn someone on when the mere state of being turned on turns them off? “Relax with me, it’s okay—”

“But I just can't, young one,” he suddenly implores, his voice pressed up tight in his throat, his cerulean eyes popping open in frustration and something else—an honest, heartfelt emotion that's strikingly less familiar to you, even after years spent by his side: deep, hot, stomach-wrenching guilt. You watch your Master’s palms run the length of his thighs; back and forth, back and forth—almost like a nervous tick, you think—and it’s oddly endearing, if not increasingly concerning. “I just can't, this is all so wrong. Don't you understand? E-Even if the Council did provide a—well, a rather admittedly ineluctable blessing for this downright ludicrous endeavor, i-it’s… I don't…” He takes a deep breath, and visually, it looks like he's attempting to collect his thoughts and composure, but you know your Master all too well. You know what he's really doing, and at this point, it's almost… frustrating.

“What are you so afraid of?” You clutch his knees and whisper quietly, interrupting him before he can verbalize whatever perfectly logical reason he's trying to formulate as to why you both should leave the planet immediately, what he's going to say to the Council if they ever inquire as to why negotiations ultimately failed. He jerks his head up sharply to look at you.

“The Jedi fear nothing,” is his automatic response, though his previously intense gaze strays slightly from yours after a second of too much eye contact. “Fear is the path to the Dark Side, you know this.”

“And yet you are afraid,” you remark calmly, studying the way he’s turned his face away from you completely now, how you can still see his jaw clench under the thick beard with his profile shown to you like this. “I—I’m trying to understand, Master, but I—I don’t. Even if this mission were half as important as it is, your loyalty to the Order would follow you right into an early grave. But this?” You remove a palm from his knee to gesture between the two of you, the mattress beneath the both of you, “fulfilling this mission and these terms to save the entire galaxy is too ‘downright ludicrous’ for the Great Negotiator? I don’t believe it. Tell me what you’re really afraid of.”

Only, he’s suddenly moving—away from you. Turning and planting his palms to fur, beginning to climb to the edge of the bed and sweep his legs around under him, and your voice has an unintentional edge to it when you address his back.

“Do you know how many lives over I owe you?” You ask, and he jerks to an abrupt halt, feet just shy of stepping on the floor. “Do you have any idea the stockpile of mortal gratitude you’ve amassed from me? How many times you’ve risked your death to save me from mine over the years—can you count them? I have. I know my debt to you, I know the weight of my life piled on top of itself over and over again. I remember each and every one of them like they happened yesterday, and not once did you hesitate even slightly, let alone the way you’ve hesitated today.”

”And?” Master Kenobi quite suddenly snaps over his shoulder as he grips the edge of the mattress, sounding sharp but not necessarily directed towards you. “What is your point?”

“My point is that if you’d so readily trade your death time and time again to prevent that of even one other person, let alone a difficult Padawan who caused the Order nothing but grief for years, then what is it that makes the deaths of trillions—” you nearly say preferable to bedding me before you realize how incredibly harsh that would sound, but something about the way he seems to tense his shoulders and curl inwards implies he was following the general cadence of your agitated signature more than the specific content of your words.

He says absolutely nothing, but he doesn’t move to drop his feet to the floor, either. If only you could punch a proverbial hole through his practically indestructible mental barriers, you'd see the real reason he's so flustered, why he's purposely attempting to deceive you. Unfortunately for you though, they feel like they're made of triple-reinforced beskar, a countermeasure gradually increasing in strength the more you try to probe.

But then—all at once, something clicks. Something… fundamental. An understanding.

Your Master is a gifted negotiator, yes. But more than that.

He wields a blue saber. Not a green one.

He’s a Guardian. A warrior. He fights. It’s something that has never truly been part of your nature, no matter how much you struggled with it over the years—but it is a part of his, no matter how exceptionally he’s been able to mask it for even longer.

So, all at once, you stop pushing. Your signature abruptly pulls away from him, gives him room to breathe and simply hovers within your own personal space, unassuming and careful not to disturb him. You see your Master lift his chin and straighten his spine slightly, immediately noticing your absence and the constant pressure you’d been applying, and you honestly can’t tell if he relaxes or tenses up even more because of it.

Finally, when you feel like it’s been long enough, you slowly reach out and gently place your hand on his arm. This time, there’s no underlying motivation attached, no inherent desire for him to fulfill any sort of obligation. Just a warm, companionable gesture to reinforce the simple knowledge that you’re both in this together, for better or worse.

Please tell me, Obi-Wan, you quietly whisper to him through the Force, allowing your tone and energy to transfer through your open palm and into his troubled spirit as softly and gently as you possibly can—a caress more than anything even close to a sentence or inquiry. Your usage of his first name is entirely unprecedented however, and your Master sucks in a sharp breath in response.

I don't… But then the subconscious, half-formed thought fades away almost as quickly as it’s offered to you from behind the solid, unyielding fortress of his mind. “W-what are you doing?”

You bite your lip, wondering how honest you should be with him right now. Though, you suppose, if you truly want him to confide in you, you should at least meet him halfway.

“You’re the locked door,” you finally settle on. “This is me knocking.”

Obi-Wan turns around and blinks at you, looking for all the stars in this galaxy like that was quite possibly the last thing he expected you to say. You can see the frantic thoughts pass through his eyes almost as if the clear blue was completely transparent, likely remembering all the times you’ve leaned on him for guidance, listened intently and learned from his wisdom and experience. And now you’re a fully grown woman patiently offering him your ear, wondering if you’ve earned enough of his trust for him to do the same.

“I’m afraid I’ll form an attachment to you.” The words tumble from his mouth even though his body all but whips away from you in the process. “It’s unreasonable for the Council to expect this from me. From us. I’m afraid our relationship will forever be tarnished from this, that neither of us will ever be able to go back to the way things were before. I’m afraid that regardless of whatever decision I make, I won’t be able to carry the guilt on my conscience and continue to call myself a Jedi and Guardian of the Republic. But mostly, I just—I-I—”

Your heart is pounding as Obi-Wan buries his face into his hands and his muffled voice groans raggedly, “—I’m afraid I’ll like it. I’m afraid I’ll want it again, and again. I’m afraid it’ll follow me back to Coruscant, that I’ll save the galaxy but spend the rest of my days aching for something I’ll never be able to keep, and that’s petrifying. Desire, passion, selfishness, possession; all of them lead to Darkness, and I can—I can feel it right now. Your soul is so gentle, so peaceful, and yet you… you inspire such Darkness in me, dove.”

Maker, you’re trying so hard. So hard to keep your legs from clenching together at the utter desperation in his tone, how his breathing has picked up now that the words have ripped themselves out of his throat, like the whole thing was physical agony even just to say. You have to take a second. You’ve been so patient this entire time, but stars—this one makes you need a moment. You’re so glad his eyes are clamped shut behind his fingers right now because yours lose focus trying to mask the absolutely debilitating wave of arousal that sinks down hot through your stomach.

Even when you regain the ability to speak, the ability to form a safe and proper response to the bombshell he just dropped on you completely evades you.

You purposefully don't say that you're already helplessly attached to him, that the colors of the galaxy somehow lost their brilliance the day you graduated to Knight, the day you left his side. You don't say that you want this so badly you can feel it in your neck, that it would probably break you in half if he said no to this now. Though it's the honest-to-Maker truth, you know discovering this information will only cause your Master to further distance himself from you, and somehow that thought alone is a million times worse than being denied the opportunity to be this close to him. Even… even if what you end up sharing is more emotional than physical.

So you take a deep breath to center yourself, and choose your words very carefully.

“A compromise, then.”

Obi-Wan suddenly raises his head, turning around to look at you and blinking twice. “A what?”

“You told me to negotiate. What do we do as negotiators, hm?” You raise an eyebrow, giving him a gentle smile and trying not to curl your fingers into the fur underneath you with how hard it is to conceal your burning arousal. Do it for him. Do it for your Master, you’re in l—you… care about him, and you care about the things he cares about, even if doing so feels like it’ll rip you apart. “We compromise. Yes? So, let’s find one.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t see h—”

“If you were to…” You cut him off and look down, trying to find the most delicate way to phrase this. “If you were to… find other means to bring yourself to completion, would you be able to convince anyone listening that I was the one doing it?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t even blink this time. He just stares at you, holding himself like a statue in front of you. Finally, he seems to find himself. “I… I don’t—I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re stronger in the Force than anyone on this planet, Master,” you encourage softly, placing a hand back on his arm and squeezing this time. “I’ve felt it.”

“N-No,” he practically hiccups. “No, I mean I-I… I don’t know if… if I can.”

Your eyebrows narrow, a mixture of confusion and concern coloring your expression. “If you can…?”

He looks back at you almost desperately, his eyes practically begging you to figure it out so he doesn’t have to say it. Finally, Obi-Wan sighs, seeming to collapse in on himself with its intensity. “I—I’ve never… purposefully reached completion before,” he admits. “I’m—I’m not sure how to.”

Your eyes widen, wanting to kick yourself for making assumptions. Of course. Of course he’d follow his oath to its strictest interpretation, why would you ever think otherwise? “Oh, y-yes, of course not,” you stutter, sounding incredibly stupid and perfectly mirroring the embarrassed flush also painting your Master’s cheeks, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s alright,” he holds up a hand. “We simply… view such things differently. So long as you do not pass judgment, then neither shall I.”

You nod and look down at your hands, wondering how else you can attempt to tackle this predicament. “What if I…” You blink slowly, almost wanting to keep your eyes closed in case he’s offended by the idea but figuring you should have them open to read his responses. “What if I… don’t touch you?”

Now he just looks confused. “I’m sorry?”

You blush and clear your throat, obviously phrasing this wrong. “If you can modify the context of your projection, then I can… get you there. Without touching you.”

“How could you accomplish such a thing without tou—” Obi-Wan immediately cuts himself off when you lift your hand and close your eyes.

His thigh. The right one—you focus on it. There. Right above the bend of his knee folding over the edge of the mattress, you concentrate all the energy from your fingertips and reach out, connecting the two together. And then you take a deep breath and begin to draw your attention slowly upwards.

Your Master’s breath catches in his throat as you use the Force to delicately trail further up his leg, not laying a single hand on him as his muscles start to visibly tighten and quiver.

“Young one, I—” His breathing stutters when you keep your hand raised but let your head tilt and drop down towards your shoulder with your energy, slinking down the inside of his thigh like water and getting dangerously close to his— “Stars, hang on—”

You blink your eyes open at him and continue concentrating right there, letting your focus melt warm and thick along the muscle and squeeze it—

“Maker—” Obi-Wan gasps and drops his head back, his legs nearly spasming apart. “Maker, hang on, I…”

“Do you…” You breathe tightly, flicking your eyes down to the way he’s fisting the fur under his hands and subconsciously flexing his hips up just the slightest bit. Even though the Force, his body feels good. Strong, sturdy, and braced tight under your attention. “Do you want me to keep doing this? I can… go higher.”

“You can…? The—the Force isn’t—” Obi-Wan groans, his eyes clamping shut, “—isn’t meant to be used in such… in such… If I’m to break my oath, young one, it needn’t be so… so blasphemous—”

Trying to conceal the hot sparks of arousal deep in your stomach, you simply allow your metaphysical hand to continue resting right at the juncture of his hip and thigh, waiting for a real answer. You bite your lip and wait for him to tell you to either cut it out or to keep going. He doesn’t even have to say it out loud if he doesn’t want to—he can just slide it under the impassable door still separating him from you, the door you’re eventually going to get him to unlock himself.

His back is to you, so you can only see a bit of his face from this angle, but you can hear him loud and clear when he opens his mouth and whispers to you, barely louder than a breath. “Go higher.”

Adrenaline rockets through your veins and slowly, your fingers curl in thin air while your gentle energy wraps itself around his cock.

Both of Obi-Wan’s hands instantly fly up to his face and he releases a tight, longing whimper into his palms, and you feel almost as desperate as he sounds. You can sense the ghost of his thickness in your hand, and the way he’s already throbbing for it is like pure spice to you.

You can’t stop your crossed legs from shuffling and rotating your body to face his hunched spine more directly, just taking a second and allowing him to adjust to the sensation of you just holding him between his legs like this. Your fingers rest gently along his pulsing skin while he hides from you, and if only to get a little bit more of a reaction for your own sake, your thumb just barely angles to delicately brush up under his frenulum.

Obi-Wan shudders and makes a choking noise behind his palms, and oh good Maker, you really want to see his face. You know it’ll probably never happen unless you take your own initiative, but you also don’t want to overstep and snap him out of this blissful reverie. Still, something compels you to be so gentle about it that he hopefully won’t even notice.

You start to slowly work the length of him and squeeze his cock a bit more firmly, but a tendril of your energy slowly slithers upwards, so quiet and full of caution that it hardly even counts. Very carefully, you start to flatten the lifeforce from your other palm over his stomach and trail it up, gradually urging him to stretch his slouched figure upright and then eventually start to tip backwards, never once letting your focus on his throbbing erection falter.

Your courageous efforts bestow prosperous rewards. Obi-Wan’s hands drag down the length of his face and he makes it almost too easy to keep pressing him back—back back back until his muscles give up what little fight they were putting up against it and his shoulders are dropping down to the mattress, his head falling into your lap.

“There we go,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough to softly encourage him if he’s listening but avoiding a break in his focus if he’s not. “That’s not so bad.”

“It isn’t,” Obi-Wan gasps up at you, his eyes tightly closed but his jaw slack and his handsome features screwed up in rapture. “Oh, no, it’s… it’s really… rea—good.”

You bite your lip and your cunt flexes hard between your legs without your permission, feeling so empty. If you’re being honest, only touching him through the Force causes your hand to become increasingly bold, also feeling too empty. Obi-Wan’s head rolls to the side and he pants hot air against the thin black fabric covering your thighs as you tighten your hold around him just slightly and start to move up and down his cock in earnest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, the dirty word and rasp in his voice contrasting brilliantly with the proper Coruscanti accent and the crisp enunciation behind it. “Fuck, this feels so good, I—”

His fingers grab at the fur covering the mattress top and pull at it, his adam’s apple bobbing sharp along the arching column of his throat as he groans and twists his head around in your lap. He confesses it like it’s so wrong, but it can’t be wrong when he fits so perfectly in your hand? How can this be wrong when it’s the only pleasure you can possibly give him that’s anywhere near close enough to match the way you feel when he’s around? Even then, it’s but a fraction.

Your gaze flickers briefly from his face to check your progress with his body, and—stars, there’s a startling wet spot staining the front of his pale trousers, his cock tenting up shameless and needy for you to ache and throb just as desperately for in return. Fuck, he deserves this, he deserves more—

“I can—I can make it better—” you can’t help but gasp, your eyebrows slanting upwards with need. “Oh fuck, I can make it so much better than this for you, Obi-Wan—”

“You…?” He blinks his stormy eyes open and sounds like he’s about to explode. “This can be—” he chokes out, “—better?”

You can’t stop yourself. Your pussy is clamped up so tight between your legs and Maker, you want to reward him for being so good to you, give him true adoration instead of phantom touches. You don’t think before you’re moving out from under him and slinking down onto the floor, slipping in between his spread thighs. You use the Force with a bend of your finger to tug his pants down just enough, just enough to let the swollen tip of his cock peak through the waistband, and then your head is dropping into his lap as you let it slide into your hot mouth.

Obi-Wan lifts his head and snarls at you—and something across the room shatters as you widen your throat for him and slowly sink down his length, curling your finger to stretch his hemline further as you go. His fingers aren’t gentle when they fist into your hair and neither is the way he immediately twists it sideways, feeling like he’s trying to pull you off and shove you down on him at the same time.

You’re stuck between going as slow as you physically can to drag this out and giving him the best oral you’ve ever given to make him dream about this for the rest of his life. You want him to want this as badly as you have for so many years. You want him to fall into this Darkness with you, to crave you and what you can give to him so much that he’ll never want to leave you again.

So you make it wet. You make it soft and slow and wet, switching between sucking gently at the tip and swirling your tongue around it, and then inching his length down your throat and swallowing around the thick girth of it once you can’t fit anymore in your mouth. Obi-Wan is just an absolute mess about it—he can’t sit still, he’s tugging uselessly on your hair, whimpering out his bliss into the quiet room while you close your eyes and ignore his squirming, just taking your sweet time enjoying him and the way he feels.

He tastes exquisite. Maybe it’s just because all your broken, stupid brain can think right now is slightly varying forms of my Master’s cock is in my mouth and it’s fucking leaking while you slowly nurse from it with your tongue, but stars—he tastes exquisite.

He’s swollen. Throbbing. Aching for you. Releasing precum from the tip like his body is producing way too much of it after decades of neglect and just needs to get it all out at once. Shifting and writhing underneath you but managing to never move his hips or cock a single inch away from the soft attention you’re giving him. You can feel his smooth skin pulse against your tongue as you continue your lazy pleasuring, finally giving him what you’ve both been denied for so long and steadily swallowing down the spoils of your endeavors.

“—Wait, wait, Maker—stop,” you faintly hear gasped from above you not long after you even begin, and it takes the sum of all your efforts to unlodge his throbbing cock from your throat and pull away from him.

“I’m sorry,” you exhale automatically, trying not to slur your words as a bit of drool slides down your chin. “I’m s’sorry, Obi, I should’ve asked before I—”

“Something’s… n-not right,” Obi-Wan interrupts you and lifts himself up to his elbows, his abdominal muscles heaving and a wild, frenzied look in his startlingly bright eyes. “My stomach was—I-I felt—”

Heat blooms through you along with a realization, and your eyelids begin to droop slightly at just how sexy it is—the fact that this man, this fully grown, red-blooded, warrior of a man is currently teetering on the precipice of his very first ever orgasm, and you’re the only one with the power to give it to him.

You shuffle backwards slightly, grabbing hold of his thighs and squeezing to get his attention. “Hey. It’s okay, relax.”

Obi-Wan nods his head vigorously down at you, the exact opposite of relaxed.

“Listen to me,” you urge quietly, trying to ignore the sight of his thick, swollen cock twitching restlessly against his abdomen, precum still steadily dribbling at the tip. Is your mouth watering? “This is it. You’ll need to start projecting when you’re ready. It’ll be tricky, but not impossible. You’ll just have to imagine you’re inside me when it happens.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head vigorously from side to side, vehemently opposed.

“No, I don’t—” He croaks, “—I don’t know what it’s like, I won’t be able to—”

“Doesn’t my mouth feel similar at least?” You ask, looking down at his cock once more.

“I-I—” Obi-Wan sputters, “I don’t know, young one—you tell me!”

Okay, well. He… makes a valid point.

You settle back on your knees even further, gazing at your Master thoughtfully. His chest continues to rise and fall with heavy breaths, a thin sheen of sweat coating his temples and a mild flush high in his cheeks, but his eyes have regained a bit of their focus. “You can just try to imagine the, uh,” you try, your cunt nearly convulsing with burning need at the mere sight of him, “the same positioning and sensation from… earlier?”

“Alright, I can…” Obi-Wan nods, though his hands are shaking. “I’ll do the best I…”

You can’t help but lean forward to press a soft, encouraging kiss to his thigh, and he jerks under your touch. You try it again, receiving the same result, and it makes you pause for just a minute longer.

“I’m nervous,” he blurts unceremoniously after a moment of stillness, as if you hadn’t noticed. “Oh stars, I’m nervous, I—”

“Obi-Wan,” you let your voice lull, your hands squeezing gently around the bend of his knees once more. “Calm down. Clear your mind.”

He hiccups and you wait. You wait with your mouth a few inches away from his cock, waiting for his breathing to slow and for him to follow your lead.

Can you hear me? You murmur through the Force, and he quickly whimpers and nods. Focus your thoughts.

You gently kiss at his tensing thighs once again, and he doesn’t flinch away from you this time. His breathing slows into a calmer, steadier rhythm, letting you trail your lips gently along the curve of his leg.

Will you let me try something? You ask after a moment, opening your mouth just the slightest bit to brush your tongue out and taste his skin.

“Y-Yes,” Obi-Wan says quietly, his breath stuttering through the word.

And—perhaps you shouldn’t have, but you give him something; a suggestion, more than anything else. You give him a… visual. A reference to guide his mind through the Force.

You, still in your black robe, slowly standing up from between his legs. Widening your stance to straddle his lap, pull you robes up just enough, and then adjust your hips just slightly over the head of his cock.

Obi-Wan inhales sharply at the vision, his eyes clamping tightly shut against it in vain. He can close his eyes, turn away, hide his face all he wants—he can’t escape the way your body looks as it slowly begins to sink down on his.

At the exact same time, you lower your mouth around his cock once more, and you try to make it as close to the sensation as possible. You don’t even move your tongue, you simply lift your soft palate and close your lips around his girth, beginning to carefully bob up and down along his length in time to the image you’re conjuring of you riding him.

Only, you already feel his balls tightening up and his body starting to go rigid with tension once again, and you can sense him still wanting to resist his approaching orgasm. It’s okay, Master, you encourage quietly through the vision, it’s okay, just let it come easy.

“I—I’m not—” he shakes his head back and forth against the bed frantically, his breathing getting shallower and almost immediately picking back up to where it was before you stopped. “I d-don’t want—”

Stop fighting, you tell him, continuing to mimic the sensation of him thrusting into your aching, neglected cunt with slow and steady movements of your throat. Don’t run from it, let it take you.

He grits your name tightly in response and subconsciously begins to rock his hips up to match your unhurried pace, his ragged breathing gasping out into the quiet room and gradually increasing in volume and desperation the longer he stubbornly tries to hold out against it.

You know not strong enough to use the Force to coax it out of him. You can’t alter your technique and break the illusion, either. So you have to resort to desperate measures.

There’s enough remaining wherewithal to your mind that prevents you from permanently damaging his clothing when you tear his robes open with the Force and allow the metaphysical image of yourself to rip them apart with your hands. Obi-Wan gasps when both versions of you reach up his bare torso at the same time and dig your nails into his chest.

Master—you demand, taking his cock down your throat as far as you can go and then clawing hard down his stomach—cum.

And thank everything good and right in the universe that he remembers at the very last second to start projecting, because being this close to someone as strong in the Force as Obi-Wan when he finally succumbs to his first taste of the Dark Side is just a fucking atomic missile straight to your nervous system.

It’s all you can do to just remember to keep swallowing.

The projection he casts out through the shockwave is utterly flawless—brilliantly composed, looking and feeling so authentic and overwhelming even from this distance that there should be no issue at all convincing any s’Ziscari in the wide vicinity who are tuning in right now.

Except—then you hear it. Through the roaring pleasure of his thoughts, a flicker of his subconscious he’s unable to mask through the mind blowing bliss.

Is she…? Maker above, she’s drinking it—

A ragged groan tears through the silence of the room, his cock pulsing spectacularly on your tongue. He just keeps cumming, and cumming, and so you just have to keep swallowing, and swallowing. You suppose you should’ve expected this from a fully grown man who lived a life of celibacy, but what would typically be a rather short moment with anyone else subsequently goes on long enough to where Obi-Wan is actually able to lazily raise his head up from the mattress and simply watch you continue to swallow his load, dazed and reverent in his stare, glassy blue eyes trained on the hypnotic movements your jaw and throat make around him. The remaining traces of whatever visual he attempted to maintain immediately flicker out of existence, replaced instead by the sight of your mouth around his cock, diligently taking down each rope of cum he gives you.

When he finally stops throbbing, you reluctantly let his cock fall from your mouth and slowly stand up as the botched projection fizzles out completely. His gaze eventually follows the movement like he’s on a five second delay.

“So, uh…” Your voice is hoarse. “We… need to have sex.”

“Alright,” he agrees dreamily, his eyes lazily dragging down your body. “Alright, we can have… I… Wait, what?”

“You, uh. I know it wasn’t intentional, but you might’ve, uh…” You shuffle awkwardly from side to side, wondering why you’ve chosen now of all moments to become shy with him. You’re literally still savoring the taste of his release in your mouth. “You might’ve accidentally projected a very specific thought towards the end there and let everyone know that we weren’t actually doing what we’re technically supposed to be doing.”

“What did… what did I think?” The question would likely be nonsense in literally any other situation, but you understand. And truthfully, for the life of you, you can’t find it within yourself to feel even a little bit mad about it, not when it means you can continue doing this together. You can’t even conjure up a single shred of disappointment in his failure, it’d just be a lie.

“Doesn’t matter,” you assure him, your heart continuing to pound. You know you should make your next move now while he’s still so loopy, the post-orgasm bliss causing his signature to vibrate with pulsing endorphins as he blinks up at you slowly from the bed. “Though we won’t be able to do it for a little bit, just uh. Just for general… anatomical reasons. But that should’ve at least counted for… initiating the Ritual, so I don’t think we have to worry about time anymore.”

Obi-Wan just stares at you, his Force signature feeling more serene and spaced out than you’ve ever sensed before. Oh Maker, how you wish you felt the same. You swallow thickly, still tasting his hard orgasm on your tongue, and then try not to clamp your thighs together with how embarrassingly turned on you are. Anyone with any experience whatsoever would know exactly what you’re going through with just a mere glance—you’re biting your lip with your entire body is subtly crumpled in towards your swollen, neglected pussy—and your Master has been watching you struggle through it this entire time.

“Are you alright?” He asks dumbly, finally managing to at least push himself upright, still completely unaware or unconcerned at his softening cock on full display for you and your starving libido. “You’re… shaking.”

“I—won’t die,” is the only serious assurance you can make to both him and yourself right now that’ll ease your suffering the smallest bit. The last thing you want right now is to come on too strong and snap him back to his senses, bringing everything back to square one. “Just, uh… r-really worked—worked up. Trying to just. C-Cool it?”

Your fingers flex at your sides because no matter what you try, you just can’t stop thinking about his. They’re right there. They’re so close, so strong and thick and—

“Aren’t you…” He trails off, letting his head tilt and then drop to his shoulder with a combination of confusion and exhaustion. “Aren’t you going to…?”

“To what?” You prompt shortly, your hands suddenly clenching into fists to deal with another violent wave of arousal at how unbelievably drunk he still looks. Maker, you did that. That’s all you.

“s’Zerthia said all—” Obi-Wan murmurs, blinking long lashes lazily up at you, “—all Jedi must… participate.”

Fuck. Just hearing him provide you an excuse to give into the boiling arousal causes you to suddenly break out into a sweat. You don’t know if he wants you to get yourself off or if he’s indirectly implying he wants to help, but you’re so far beyond desperate that you jump at the chance as soon as he so much as hints at the opportunity.

Very slowly, you move forward and lift one trembling knee to brace next to his thigh on the mattress, and then carefully swing your other leg over his lap, lowering yourself into a straddle in the same exact position he attempted to project earlier. You’re so unbelievably cautious about his cock, making sure you don’t accidentally touch it and jolt him awake. Instead of your newfound proximity scaring him away like you feared though, he stays so… docile. Still so relaxed from his very first orgasm that he even rests his large palms over the thin fabric covering your thighs, letting the loose silk drape and fold over his hands as he drags them up and down.

His eyes follow your trembling fingers as you work at the knot tying the material around your body, your cunt throbbing between your legs at how he’s just… staring. His eyelids are dipped slightly, breathing so calm and slouched under you, pliant and waiting.

The thin fabric slowly parts only enough to reveal the valley between your bare chest to him, and you watch his eyes fall down the thin strip of skin and catch on the dark line of your panties riding low on your hips. Maker, you can’t help but remember his terror at even glimpsing the two acolytes taking off their robes earlier—the way his eyes bounced around and how his cheeks lost whatever color they had left to them as soon as he finally made himself look. Now, though. Now he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the soft flesh of your tummy, the way your nipples are still covered by the thin fabric of your slightly parted robe but are impossible to miss while your breasts subtly move with your breathing.

You gently call one of his wrists to your hand with the Force and Obi-Wan is either mentally or physically too weak to resist your will. He allows you to catch his hand and slowly lead it downwards with both of your smaller ones to the part of your body that’s longed for his attention for years, though now it’s absolutely weeping for it.

You don’t want to scare him. You don’t want to scare him. Oh Maker, you need him to be brave for you right now, or at least just continue to be stupefied. You can work with stupefied, but you cannot work with panic, especially when you feel your own wanting to rise up the more you drag this out.

When the tips of his fingers brush against the waistband of your panties, Obi-Wan’s hand pushes under it without your guidance.

You’re throbbing. It’s been years in the making. Unable to stop the way your thighs contract and you lift your hips against his palm as it steadily curves down the slope of your soft curls, the sight of the finish line so within reach makes you reckless and too quick. You can’t help it. When he gets hesitant and eventually slows down to a halt right above your slit, you don’t even think before you’re suddenly giving his wrist an abrupt shove with the Force, pulling his hand down before he’s ready and forcing his middle finger deep through the soaking cleft of your pussy.

Your shameless moan of his name comes out sounding so grateful—you pour everything you have into it and sag into Obi-Wan’s chest at the feeling, but he startles and all but rips his hand out of your underwear before you can stop him. He was a hair’s breadth from touching your clit and the denial of it—the sudden turnaround from your goal is just so massively overwhelming that tears suddenly spring to your eyes.

You can just barely make out the sight of him staring down at his trembling hand between the two of you, your slick shining wet and hot along the length of his finger.

“Stars,” he rasps, blinking his wide, sapphire gaze up to yours—and then he quite suddenly looks alarmed. “Did I—Did I hurt you?” Obi-Wan gasps, his energy beginning to outright seize with distress while you blink rapidly and try not to crumble on his lap.

“No—I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m just… oh, fuck, I n-need it,” you stammer. “Oh fuck, I need it Master, I’m so sorry—I’m trying to be calm but—”

“What is it, little dove?” He urges, reaching his hand up to your face and flicking his eyes back and forth between yours, sounding almost as panicked as you do from your desperation. “What do you need?”

“Oh stars, Obi-Wan, I need you to just—” You can’t fit anything into words, a tear finally making its way down your cheek when you clamp your eyes shut in frustration. You just need him to understand, to give you what you’ve been craving for so long—but when you blink your eyes back open, his troubled expression has suddenly resolved itself.

Your Master’s hands immediately grab tight to your hips and twist you around, easily tossing you back up onto the mattress. The jostle of bouncing back into the soft fur startles you, but not nearly as much as when he climbs over your body and braces an elbow next to your head, gently placing the tips of his fingers to your temple.

He pushes carefully but firmly against your natural mental barriers, flexing the energy shields inwards gently enough to not hurt you but with enough force to let you know he’s entirely capable of breaking through should you refuse to let him in.

So you do. You let him in without a single thought, never mind a second one. Obi-Wan gasps as your shields all but collapse for him that easily, and then he’s finally breaching the surface of your thoughts.

“Oh—Maker above, little one,” he grits almost immediately, his forehead dropping to your shoulder and his other hand wrapping tight around your arm as he struggles to acclimate to the blinding distress you’re experiencing. “Collect—” he groans as your cunt clamps down at the rasp of his broken voice, “—collect yourself. I can’t—can’t think—”

Oh, no, it’s too much. It’s way too much, even just having him inside your head without being able to read him in return—it’s too much for you. You start hyperventilating and instead of wanting him out, you just want to drown out the sensation of everything else. The endlessly pulsing, aching throb between your legs that you’ve been dealing with for so long, the way you can feel his cock dragging against your tummy from this angle and how much you already want it in your mouth again, the way your nipples are so hard right now that even this soft fabric feels so rough and sharp against—

Your robe suddenly rips itself off your chest, and you whimper up at the ceiling as you dig your fingers into thick fur and writhe under him, almost completely naked and just desperate for him to do something, to at least just use his hands or his mouth to make you feel bet—

Obi-Wan’s head drops and his blazing mouth opens hot around your nipple, his tongue rolling soft and slick up under the hard bud.

You choke out the first part of his name and you barely even have a flicker of a thought—a brief flash of a rabid, baser desire you’re not even able to consciously recognize before you feel his jaw opening and his teeth closing gently around it, biting down just hard enough to make you spasm bright and urgent between your legs. “Oh, fuck—”

As soon as you feel the pleasure and twisting ache spark deep in your core, Obi-Wan flutters his eyes shut and wedges his hand back into your panties, humming low in his throat when your legs jerk apart for him.

This time, your clit is the very first thing he touches.

He zeroes in on it. The tip of his finger starts to rub it exactly how you’d do it to yourself, exactly the right angle and speed and pressure that your body suddenly feels massively overheated and dizzy from it. It blindsides you. It makes sense he’d be able to do this, after all, but for some reason, the whole thing just absolutely blindsides you.

“Maker,” you whimper at the ceiling, soft and pitched high in your throat, eyes rolling back when Obi-Wan gently bites down on your nipple again and continues to work to relieve you even as every muscle in your body feels like it’s tightening up.

“Stars—” he whispers when he pulls away, “This—this feels incredible, Padawan.”

You moan and roll your hips against his hand, on cloud nine at just how he’s slowly allowing himself to become filthier with you, to lower himself in all his righteous beliefs and descend into delicious sin with you, and—

—wait, did he just…?

Your cunt clamps down hard with realization as he continues massaging your clit better than you’ve ever even done it yourself. Maker, it shouldn’t turn you on so much but it does, hearing that word in this context. Padawan. Padawan, holding her legs open while her Master explores her pussy. Padawan, moaning desperately as her orgasm buzzes deep down inside with a rising, threatening resonance. Padawan, Padawan, Padawan—

“Oh, you liked that,” Obi-Wan remarks tightly, taking a second to tug on your clit. You nearly start to cry again, your insides pulling up and going rigid at the sensation. “I heard it, little one. You like it when I call you that?”

“Oh I like it when you do f-fucking anything,” you choke out helplessly, your words starting to slur together. “Oh fuck, you’re so amazing, you’re so good at everything, you’re the best Jedi in the whole entire galaxy Master, you’re so much better th—”

“My, you’re agreeable like this, aren’t you?” Obi-Wan grits, his touches growing stronger and quicker and rocketing you straight to the edge of madness. “Shall I take that to heart, my darling little Padawan? Or did you say such flattering things to the oth—”

“Wait!” You suddenly exclaim, desperately trying to push his hands away. “Oh, nonononono—wait, wait, wait, I—I-I’m about to cum—I need to—”

His hand yanks itself out of your underwear once more and you take giant, gasping breaths and try to compose yourself at least somewhat, but then your Master is quickly scrambling down your body and using the Force to rip your panties down your hips—

“Obi-Wan, wait—” you choke out, “that isn’t—you don’t… h-have to…”

He looks up at you, dark brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’ll be able to—y-you don’t—” You have to take a few gasping breaths and remember how to speak Basic. “I used my mouth on you before because I… I wanted to. If—If you don’t want to do that, you don’t have to. It’s not… oh fucking stars above, it’s not n-necessary.”

“Are you telling me this because you don’t want me to?” He immediately asks, though you both already clearly know the answer to that considering how exposed your wild thoughts are to him right now.

“Ah, no I, uh… I just.” You try to clear the thickness from your throat and you feel your body tremble while you focus as much effort as possible into trying to explain. “I just want to be sure I’m not taking advantage of you, that’s all, I—I want you to know the truth about these things. It’s not… necessary, b-but.”

“But.” He repeats the word meaningfully as he glances back down at your weeping cunt, nodding slowly to himself.

And then your Master leans in, flutters his eyes shut, and slides his warm tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever.

“Obi—Wan—!?” You gasp, somewhere between a squeak and a squeal, your entire upper body launching upwards around his head as your clit is immediately enveloped into a slick, dexterous furnace.

Hold still, you hear his voice warn through the Force, sounding so much closer than you’ve ever heard him before. Whether that can be attributed to the fact that the command came directly from wherever he is inside your head or whether it’s simply because his tongue is now tracing gentle circles around your clit as you whimper pitifully into the quiet of the dimly lit room, you’re not sure. All you know is that his mouth feels like velvet between your legs and his beard is scraping across your thighs and your fingers have buried themselves in his hair without your conscious permission.

Hold still, young one, he urges once more, but you just close your eyes and moan shamelessly at it this time, opening your legs wider for him. His voice, it’s… it’s maddening like this, coming directly from your own thoughts. Deep, precise, somehow sounding so true, so much clearer and full-bodied without your pesky ears in the way. Your hips are subconsciously rolling slowly against the lower half of his face when Obi-Wan apparently decides he’s had enough.

An invisible energy wraps around each of your individual limbs and snaps them against the mattress without any warning. You whimper high in your throat, arms and legs held so firmly against the bed with the Force that your internal struggles aren’t able to be translated outwardly; he doesn’t allow your body a single centimeter to move under him, no matter how hard you fight it. Which means you have to lay there and just take the way Obi-Wan’s hot mouth continues to lick and kiss at your clit slowly, taking all the time in the universe to properly explore you between the legs he’s forced apart.

“Obi—” you croak breathlessly at the ceiling, feeling a familiar heat start to burn hot and tight through your core, “Obi, I—I have to p-project—before I—ah!—before you—before you ma-make me cu—ugh, f-fuck—I have t-to—”

Then project, he encourages simply, gently fluttering his tongue over your clit. You gasp and he hums, murmuring through the Force once more to you. We’re not hiding anymore. They’ll all know I’m using my mouth on you like this. It’s alright. Let them know.

You realize you’re going to cum the second you hear your Master’s voice say the words using my mouth on you like this while he slowly sucks on your clit, and you barely have enough wherewithal to gulp in a giant breath and begin projecting your signature as far across the palace and surrounding city as physically possible before your body shatters hot into searing euphoria under him.

Obi-Wan groans deep in his throat and holds you perfectly still under him as you cum with a ragged, hoarse wail of his name, giant waves of white hot bliss beginning to radiate through the Force from you with spectacular power. The contractions are so much more pronounced when it’s one of the only sets of muscles in your body he’s granted permission to move. It’s like everything is concentrated and multiplied there because of it. You can feel each individual spasm your floor muscles make as they convulse against his tongue, how each blazing shot of ecstasy that shatters through your body wrings more and more wetness from your cunt into your Master’s mouth.

Never. Ever ever ever. Has anyone done something so mind blowingly sexy to you. Nobody. Ever. He’s a virgin, you frantically remember as Obi-Wan purrs softly into the folds of your pussy while it cums all over him.

Your thoughts, young one, you can just barely make out his voice remind you gently, just as gently as he sucks on your clit through the aftershocks, somehow sounding even more aroused than he did before.

After allowing your projection to flicker out of existence with a putter, you’re completely dazed. Incapable of moving regardless of the way he keeps you pinned with the Force long after he pulls away, slowly moves back up your body and waits while you work to regain your bearings. You don’t even want to open your eyes right now, knowing he’s looking down at your peaceful expression while you work to catch your breath. You’re too stupid with pleasure you almost don’t even process the soft touch of something against your lips.

You’re lovely.

The thought is so quiet you don’t even recognize it isn’t your own. Not until he keeps pressing his lips to yours so sweetly, not knowing to do anything else when your mind is too fractured with ecstasy to unconsciously act as his compass like before. Everything is innocent and gentle and not reminiscent of the fact that the robes you’re both wearing are wide open and your mouths tasted of each other even before he kissed you.

Instead of melting into the soft touches, though, they just start to burn you alive, the thick fog of your orgasm clearing more and more with each gentle press of his lips and your need for him steadily growing. He’s kissing you. Master Kenobi is kissing you for a few precious, heart stopping seconds at a time before pulling away, pausing to look at your face each time to make sure your eyes are still closed, before leaning down and carefully pressing his lips to yours again.

The only part you can’t stand is that he won’t even let you move your jaw to kiss him back.

Kiss me, Obi-Wan, you urge desperately through the Force, not wanting to interrupt to speak.

“I am, little one,” he replies between kisses, and the sincerity in his tone tells you he’s not purposefully teasing you. No, this is him kissing you, genuinely, the only way he knows how to.

Let me— you start to struggle in earnest against his hold on you, —please, let me—

The warm breath from his nose puffs softly against your cheek with a quiet little sound from far back in his throat, and then you suddenly gain the ability to move from the neck up.

You immediately part his lips with yours and Obi-Wan pulls back just the slightest bit in response, but your neck lifts up to compensate as you lick deep into his warm mouth. He gasps at the foreign sensation and loses his concentration for a split second, enough for you to break free of it completely. Your hands quickly fly up to cradle his face as soon as they can move and your fingers hook around the thick beard blanketing his sharp jawline, urging him back down into you.

Your legs come up to wrap around his lower back and he sags against your strong will with a needy groan, dropping down closer and obediently keeping his mouth open for you to taste. As soon as he presses his body into yours, his cock strains and drags against your lower stomach, already throbbing hot and leaking precum along the soft hills of your skin.

Maker, you want it but somehow you… you don’t. You just want to savor tonight as long as you physically can, keep holding him and kissing him like this for another few hours at least before you try to take his cock, but he’s unintentionally grinding it against you while his tongue shyly dances with yours, needy and already raring to go in his own timid way.

Do you want it, Master? You finally murmur to him, running your fingers through his hair and gently biting his bottom lip, scooting your hips up to let him rub himself against something better than your tummy. You feel… ready.

The only response you get from him is a shuddering, helpless moan into your mouth and you hold him tighter to you, grinding your still sensitive cunt up against his cock while he pulls hard at the soft fur next to your head. Your feel your soaking pussy lips part around the solid curve of his length and gradually coat the underside of him in slick with every gentle circle and roll your hips make, and Obi-Wan finally pulls away from your mouth to drop his forehead to your neck.

“Yes, I—” he moans into you skin, “Oh stars, I want it.”

With a gentle wave of your hand, you use the Force to drop his hips down to the proper angle and tilt the head of his cock to line him up perfectly.

And now this is the part you don’t want to rush. This is when you take Obi-Wan Kenobi’s virginity. You’ll savor just being able to remember this for the rest of your fucking life. You’ll see him in Council meetings years from now and be reminded that you’re the only person in the galaxy to know the thickness of him as he rests heavy up against your entrance, the way his voice presses deliciously tight in his throat as he gasps out into the quiet room. You’re the only one who will know that sound, that sound is yours, that sound belongs to—

“Padawan,” he grits, hips stuttering into you while you wrap your arms around his shoulders, “your thoughts—”

You groan up at the ceiling and your pussy tightens at the reminder that he can still hear you, but your body is just too bold and desperate for it. Your thoughts begin to flare bright, growing more possessive by the second, and you can’t even wait for him this time. Every single muscle in Obi-Wan’s body goes rigid when you tighten your grip around him and roll your hips up into his cock, letting it break you open nice and slow.

It stretches you wide with a deliciously sharp fullness and pleasure rips through you as Obi-Wan instinctively tries to lift off you and away from it, but you’re clinging too tightly to him. Your whole body hovers off the mattress to stay with him.

“You said—” he gasps, “—it wouldn’t h-hurt—oh—”

“It doesn’t,” you groan, continuing to tighten your legs and hoist yourself up, lifting your hips to take his cock deeper inside you. “Oh, Maker, it feels so fucking good, Obi—feel it—”

His elbows shake where they’re locked and braced against the mattress but he drops his head and holds strong like this while you work your muscles to take him as far as you can from this shameful angle. Your body feels like it’s on fire while you desperately cling to him and the length of your robe brushes against the mattress while you just keep trying to get him deeper inside you—

Suddenly something grabs hard at your hips and tries shoves you downwards and off his cock, but you want it too badly. You summon the hidden strength of your energy and then channel it into your legs where they’re hooked around the curve of his lower back.

Obi-Wan chokes at the unexpected resistance and his elbows buckle, dropping you both down to his forearms with a jolt, but you’re too busy mentally clashing with each other for it. The result is… well, it’s maddening.

Every time your pussy is able to swallow him more than halfway, you pull back and let his energy shove you down his length—but then dig back in right before you drop completely and use the Force to bend your legs and fight the uphill battle to his cock once more. Your Master gasps, beads of sweat gathering at his temples while you fight him with every ragged breath in your body to keep fucking him.

Except—he’s the fighter. And you should’ve known.

You’re no match for the sudden blast of energy from him, easily hinging your legs apart from around his back and then ripping you down off his cock with a wet sound, bouncing back down into the mattress once more.

In order to stop the desperate tears of defeat from coming to your eyes, you immediately clamp them shut and twist your face away from Obi-Wan’s, but he makes a low growl and uses the same ferocious royal blue energy to keep your knees pinned open and wide against the bed.

And then drops his hips and rocks back into you, giving you those last few precious inches of his thickness you weren’t able to get at before. It hits sharp nirvana up inside you with his thighs pressed tight to your hips like this. His name rips itself from your throat while Obi-Wan clenches his jaw and starts to lose himself in the pleasure, holding you down into the bed with the Force while he allows your desperation to guide him to the perfect angle and speed to sate you.

He’s so gifted, so strong in the Force, he’s able to use your mind as his anchor and give you pleasure beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. And in return, you want to do the same to him. You want to read his thoughts, instantly be able to give him everything he never knew he needed—

“You do,” your Master chokes out, “darling, you already—”

Everything inside you surges up at the admission, aching that much harder to hear him, to hear everything the way he can hear you. The tips of your fingers find his temple, slick with sweat, and you press just hard enough to tell him your intent.

“Let me in,” you whisper, wicked arousal swirling tight in your lower muscles as they start to bear down on his cock.

“I—I can’t—” Obi-Wan gasps breathlessly, “I can’t—”

“Open—open the door, Master,” you beg, “please, open th—”

“Fuck,” he cuts you off, his voice rising in pitch while his his hips snap just a little harder against yours and his rhythm falters, “—It’s too good, Padaw—I’m going t-to—stars, are you—are you r-ready?”

Some terrifying, swirling darkness manifests itself deep in your thoughts. It rises up, part of the desperate, hidden subconscious that you’re typically capable of stifling. No, it says, don’t let this be over. Not yet. You don’t want to go to sleep alone, wake up and remember you’ll never have this again. You need there to be a next time, and a time after it.

You try your hardest to push the longing downwards when you recognize it, but your Master is too quick, too talented to deceive when he’s this close to you. He easily plucks it from your mind and expands it, enlarges the chaotic string of thoughts until you feel them pulsing at the edges of your consciousness.

And then Obi-Wan sees it all, immediately playing out in your memories as you helplessly watch on. Every desire you buried for him unearthed, every whimper you stifled with the back of your hand when you touched yourself at night and thought of him amplified. The years of repression, the blind hope that simply ignoring it would make it go away. How hard you worked to deaden the burst of affection that radiated through the Force when you finally saw him after two years apart. The circumstances behind the night you lost your virginity—not a long time ago, as he suggested before, but only just last year. So desperate in your loneliness and longing for his presence that you began routinely sneaking around and fucking other Knights—Guardians with blue sabers whose souls were just marginally close enough to Obi-Wan’s, and you thought of him the whole time. Every time.

But, perhaps, worst of all. The… fantasies.

He sees himself dropping to his knees and congratulating you for passing your trials by burying his tongue inside your warmth and telling you how proud of you he is. He sees you opening his trousers and slowly licking his cock while he meditates, trying to get him to break his concentration. He watches the two of you fucking in every conceivable position, how incredibly ready you always are to take him when he needs it. Most importantly, he recognizes your inherent, blazing desire to drag this out as long as physically possible, to permanently brand every moment in your memory to get you through his impending absence.

And then… then Obi-Wan does something unexpected. Something incredibly uncharacteristic.

You watch as he morphs the fantasies right before your eyes. He's still on his knees with his head between your legs, but now he’s telling you how proud he is of you for negotiating the mysterious, confidential deal that ended the Clone Wars. You’re licking his cock as the ship autopilots itself through the week-long journey back to Coruscant from s’Ziscari, letting him slowly cum in your mouth as he sprawls lazily in the captain’s chair. He’s taking you against the wall of your quarters after a mindless and dull Council meeting; you’re riding him quietly in his bed after lights-out at the temple; he’s rubbing your clit while he sits behind you and advises you on matters concerning your own Padawan you’ll be choosing sometime soon, two fingers deep and squeezing a bared nipple when he whispers in your ear how much he absolutely adores you.

Thoughts that aren’t your own begin to fill the empty spaces of your mind, a lovely pale blue tenor to harmonize gorgeously with the soft green alto of your own consciousness. The resulting color of your combined energies fills your soul with Light, a stunning turquoise of a color you’ve never loved more, one you wish you could live in for the rest of your life.

For every debased thought of yours he sees, he shows you one even more revealing. The way he used to dream of you at night, especially after a close battle where many Jedi and Clones fell, and then he’d wake up in a cold sweat with an erection pulsing feverish and so terribly shameful between his legs. How he tried to shove a pillow down there once to somehow relieve himself of the aching hardness, and then had to rip it away and launch it across the room with the Force when he realized he’d been dragging himself against it and thinking of you.

“I’m gonna—cum—” your voice scrapes across your throat, and you can already sense him throwing his beautiful consciousness out like a net. You match him with what little mental strength you have remaining, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your ankles around his lower back and pulling him down into you.

Obi-Wan’s energy keeps swirling a brilliant aquamarine with yours, presenting his every subconscious thought to you, one right after another, so quick you can barely keep up. How he’ll always be with you, no matter what. How the Maker himself won’t be able to drag him away from you now. How quiet jealousy still tugs at his heart just thinking about the fact that you broke your oath—before you both could do it together.

Everything swells up inside you and you scream when it finally crashes over, your blended signatures sealing themselves together permanently and then detonating in a debilitating shockwave that ripples the air around you. You’re blinded and deafened by its vivid energy, powerful and dazzling every shade between blue and green and Light and Dark, all balanced perfectly together.

You lay there in the gentle afterglow afterwards and feel your pussy still clamping tight to him, pulsing in random intervals while Obi-Wan slouches into you and every muscle in his body trembles with the comedown. Everything is right. Everything in you sparkles.

“Stars, Obi,” you start chuckling up at the ceiling, the sheer joy overwhelming you and bringing tears to your eyes. “Stars, did we just—”

“We just won the Clone Wars, my dear,” he slurs into the crook of your neck while his cock still throbs inside you, and you can feel the exhaustion creeping up his spine, every single thought in his mind completely dead at the moment.

“How long do you… do you think it’ll take before it’s over?” You ask quietly, brushing your fingers through his hair. Obi-Wan groans and buries his face deeper into your neck.

“Few months, maybe. Time for s’Ziscari…”

He stays like that for just a second, and you press your nose to him and breathe him in, marveling at how utterly gorgeous his signature is right now. Clear blue with the lightest touch of teal, rippling like quiet water in a crystal calm riverbed.

Lovely.

You keep softly playing with the hair at his nape, and then quickly wrap your arms around him when he goes to try to brace his forearms next to your shoulders and lift up just the slightest bit.

“Wait, don’t—it’s—” You bite your lip and feel him sink back down into your body without another word, clearly having only attempted it for appearances. “This is good, let’s just… stay for a second.”

He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even move, and—a few months, you think. A few months of his absence, of wondering where he is but never being able to ask. It burdens your heart, but you understand it’s necessary.

The Council may… grant me a position with a more permanent location after this mission, he responds quietly to your dip in the Force after a moment, too tired to even talk anymore and exhaustion weaving his every thought. On Coruscant.

Your heart pangs with sudden hope, and you know he can feel it. “They would do that?”

I could ask to oversee the s’Ziscari’s assimilation into our ranks, he offers alongside a stifled yawn into your collarbone.

He’d… request that? To be closer to you? But why?

He doesn’t hesitate before offering the words to you simply, not even considering them before they’re the only thought in his mind. Because I care for you more than there are stars in the sky. I always have.

Lovely.

No, no, not even, that’s just. Love. By itself.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan murmurs softly into your neck, and your soul feels like it grows wings.

You both lay there in silence for a long time after that, and it takes you even longer to realize he hasn’t succumbed to sleep yet, even as the aching fatigue weighs heavy on his back. He’s resisting it, keeping his eyes purposefully open against your neck while yours are blissfully shut.

“Master,” you eventually whisper up at the ceiling, and his cock twitches inside you. Oh stars, you’ll have to remember that. “Go to sleep.”

I have one more confession. The thoughts are slurred and distorted, barely conscious as he desperately tries to outlast the sleep trying to pull him under. I didn’t even want to mention it before because I didn’t know how this was all going to go, but… He blinks slowly against your neck even as his eyes droop, only just a few seconds from passing out with exertion. The Sh’inzith lasts six days, dove.

Your eyes pop open in shock just as his finally fall shut, and Obi-Wan stops fighting.

#WE OUT HERE #obi-wan kenobi x you #Obi-wan Kenobi X Reader #obi-wan X reader #obi-wan x you #smut #fanfic #no-droids

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dontaskmetodivide · 4 years ago

Text

migraine days

summary: Y/N experiences a migraine and Harry does his best to comfort her.

tw: total fluff

1,598 words !!

a/n: migraines really aren’t pretty, so this isn’t a very pretty one shot, but as someone who get them i really wanted to write something about what h would do to comfort his girl during them.

You knew the second that your vision went blurry and your face got tingly that you were having a migraine. The piercing headache that you could only describe as the feeling of going mad. You were used to them, they sucked but you were used to them. You got them every month or so, and usually when they happened you would shut off your phone, lie in bed crying and just try to focus on your breathing. But once you started dating Harry, they got slightly more manageable. Harry always knew exactly what to do and how you comfort you, which made the whole experience a little more bearable.

You called Harry over to your flat around 8 pm, you both deciding to watch a movie and eat ice cream until you fell asleep, but around 10 pm you felt the strain on your head.

You get up from the couch and go to the kitchen calmly, excusing yourself for a moment so that you can take your meds, hopefully in time to break the migraine before it gets too bad. Along with the small dissolvable tablet you take, you also chug a bunch of water, refilling the bottle twice before Harry enters the room.

“Y/N? What’re you doing?” He asks with a groggy voice, clearly tired from the late hour and all the work in the studio earlier in the day. His hands remain in the pocket of his sweatshirt.

You set the bottle down on the counter and squint your eyes, trying to see Harry’s face clearly as you speak. “I feel a migraine coming, is all.” You brush it off but he takes it more seriously, walking around the island to get closer to you.

“Oh, muppet.” His hands come up and cup your cheeks as he looks into your eyes. “Has the aura started yet?” He asks with concern laced in his voice, referring to the weird visual changes you encounter when it comes to your migraines.

You nod and close your eyes, the light beginning to cause a light pounding behind your eyes. He kisses your forehead and you grab onto the sides of his sweatshirt for balance.

“Want to head to the hospital?” He asks, and that was one thing you didn’t appreciate from Harry as much when your migraines would occur. He always wanted to take you to the hospital immediately, have you protected and cared for by trained professionals, and while it was very caring, you were stronger than that and could usually last a while before absolutely needing to go seek help. You always wanted to wait until you felt like you couldn’t anymore before going to the doctor.

“No, I’m okay H.” You tell him, shaking your head with your eyes glued shut.

“Let’s lay down, yeah?” He asks and you open your eyes, only to see spots, and agree with him as he urges you out of the kitchen. He leads you down the hall and to the bedroom, careful not to move too fast.

As you get into the bedroom he turns off the lights, only leaving on the soft glow from the bedside lamp as you crawl into bed and shuffle under the puffy comforter. The pain in your head has now grown tremendously, and the small throbbing behind your eyes has now turned to vigorous pulsating on the front hemisphere of your brain.

You don’t register that he’s left the room until you hear the door close softly, signaling that he’s returned. The bed dips next to your hip, so you open your eyes and pull the covers from your face slightly.

Harry is holding a cup of water and some aspirin, as if it would do anything to help, but you appreciate the gesture none the less. You sit up slightly and he places his hand on your hip as you grab the water and pills from him, throwing them into your mouth and chugging more water.

“Are you hot? Want me to turn up the AC?” He asks as you snuggle back under the covers.

“Yes please.” You squabble out as you squint your eyes shut and try to get comfortable. Harry has learned all the things he can possibly do to make you more comfortable when these things happen.

He knows that you like to bury yourself in blankets to try and block out the world, so the air conditioner temp needs be lowered so that you don’t overheat.

He swiftly gets up and goes into the hall, returning after a long second, and after another second you hear the blast of the vents being turned up. Harry comes around the bed and lays down beside you, placing a hand on your back over the sheets and rubbling softly.

You started having migraines at a pretty young age so you learned pretty early that going to sleep is the best way to endure the pain. Most times you can fall asleep and once you wake the migraine has turned to a small headache, but you aren’t always so lucky.

You manage to sleep for an hour and a half before you’re sitting up and hunching over the side of the bed, about ready to vomit all over the floor. Harry is already handing you the small trash bin from your bathroom, that he must’ve picked up whilst you were asleep, and holding your hair back, tying it in a loose low bun with a band from around his wrist.

You gag a couple times before you’re throwing up all the water you had previously consumed. “It’s okay, baby. Let it out.” Harry hums behind you as he traces his bitten fingernails over your back, scratching lightly. “You’re okay, I’m right here.”

After filling up the bucket way more than you’re proud of, your body begins to rest so you place it back on the ground, heaving from exhaustion. A silent cry begins to fill your chest from frustration and pain. Tears fall from your face onto your lap as your boyfriend cradles you into his chest and you grip onto his sweatshirt for dear life.

Crying always made the headaches worse, but you couldn’t help it. It just hurts so fucking bad.

You take a deep breath and attempt to get up to go to the bathroom. Harry stands up with you and you’re grateful because as soon as you take a step you feel woozy and your knees start to buckle. He grabs your waist with one hand and the back of your head with the other, helping you stand.

“Woah woah woah, love. Baby?” Harry says with a panicked tone as he helps you sit back down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m- I’m okay. Just exhausted.” You tell him, holding onto his forearms still holding your body

“I think it’s time to go to the hospital, love.” He says as he scratches your scalp, hoping to relieve the pain in any way possible, and you nod, succumbing to the inevitable destination of this deceitful journey.

He slowly releases your body and stands straight, grabbing your shoes and sliding them on your feet as you remain hunched over the side of the bed. He helps you stand and walk out of the house to the car. The car ride is silent, Harry kindly turning off the radio aware that sound worsens the effects. He keeps his hand on yours the whole ride, circling his thumb on the back of your hand.

You get to the hospital and Harry parks close to the front of the ER doors, helping you out of the car and to the waiting room. Harry pulls your head onto his lap as soon as you’re seated, and you cradle your temples in your hands, silently begging your mind to give you a break.

You aren’t sure how long it is until they call you back and get your situated in a hospital bed, Harry helping you change into the gown and turning out the lights for you to rest. He sits on the chair next to your bed, not releasing his tight grip on your hand as you close your eyes and rest your head against the propped up cushion.

The doctor comes in shortly after that, letting you know how they will treat you. She had been your doctor before and knows just how bad this pain is for you. She examines you briefly, which is more painful than helpful to you. As she shines the bright light into your eyes you see Harry visibly wince and clench his jaw, knowing just how bad it must hurt for you.

Once she’s done she sets up the IV catheter, the needle piercing your hand not even fazing you compared to the mind blistering pain in your brain.

The doctor speaks softly as she consults you and sets up the IV drip. “You know the drill. We’ll do a fluid drip since you’re more than likely dehydrated, while simultaneously doing the pain reliever, which as I’m sure you know, will make you slightly loopy.”

You let out a breathy laugh and look at Harry who just smiles and shakes his head at you, knowing what you’re thinking. “You’re responsible for anything I say or do.” You tell him, your voice sounding strained.

The doctor smiles at the two of you before putting a “FALL RISK” band on your wrist and exiting, telling you to get some rest.

Before the door is even closed Harry is hopping on the bed to lay with you, facing you and making sure to not mess up the tubes going into your hand. He rests his hand on your cheek and you close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of his hand rather than the pulsating in your head.

“I’m sorry I ruined our movie night.” You tell him with your eyes closed, and you don’t hear anything after a second but feel his lips come into contact with yours.

“Don’t apologize, pet.” He says, watching you carefully with compassion. “I’m sorry you ever have to go through this. If I could take it all away from you I would.”

“I know.” You try to smile up at him. “Thank you.” You tell him, resting your forehead against his.

i kinda wanna do a part two to this with loopy Y/N, so let me know if you’d like that lol thank you for reading, love you guys <3

#Harry Styles #harry styles x reader #harrystyles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harrystyles #migraine

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five-rivers · 4 years ago

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Loved chapter 4

Written for Dannymay 2021 Day 3: Portal, even though the connection is sort of tenuous.

Bad things happened when Vlad came to Amity Park. For that matter, bad things happened wherever Vlad was. It was part of what made Vlad Vlad. Some part of his otherness, some twist of the shadow-fabric he was made of that left rot and ruin wherever his hem brushed. Of course, Vlad was never affected by this misfortune. In fact, he seemed to suck the luck out of everyone around him. Like a vampire.

Along with sanity. But that was a given for the others, even partial others, like Vlad. Or Danny.

But Vlad didn’t even try to hide or ameliorate the effects he had on people, didn’t try to keep them safe, to make their lives shine like the precious lights they were.

(Danny drummed his fingers on his chest and wondered, if, perhaps, it would feel less empty if Clockwork let him become a jewel box.)

But that was the way Vlad was, and Danny felt him enter Amity Park like nails on a chalkboard. His skin started to itch. His teeth hurt. Pressure pulsed in his head like waves of heat coming off asphalt. Being human, being real, was too tight, too heavy. It would be so easy to slip into the cool waters of the Dream and cut through them to wherever Vlad was.

No. He couldn’t. As shown time and time again, that would just exacerbate things. No matter what Vlad did, it would be worse if they fought, especially if there was anyone there to see it. Like what had happened with Jazz…

Danny was beyond lucky he’d been able to snap her out of whatever Vlad had done to her, but she still was quite right. The Vultures had actually apologized on Vlad’s behalf, after that.

(And wasn’t that strange, standing in the Dream on ground covered by bones and feathers, the Vultures on a dead tree, speaking as one. A thing of terror, apologizing for their ward. For pain suffered through Love. For lines crossed.)

Still. He had better… supervise Vlad, for a lack of a better word. Make sure he wasn’t getting up to anything. He’d go as a human – as himself.

He sighed and splayed his hands out on the table.

“Something wrong?” asked Sam, who had been making a complex sigil out of her fries and ketchup.

“Vlad’s in town,” said Danny. “I—”

The doors to the Nasty Burger were thrown open with a bang as Jazz came running in. She ran halfway through the store, to weak protests from the employee behind the counter, and skidded to a stop in front of their table.

“Vlad’s here,” he said.

“You saw him?” asked Danny, concerned. “Did he try—”

“No,” said Jazz. “I can just—It’s like he’s under my skin, and I—” She made a sound of frustration and gripped both sides of her head with clawed hands.

“Hey,” said Danny, gently, grasping her wrists. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” said Jazz, breathing deeply. “Alright. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that.”

“It’s okay,” said Danny. He looked back to his friends. “Anyway, I’m going to go see what he wants, okay?”

“I’m coming with you,” said Sam, standing.

“Me too,” said Tucker. “Sort of. Halfway.”

“You really shouldn’t,” said Danny. “You know what happens when we get together.”

“Which is why we want to back you up,” said Sam. “As long as he stays physical, there’s stuff we can do.”

Unless Danny was prepared to do something incredibly inadvisable, there wasn’t much he could do to stop her. “Okay,” he said. “Just… be careful. If it looks like it’s going to turn into a fight, you need to leave.” He didn’t want them to get anymore spiritually messed up than they already were.

“We know, we know, you give us the spiel every time,” said Sam.

Yes, and Sam ignored it every other time. Danny shook his head. “Alright, let’s—”

Danny was promptly interrupted yet again, this time by his parents rushing in wearing… He could loosely call them clothes.

“It’s retro night, baby!” shouted Jack.

It was not retro night. There was no such thing as retro night at the Nasty Burger.

“I’ll take care of them,” said Jazz.

“Thanks,” muttered Danny, sliding out of the booth. “Come on, let’s go out the back.”

The alley behind the Nasty Burger was fetid in a way that made Danny’s shadow lift from the pavement and float on the air. Something that inhabited rats skittered in the corners at Danny’s presence and ran for a storm drain. He breathed shallowly.

“Which way?” prompted Tucker.

“He’s actually coming this way,” said Danny, frowning, debating facing him in this alley, just to see the disgust that would surely paint itself on Vlad’s face, paper-thin mask that it was.

Reality rippled, the surface tension that kept the Dream from bleeding in snapping. A miasma rose from the ground. Vlad stumbled into the alley, clutching at his face, which was melting. No, transforming. No, stretching. No, layering over itself a in dozen sickening ways, all the masks Vlad wore flickering over whatever truth he had all at once.

“Help me,” he grated. His words felt sick, diseased.

“Guys,” said Danny, fighting back the urge to vomit, “run.”

“No!” shrieked Vlad. “Help me!”

And sanity fractured like glass.

Whatever Danny’s parents had done to stabilize Vlad had worked, to a degree. It hadn’t fixed the underlying problem, which Danny could still feel slinking through the Dream. It also didn’t fix whatever he’d done to Sam and Tucker, although it had kept it from progressing further.

Danny took a slow, angry breath and ran a mental count of the lives stored inside his chest. They were there, all of them. Whatever happened to Sam and Tucker, they wouldn’t die.

But Danny knew there were fates worse than death.

His fingernails left half moon impressions on his palms as he clenched his fists. The Dream roiled with his fury, the force of it enough to keep Vlad’s diseased thoughts away.

“Daniel,” croaked Vlad. “Cure me.”

“That’s what Mom and Dad are trying to do.”

“Find a cure for me,” said Vlad, as if he hadn’t heard Danny at all, “and you’ll find a cure for your precious little friends.”

Danny stilled. “You did this on purpose.”

Vlad laughed. “Of course, I did, my dear boy. What value is a simple human mind compared to those such as we?”

Any rage Danny had felt up to this moment paled in comparison. The mirror over the sink cracked down the middle, never to show a true physical reflection again. He hated—

A concerned tug at Danny’s throat jolted him from his thoughts. Clockwork. Clockwork would know what to do. He turned, and without a second glance at Vlad, strode bodily into the Dream.

It took Danny even less time than usual to find Clockwork, and, when he did, he immediately found himself at Clockwork’s center, deep within the castle that was his metaphor. Dozens of Chains were fixed to Danny’s collar, each of them completely taut, holding him perfectly immobile, the embrace of a relieved but panicking parent. Clockwork’s emotions, too vast for Danny to fully comprehend, were transmitted directly through those chains, microscopic vibrations raising gooseflesh on Danny’s skin. A wordless noise both distressed and pleased wound its way from Danny’s throat, continuing to echo long after he’d run out of the breath to maintain it.

Clockwork’s avatar cupped Danny’s face in its hands, long fingers almost completely encircling his head. There was more of Clockwork in it that there usually was.

“Clockwork…?” asked Danny, weakly, confused and overwhelmed by the sudden flood of affection.

Poor little one, whispered the avatar, this is what happens when matters are not properly attended to. The Vultures should know better, should take care of him properly… It pressed its forehead to Danny’s, startling a squeak from him.

Danny, reflexively, brought his hands up to clutch at the avatar’s robes.

My poor child. What are they thinking, letting him run around so ill, so that he might infect other children?

Clockwork saw Vlad as a child, too. Not surprising, considering how ancient Clockwork must be, but good to know.

That emotion! It was only a shadow, and even so-!

“Emotion?”

Hatred, hissed Clockwork’s avatar.

The collar around Danny’s neck constricted, a tighter, more Loving, more comforting, hug. Danny gasped, although breathing here was psychological rather than physiological. The cloth of the avatar’s robes began to wind up Danny’s arms.

Even the pale, human shadow of it is not something you should experience, my child.

Danny didn’t like being that angry, but—

Even the concept of it is too much, too heavy. You should not have to bear it. I should not have overlooked it. The avatar’s hands moved to the back of Danny’s head, pressing his face against its shoulder. It must hurt you so,murmured the avatar, carding fingers through Danny’s hair. Fear not. I will excise it. All of it, even the idea of it shall not touch you, shall not sully your thoughts.

The avatar stepped away.

“Wait!” shouted Danny, panicking.

Not being able to hate? Danny had mixed feelings about that, but he doubted he’d be able to talk Clockwork out of it, not with how damaging Hate could be. In the end, it wouldn’t be that much of a loss. Not being able to understand that it existed? Not being aware of hate at all? Being unable to understand that, sometimes, people would go out of their way to hurt one another?

That was dangerous. That would render him unable to even begin to comprehend vast swathes of human history and humanity.

“If I don’t know what it is,” said Danny, “if I don’t know that it exists, how can I protect myself against it?”

A gust of wind blew through Clockwork’s sepulchral hall like the sigh of a giant. It is my duty to protect you, my child.

The sheer possessiveness of the words lingered on Danny’s skin. He wanted to lean into them but held his imaginary breath.

But very well.

Danny let himself relax, slightly, even as the avatar walked to somewhere he couldn’t see, its silent footsteps giving him no clue as to where it was. With only the constant, regular hum and tick of Clockwork’s gears to stimulate him, it was hard for Danny to stay vigilant. He found himself drifting, his thoughts wandering.

Did his hatred of Vlad cause him pain, as Clockwork said? What was it going to be like, to not be able to hate at all, rather than just not being able to Hate? Would he still be angry at Vlad? He hoped so. The man deserved it.

Two points of frigid cold touched the back of his head, contracted into a single point, and pulled. Danny felt something within him come free, and he sagged as much as the chains would allow him.

The avatar walked back into view, and Danny recoiled from the thing he was carrying, clasped in a long, silver pair of tweezers. “Is that,” started Danny, before he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Was that in me?”

Yes, said Clockwork’s avatar, lowering it into a small, jeweled box. Danny felt relieved as soon as the lid closed on it and he was no longer forced to look at it. At the same time… Fear not, said the avatar. I could never destroy something of you. It will be remade into something more useful.

Danny nodded as much as he could and shuddered. He felt… dirty. Unclean. Just remembering what he’d felt, what he’d thought… It left a deep sense of wrongness.

Come, said Clockwork. I have just the thing for that. You are due for a bath. A cleansing, inside and out.

The metaphor of the chains fell away, leaving just the one, usual, slack one. Danny knew Clockwork could call them back at any time, that, in truth, they had not gone anywhere at all.

“What about Vlad?” he asked, twisting his hands around the hem of his shirt. “And my friends? Can you help them? Please.”

He felt Clockwork examine him appraisingly.

Perhaps the bath can wait for another day.

The mirror was a portal, tall and wide as a door, glassy surface gleaming with otherworldly light. The edges were crimped, filigreed, flared. Beyond the reflection, Danny could just make out the suggestion of movement.

It is not real, said the avatar, putting a hand on Danny’s shoulder, but a might-have-been.

“But I can find a way to fix things in there?”

The avatar did not answer. A prickling feeling rose up inside Danny, settling in his stomach. Somehow, this felt similar to when he’d eaten the mirror with the bad future.

It is,confirmed the avatar, briefly nuzzling Danny.

“Why?” asked Danny, just a little horrified.

Is it not satisfying to complete two tasks at once? I told you, back then, that our next task would be to remove those presents that seek to exclude you.

Danny didn’t understand.

You will. Clockwork’s avatar paused, as if thinking. This is what the Vultures should have done for young Vladimir, although they would have accomplished it differently.

“Oh,” said Danny, trying to wrap his head around that.

Clockwork’s avatar nudged him forward. Follow the chain when you are ready to come home.

Danny wasn’t connected to anyone in this might-have-been world. It was odd, watching every eye slide off him as if he wasn’t even there. If he wanted to interact with someone directly, he’d have to put a lot of force of will into it.

It was strange. Other than that, everything here seemed perfectly real. Not imaginary at all. The sun shone. People spoke to one another. The grass crunched under his feet.

The University of Wisconsin-Madison lay before him in all its questionable glory.

He’d have to find Vlad and his parents. They had rented a small lab space for their experiments with the Dream and research into the others.

Normally, he’d follow his connection to them to find them, or the disturbance Vlad made in the dream, but neither of those things existed, now. Not yet. Danny didn’t exist yet.

He could just wander, try to seek out questionable lab space, but the university’s campus was large. Normally, he’d ask for directions, but…

Yeah, the no one being able to see or hear him thing really didn’t allow for that.

But there was one other thing he could try to do, one other thing he could try to sense. Their experiments. They should send waves across and through the Dream.

He let his eyes drift closed and walked blind across campus. When he opened them, he was in a lab, watching his parents and Vlad working on a kind of magic circle, inscribed with runes.

A portal, intended to let humans directly access the Dream. A portal that had created Vlad, all because he leaned too close, watched too closely, seen too much, became something else, changed.

Something like anger stirred under his skin. After this, his parents had continued to experiment, continued to try to reach the Dream, to create a weapon against the others, and in doing so both doomed Danny himself and Amity Park by making what amounted to a highway for the others to come to the real world.

But they hadn’t intended to do that, he knew. They’d been trying as best as they could to fix things. Had been trying to defend the world the best they knew, portal or no portal. And speaking of the portal… If others could damage human sanity, if Danny, small and weak and almost-human as he was, could damage human sanity, then how much more could a direct link to the Dream do? Discounting, of course, that normal dreams could lead to the Dream… That connection was more tenuous. Filtered.

His anger was a distraction from what was really bothering him.

These people, they looked like his parents. They were his parents. But… they weren’t. There was no attachment there. Nothing. It was like looking at empty shells. No Love.

It was distressing.

He watched, waiting, making note of the symbols and the placement of the ritual objects and the technological enhancements. There had to be something here that would help explain why Vlad was having such a hard time, while Danny had transitioned to his present existence without much problem.

He leaned over his not-mother’s calculations, then his not-father’s, made note of the differences. Looked at the fire, the knife, and the carved cylinders. Some of them didn’t feel quite right. One of them had been nudged out of alignment by a soda can put down by not-Jack, shifting the circle, making it bigger. Could that be something?

Vlad leaned over to examine the circle, and, at the same time, not-Jack pushed a button on the tape player, which started chanting. Danny could feel the hole boring into reality before the first syllable was finished. They’d made the portal both too well and too poorly.

Danny reached for Vlad and pulled him back, out of the way of the opening portal.

Danny may have made a mistake.

He’d saved Vlad from becoming other. In doing so, he’d changed things, altered this entire make-believe world. The way the story was progressing was no longer the same as his own. Which meant that it might be useless for collecting clues for fixing Vlad, Sam, and Tucker. Mostly Sam and Tucker.

(He’d help Vlad if it wouldn’t hurt his friends, he didn’t hate the man, not anymore, didn’t desire his suffering. But his friends were, of course, his main concern.)

But he couldn’t just leave. He’d made note of all the flaws in the portal, but that wasn’t in any way conclusive, wasn’t a guarantee.

And, in the meantime, his not-parents and not-Vlad had continued working on the portal, which they hadn’t shut down, unlike in the proper timeline. Or had it been disrupted by Vlad? He didn’t remember the exact sequence of events. His parents had never been clear.

But the portal was on, it was working, and it was wrong. Everything was wrong. The portal was in a class of things that should-not-be.

Just like Danny, in this world. He… With the portal, and the way things were going, he shouldn’t exist here, the butterfly effect would keep him from being born, and he was becoming painfully aware of that fact. Literally painfully. It was starting to hurt, being here, a throb in the back of his head.

Or was that the portal?

Either way…

(He couldn’t shake the suspicion that he was breaking things just by being here. Everything was going wrong. So many little accidents.)

(Or was that the portal?)

He kept watching.

It had been… a while, now. It was easy to lose track of time like this, with no one to talk to. Days? Maybe? He’d been drifting, which should have been troubling.

Maybe he should go back. Cut losses.

(Besides, it was disturbing watching his parents flirting with each other. And Vlad. Even if they weren’t really themselves.)

Then his parents wheeled in a… What was that? He walked closer. This was about the same size around as the pillars that had done this to him.

Danny would never forget those, after all.

Something hummed inside him, picking up a kind of resonance between the active portal and the pillar.

The ground fragmented beneath his feet.

Reality followed soon after.

He found himself nowhere with nothing. Only nowhere and nothing.

Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.

What had he done? He’d, he’d destroyed a world, he’d—

There was a gentle, but insistent tug on his chain. He followed it home.

He clung to Clockwork’s avatar, gasping, as if he was the only real thing in the world. His emotions were too much, too great, uncontained and roiling. They battered him like a stormy sea.

It’s alright, it’s alright, comforted the avatar. It wasn’t real, and now it never will be. All those worlds where you would not be. All gone.

No. No. No. Horror buzzed in his brain. He couldn’t have destroyed so much.

Never were,continued the avatar, Clockwork apparently oblivious. All disproven. Paradox. You could not be and yet you were. You were in the places you were not. So, now you exist, in all these places, in everywhere that could be, and always will. It stroked Danny, brushing away tears. Only one more to go, until you never were not, my beloved child, until you always were mine, as you were meant to be.

Danny keened into the robes of Clockwork’s avatar, distraught. Wind ruffled his hair.

Considering the point in time in which you were placed, said the avatar, Vladimir will be well again.

Danny looked up, hopeful for the first time in hours.

Mostly. The underlying cause has been removed. You should bring the rest to your… progenitors. They are at least competent in this area.

Danny nodded vigorously and attempted to extract himself from the avatar’s grasp. He was unsuccessful, although the avatar did adjust its grip on him.

You have had a difficult day, it observed. It then presented Danny with a cookie.

Confused, Danny took it.

A gift, said the avatar, Clockwork having evidently returned to his normal laconic mode.

“What’s it made of?” asked Danny, suspicious.

Love. What else?

“How do you feel?” asked Danny.

“Weird,” said Sam. “But okay.”

“What was it like?”

Sam shrugged. “It was like…” She waved her hand. “Watching a thousand different movies of my life, but they were all wrong. Like if they were crappy biopics done fifty years after I died or something.”

“Speak for yourself,” grunted Tucker. “I just got a lot of sand. So, so much sand. And sun. Do I have a sunburn?”

“No?” said Danny. “You look fine.”

“Ugh, I forgot you were white. You don’t know what sunburns look like.”

“I’d argue,” said Sam, “but you’re not wrong.” She fell back against her pillows. “I just want to sleep.”

“Same,” said Tucker. “I never want to see the sun again.”

“We’ll make a goth of you yet,” joked Sam, tossing a pillow at him.

“Okay,” said Danny, backing away. “Should I get the lights?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Sleep well,” he said. He hoped they would.

(Because he would not.)

#danny phantom #loved #eldritch abomination AU #dannymay #dannymay 2021 #dannymay day 3: portal

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heliads · 3 years ago

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In Need of Comfort

Based on this request: “reader breaks into piotr rasputin’s room in the middle of the night because she wants cuddles. but they usually don't cuddle often so he doesn't know how to answer.”

masterlist

You’re back again, back in the dream. Then again, to call this thing a dream is to call the worst of tortures a mild exercise in self control; it’s as close as you can come to a nightmare without outright reducing yourself to insanity. The worst part is that you’ve lived through this nightmare many times before, and the worst part is that you were there in real life first, even before it invaded your dreams.

The room is the exact same, it always is. Bleached tiles, the faint and acrid scent of antiseptic even though you shouldn't be able to smell things in dreams at all. How is it that your worst nightmares always seem to break the rules that should confine them? It’s not as if you needed any more hints that what was happening in your head was crucially, brutally wrong in every sense of the word.

You’re strapped to a medical bed, thick restraints on your arms and legs and throat, although space is made for easy access to your key arteries. Your thin hospital gown is stained with blood, the same rusty smears on the floor beneath you. Sometimes, there’s too much even for the cleaners to remove. You scream and scream for as long as you want, but it doesn’t matter- no one will hear you. No one ever does.

The doctors linger by your eyes, your heart, your lungs. They poke and prod then sew you back up only for the process to start all over again. Why shouldn’t they keep going, they ask? What is it about a mutant that would ever let them show you an ounce of mercy? In the end, they grow tired of your pleading and silence you once and for all. It is only then, once they wipe their hands of blood and begin to walk away, that you finally wake up in a cold sweat.

You have to stare around the room for many minutes, chest heaving with stolen breath, before you can remind yourself of where you are and be sure that it’s not just another lie made to make you believe that you escaped from the labs. No- everything is here, everything is in place. The sheets are a tangled, sweaty mess around you, but that isn’t new. You’re still in your room at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, still just as hurt as you were the first time you showed up.

Now that you’ve assured yourself that you’re still here, you begin to lean back a little, muscles screaming in protest after the apparent exertion of the nightmare. You press a hand to your forehead and find it hot; whether that’s because you’re feverish or simply because your fingers are shaking too much for you to think much of anything, that is up to you. You should be able to sense anything about your body, as that is your gift, but you’re too rattled for anything to make sense.

You were supposed to be a healer, you know. You were supposed to mend broken bones instead of shattering them, save dozens instead of killing hundreds. When you first discovered your mutation, back when you were very young, that’s what you thought you would be: a healer, a savior. Someone people could look to with a smile or a plea whenever they needed help, someone who would most certainly not be feared as a destroyer of homes and lives.

Then the doctors at the labs had found you and brought you in, and just like that, all of your best wishes for your future were gone. They had stripped away the healer in you, and replaced it with a mindless killer. Instead of slowing blood flow and grafting skin, you tore flesh from bone. Your powers could be boiled down to the bare ability to change the function of the human body. So, the doctors merely changed you to harm instead of heal. It was the simplest of answers- everyone needs a soldier, no one needs a medic. Why shouldn’t they change you?

It wasn’t that easy for you, of course. The doctors weren’t the ones strapped to a medical bed and forced to live through round after round of excruciating procedures, they were the ones holding the scalpel. By some sheer force of will, you managed to survive, although you were never quite the same. No one really could, right? There is no way that you would be able to pick up every single piece of yourself and put it back together again. After all, your status as a healer was a thing of the past.

Xavier had found you shortly after that, a monster still trying its best to scrub away the blood underneath its fingernails. Instead of putting you down or trying to lock you away, he’d offered you a place in his school. All he asked is that you try to get back to the person you once were, to convince your mind to save instead of hurt. It was a lot harder than he had thought- the doctors had pretty much rewritten your DNA to change your mutation for the worse. However, you’re willing to give it a shot.

That’s why you’re here, now, sitting terrified in your bed reliving the past instead of still being stuck in it. You know that, and you should be able to breathe more evenly and go back to sleep, but you can’t. This nightmare was too vivid, seemed too real. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that they were getting worse. No, the possibility of sleep is something you can’t possibly consider, not until you know for a fact that you’re going to be alright after this.

So, you get up, forcing the knotted bedsheets away from you. Your tired footsteps pad down the hallway, away from your room and towards a more familiar one. You only have to knock once or twice before the door opens to reveal the face you’ve been longing to see- Piotr Rasputin, although he does look fairly surprised to see you here at this hour of the night. He starts to ask a question, you can see that in his sleep-laced eyes, but you can’t come up with an answer. Instead, you move forward, slumping against his chest.

After a second, he wraps his arms around you, guiding you inside and shutting the door. “Nightmare?” He asks, although the question is mostly irrelevant now. Piotr knows about these dreams, they stick with you just as his own seem to stay with him. He promises that he’ll track down the doctors from the lab and make sure they can never haunt you again. He says this every single time you’ve had a nightmare, every time you’ve woken up too scared to even think about closing your eyes. This is why he’s sworn this exact oath maybe a hundred times.

However, you never came to him after the nightmares, choosing instead to deal with them in the quiet solitude of your own room. Tonight’s dream was especially bad, though, which is why you needed your boyfriend here to remind you that you’re still safe in the school. Piotr senses all of this, and picks you up, carrying you back to his bed. He climbs in next to you, pulling up the blankets around you. The air is cold in Xavier’s School at this time of night; already, you’re cooling off and grateful for the comfort of the sleep-warmed fabric.

Piotr’s arms settle around you once again. “Do you want to talk about it?” The syllables are slow to come, drenched with the exhaustion of waking up so late into the night. Then again, he’s still fairly conscious for such an odd time to be awake. It appears that you weren’t the only one to wake up with a nightmare of the things trapped in the dark recesses of your mind and memories.

You shake your head quietly. It’s too recent, your mind still trapped in that half-real realm between sleep and consciousness that you’re afraid that by speaking the names of your fears, they could still visit you here, even after you woke up. Piotr nods, although judging by the slight clench of his jaw he feels bad that he can’t even provide you this relief. You haven’t done this recently, if ever- he doesn’t know how to convince you that you’re still in reality if he’s not that sure of it himself.

However, he’s not willing to give up on you just yet. That’s why you fell in love with him in the first place, isn’t it? There isn’t a thing that he wouldn’t do for you, and right now, that means Piotr will stay with you until he’s sure that you’re going to be alright, at least for now. So, he tightens his grip on you, pulling you close until your head is nestled against his chest. It’s funny- for someone who’s mutation is becoming a man made entirely of hard, dense metal, he can be fairly soft and comforting when he wants to be.

His breath is warm against the top of your head. “What do you plan on doing today? We’ve got classes, of course, and practice, but other than that the day is free. We could do anything.” You can feel your own breathing evening out as you listen to him speak. “What is there to do?” Piotr fishes around for an answer before responding. “It’s supposed to be a nice day. We could walk around the grounds.”

You pause for a moment, considering this. “It’s not supposed to rain?” Piotr shakes his head. “Not a drop. Nothing but clear blue skies all day.” Your movements still slightly. Even now, so close to your boyfriend and so far from the labs, you’re unable to let go of the horrors of the nightmares. “I don’t think I was ever meant to be a blue sky. I’ve got too many thunderstorms for that.” Something almost like a smile touches upon Piotr’s lips. “Well, in all honesty I like thunderstorms more. Nothing but blue can get pretty boring after a while.”

You can hear the words he’s not saying: even in times like this, when you’re still shaking from the nightmares, he’d pick you. He’d pick you every time. Honestly, for someone who has no idea how to make you feel better, he’s doing a pretty good job of it. You snuggle up closer to him, wrapping the blankets even tighter around yourself. “Thank you, Piotr.”

His smile is deeper now. “Of course, Y/N. Anytime.” You can tell he means it. You had intended to stay awake a little longer, to say something else, but you’re so tired and the bed is so warm that you can’t seem to stop your eyelids from drooping. Sleep is already upon you, and you feel Piotr press a kiss to your forehead just before you fall completely under the tide. For once, you have no nightmares at all.

xmen tag list: my anti nightmare homie (thats a thing now) @underc0vercryptid

#piotr rasputin #piotr rasputin imagines #piotr rasputin x reader #piotr rasputin oneshot #xmen #xmen imagines #xmen x reader #xmen oneshot #xmen piotr rasputin #xmen piotr rasputin imagines #xmen piotr rasputin x reader #xmen piotr rasputin oneshot

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cozycryptidcorner · 4 years ago

Photo

Étienne the Fae, Part One of Two

This was commissioned by the illustrious and fantastical @monsterfolkandfiction! Thank you so much, and I hope that everyone enjoys this story as well. A second part is being drafted now.

tw: disordered eating, manipulative and abusive mother

You shouldn’t have gone into your grandfather’s basement.

You shouldn’t have gone into your grandfather’s basement. .

There were voices. Lots of voices, and you thought that a show of brilliance might grant your grandfather’s coveted attention above your cousins’. The door was unlocked, how could you not sneak a peek down the forbidden stairwell? So you crept down, hand on the rail for safety, eyes wide in the hopes of spotting something.

You remember how to summon him. Always. You’ve blocked out everything else about him, but you always remember how to call him back, even if you never will. Only in an emergency, you would always think, glaring at your mark as though he can see you through the mottled purple flesh.

You wipe a bit of sweat from your face, chewing on your lower lip as you glance over your shoulder at the ticking clock—almost midnight. The little vagrant who caused the muddy disaster you’re cleaning is asleep already, hand clutching her rag still as she lays limp on the wooden floor.

Maria is a good kid. Troubled, yes, a mischief-maker for sure, but she’s good. She’s just the type who needs a little guidance, that’s all. You didn’t bother trying to wake her back up, mostly because you know it would do no good, and honestly, it’s probably easier to finish the mess yourself without dealing with a cranky, tired child. Besides, it’s not that big of a deal, it’s not like she hasn’t managed to clean up her messes before.

Just a little bit, you tell yourself as you scrub the rest of the mud from the floor,she’s lost.

It doesn’t take you much longer to finish up the mud, the water in the bucket sloshing an earthy brown the more you pollute it with the dirt slurry on your rag. None of the nuns have walked by the entrance, which is good, because you don’t exactly want to face them. You wouldn’t even have to come up with an explanation, they’ll know, especially the head of the abbey. The last thing you’d want is for Maria to be whipped with that reedy switch some of the nuns carry around to punish unruly children.

After dumping out the bucket of dirt, you wipe your sweaty palms on your apron, letting out a bated breath. The moon has already sunk behind the hills, the night only lit by the dim candles you managed to steal out from the servant’s noses. While one might think that a place of worship would have plenty of access to such supplies, it seems like everything is scarce in the days where the darkness licks and poisons like a snake.

“Are you alright, young sister?”

Though you jump, it’s only Sister Anya, a soft, young-looking nun looking down at you with the utmost concern.

Her pale hair is highlighted by the candlelight in the most martyr-like way that you feel the urge to fall on your knees and plead for her to pray for you. Everything about her is ethereal, almost almost horrendously beautiful, blue eyes so deep and dark your lungs fill with water as though drowning when you look at her.

Trying to steady yourself, you place a hand on the wooden bannister, then nod, shakily.

She glances at the bucket you’re holding, and her gaze softens considerably. “Were the children giving you a difficult time today?”

Since you know Anya isn’t one of the nuns who believe that pain is the path to godliness, so you’re more willing to express any frustrations you might have with her. So you shrug, then roll your eyes, trying to force your tongue to work but settle for gestures instead.

Sister Anya places a hand on your shoulder sympathetic gesture.” Your nerves are high today, hm?”

Thankful you don’t have to bother explaining yourself, verbally or through a thousand of different hand positions, you nod.

Sister Anya lets out a gentle sigh. “I’m so sorry, dove, the children ought to know not to press against your patience.”

Again, you shrug, walking over to the door in order to dump the muddied bucket, before passing it to her waiting hands.

“Again,” Sister Anya says softly, “I know that you’re not obligated to be here, but you know that the children love you. Even if they aren’t always so well behaved.”

You nod in acknowledgement, having had this conversation with her before. No matter the chaos the orphanage children might instil during sunlight, you always return, knowing that the kids truly mean well at the end of the day. Memories of blood bubble in your throat, your empathy digging too deeply in your past that you feel a sense of fear.

Quickly, you bid your leave, knowing that you should have long been back in your bed. God, if your mother finds out you’ve been loitering this late-

“Oh,” Sister Anya concedes, “of course, should I walk you back?”

Quickly, you shake your head, not wishing that she put herself at risk for your own sake. After once more asking over your assuredness, Sister Anya concedes, though her concern is not at all lacking. You know that the woods host a very numerous amount of creatures, though none have dared to ever bother you. The contrast has been so stark against the countless first-hand stories than you’ve heard that you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re invisible to their otherworldly eyes, although you still hold healthy regard for what you might not understand.

Still, on the way back, all the negative attention you might receive is brief and fleeting, most crackling within the woods retreating as though you were about to set fire to the numerous dried foliage of the coming winter. Besides, your family estate is alarmingly close, you should be within the safety of its walls shortly after embarking, the sprites and critters almost obnoxiously ignoring your presence. Ever since… the incident, you haven’t needed to take the same precautions as the rest of your peers, and thus you manage to get yourself home earlier than someone might have estimated.

There is a lot to be happy about your life, you suppose, staring blankly up at the family portrait up on the wall. Happy mother. Happy father. Their absolute disgrace of an eldest child, which is you, unfortunately. You know that there are children in that abbey who would kill to have the same privileges you do, warm bed, food whenever you need, and water that doesn’t have a rusty undertaste of dirt, so you try not to feel… ungrateful.

You lick your lips, peeking out from the hall to check for anyone making their rounds, then quickly and quietly walk by the window towards your room. It’s late, so no one should be up, but that’s never stopped your mother when she’s in one of her worse moods, and just as you predicted, you hear her rapidly approach. Now entering panic mode, you move twice as quickly, slipping into your room and shutting the door quietly behind you.

Your muscles are stiff, fingers shaking, as you desperately try to pull the pins in your hair that kept everything marginally in place as you worked, knowing that you should be at least in your nightgown at this time. The scent of roses is thick, putrid, and always the choice of perfume for your mother. You suppose that it’s nice that you can at least smell her before she fully arrives, but now you can hardly look at those flowers without feeling a pinch of anxiety flowing through your chest.

The door wrenches open, your mother neither gentle nor willing to give you those extra precious moments where you might hide something. Your brush is in hand, and you are in the process of working through the knots that had accumulated through the day, but by the look of her face in the candlelight, your supposed innocence will be deeply in question.

“Where have you been?” Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, it’s all you can do to not wince when she speaks.

I was at the orphanage, mother. You can’t even look her in the eye.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to work among those pathetic waifs, girl.”

Mother doesn’t even bother with your name, especially when she’s angry. And, judging by the tone of her voice, she’s incensed by something, only you don’t even know what it is she’s accusing you of, so you can’t even offer up any meagre defences.

“Did I say you were allowed to stay until the night turns to morning? What kind of a reputation are you trying to gain, you stupid, ungrateful child?”

The only ‘men’ in that orphanage are younger than eleven, but you know that this outburst isn’t at all over your chastity.

She raises her hand, and you flinch, but the strike doesn’t come this time. Instead, she walks up behind you, snagging the brush out of your hand and begins an aggressive grooming routine. “You should be grateful for what I give you and stop trying my patience. Everything I do for you is always met with silence, do you think the Bennet girls treat their poor mother like this? Or has the devil cursed me with you?”

You know that any attempt to escape her gnarled, rough fingers would be met with even more violence, so you sit still, digging your fingernails into the cushion of your chair. Everything in your body is on edge, your jaw is tight, your stomach still, all your muscles frozen in place to keep from crying out as the onslaught of your scalp continues. Silently resigned, you stare at yourself in the mirror, hating everything you see in the reflective glass.

“You would think that the gods would give me a child who shows a modicum of mercy for her poor mother, but no, all I get is this pathetic excuse of a lady. I know everyone goes behind my back and talks about what a joke you are, and yet you don’t even care enough about the person who put you into this world to even care enough to change.”

Your throat is dry, your eyes are not. Stubbornly, though, you refuse to give her tears, because she’ll only think that crying is a method of trying to guilt her into stopping. So you’re quiet, and you accept the onslaught of verbal terror, trying to let it all wash over you like water running over stones in a river.

“I should have never let you stay that summer with your grandfather, he put in all the wrong ideas in your head. And where did that get him, anyway? In a casket, six feet under.” Eventually, she tires herself out, as she always does. As she places the brushes back on the vanity, she notices the little jar of candies you like to keep around for both yourself and your younger siblings. Her brow furrows, and she takes it, “you don’t need to eat more than you already do.”

You don’t turn to watch her leave, letting the dull slamming of the door speak for itself. Once you’re certain she’s not going to come back for another round, you reach up and start braiding your hair for the night, fingers separating the strands and weaving them together. A strange sort of numbness takes over your body, a tugging emptiness draining your chest and veins of any life. When you lay your head on the pillow, there’s dampness on your cheek that you hadn’t noticed prior.

Luckily for you, in the morning, you are left to be ignored once more. You suppose that you are grateful that your mother only seeks you out when she is angry because that offers more freedom to do as you please when she isn’t. A strange thing to enjoy, but you are still willing to count your blessings nonetheless.

Every day goes by more or less the same. You pretend to be a fancy lady for the minimum amount of time, though thankfully you’re so often ignored you can slip away and head down to the orphanage. You have no official schedule of volunteering, since some days your mother is more persistently present than others, but the nuns are thankful for your appearance more or less.

And you tell yourself that you’re satisfied with everything. It’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie, but the moment you begin to move past that safe little untruth, you think your world will fall apart. So you wait. And you watch. And you’re silent.

The day your mother is uncharacteristically cheerful is the day you feel genuine fear.

She’s humming while going over the cook’s menu ideas. Humming. And she requested to see you… which… is rather unusual. As you walk in, you try to peek over her shoulder, though she shifts the papers ever so slightly out of your sight, offering a warning grunt in your direction. Still unsure of where she might be taking this nonexistent conversation, you take your book and sit on the other side of the table, trying to keep calm.

“There’s going to be a wedding,” she says in a sing-songy voice.

Normally, when your peers are wed off, she takes it like a personal attack, as though each girl is mocking your family by daring to marry before you. Now you’re even more nervous, trying to think over which of your siblings could be of marrying age. Surely they haven’t roped any poor waif into marrying your idiot brother, right?

“Tell me what colors you think would be appropriate for a spring ceremony,” she says, so dreamily it shakes you to your core.

You open your mouth, but your chest is so constricted by fear that it can’t possibly push air through your throat. Instead, you just look down and shrug, trying to steady yourself as you sit. God, you’re so hungry. That breakfast never really fills you up, but you never dare try to scavenge for more food in the daytime.

“I didn’t think you would have the good sense to know, anyways,” your mother dismisses your opinion with the wave of her hand. “A light lavender, maybe? Oh, perhaps daisies would be lovely, but that might seem too ‘country…’ or would that be fashionable?”

You nervously let her ramble, wishing you had it in you to just… get up. Leave. Go someplace where you would be alone and lie down. Your body itches to be surrounded by the greenery in the garden, let yourself become one with the earth. Never worrying about the court, about gentlemen of good breeding, or your mother again. She’s taking tea with biscuits, enough food on that platter to share, but you know better than to try to reach your hand over to grasp one.

But fate is a cruel mistress, and your mother even crueler. You don’t have much more warning than the click of your father’s office door as he and an unfamiliar person exit, and adrenaline laces along your veins. You don’t like how your mother looks at him, you don’t like how he looks at you, and you would very much like to no longer be perceived as a physical being. As your mother stands, you follow suit, just out of shock.

“Mr. Andreas,” your mother croons, a shiver of horror running down your spine.

The stranger nods, then glances over you with a critical kind of look, one that makes your insides squirm so uncomfortably you almost vomit.

“We’ve agreed to the terms,” your father says, then nods in your direction. “The wedding will be set in the spring.”

You’re dizzy, all the blood rushing from your head.

To make things worse, your mother is closer, the pungent scent of flowers invading your lungs with such a pervasive efficiency you can’t even breathe. She’s holding your hand, squeezing your pulse so tightly you know the blood is pooling out between her fingertips, and says, “say hello to your fiance, darling. Don’t be rude.”

It feels like a blink. A quick moment of absolutely nothing, your soul floating up above you like a spectre, and then you’re back. And in bed.

It’s dark outside, and a candle faithfully burns on the table by your bed. Leaning over, you blow it out, knowing that someone not nearly as blessed as you could use the precious light more. Your window rattles, a black shape writhing and clicking against the glass, but it doesn’t break through.

Your head feels empty, a thick, persistent kind of nothingness frying the different pathways to thought. Something important happened, something…. something you should be wary of, but it takes you quite a long time to remember the day’s events until a glimpse of that man’s smarmy face surfaces.

Engaged.

The word makes you gag, but there’s nothing in your stomach to retch. You have no clear idea of how long you’ve been in bed, but as you place your feet on the cold ground, a wave of empty dizziness fizzles through your head. It’s a hungry kind of dizziness, one where your body is at its last leg trying to keep itself upright.

There’s a hot, white pinching in your chest as you rise to a hand, legs and arms shaking like a leaf in a storm. Kitchen, you have to get to the kitchen, your vision blurry and faint. Still, you do your best to keep yourself together as you silently slip out of your room.

The halls are eerily silent, candlelight keeping the night’s terrors at bay. Servants occasionally make rounds to make sure the light doesn’t snuff itself out, but you’ve long timed the carefully coordinated efforts. Arms wrapped around your chest, you slowly make your way back to the kitchens, careful to dodge any straggling staff in the halls.

For the most part, the kitchen is rather modestly sized in comparison to the rest of the house, something the servants and cooks gripe about during the wasteful parties your parents throw to uphold some kind of ridiculous facade of class and wealth. But for you, in your occasional midnight snack, it’s just the right size to feel homely, but also with enough books and crannies for you to duck behind if someone unexpected makes a surprise cameo.

But today, it looks like the last person you wanted to see has been anticipating your visit though.

“Really,” your mother says, arms crossed, the steady glare of rage on her brow, “you faint to embarrass me and then, instead of apologizing, the first thing you think to do is to eat more?”

You swallow thickly, knowing you’re about to get an apocalyptic lecture.

“Look at yourself, girl,” your mother makes a wide, gestural sweep over your body, “your obsession with eating is what made you so difficult to marry in the first place. No one wants to marry a whale! And now that you think you’ve landed a man, you can settle back to your old bad habits?”

You shake your head, clammy and afraid.

“Of course not,” she doesn’t raise her voice, not once, and that somehow makes everything worse, “I told you all you needed was to lose those flaps at your waist, but you can’t even adhere to the diet I’ve set you on.”

If you faint again, she’s going to claim you only did so to guilt her, so you hold your dizzying head together with spit and empty determination. There’s a half-eaten loaf of bread covered on the stove, mocking you with its closeness, laughing at your desperation.

“Everything I do for you, and all you give me in return is your spiteful attitude.” She sighs dramatically and shakes her head. “Go back to bed, girl, I can’t even look at you without feeling disgusting. I don’t know how you can live the way you do.”

You don’t. But you accept the out, shakily wobbling back to your room, hearing your mother call out behind you.

“The engagement party is three days away. You know the rules.”

No sneaking food. Of course you do, she doesn’t allow you to forget it. You go back to your room and lay down on the bed, trying to ignore the painful punches in your starving stomach. Breakfasts in the morning. Breakfast in the morning. Breakfast in the morning.

The party is the epitome of everything you hate.

Bright, gaudy, the food so rich and plentiful despite the nearly starving children barely a mile away. Already you’re mentally calculating how much food you can sneak out to the abbey as soon as the night comes to a close, figuring that you might even be able to make two trips if you truly had to. Sister Anya would protest against you moving through the night, but you’ve never had any issues with the sprites.

Folding your hands together, you try to remain present in the moment, but you quickly find your fingernails scratching invisible streaks down your arms, landing on the palm of your hand... to the mark on your wrist. The doctor speculated that it must have been some kind of chemical burn, mostly because there seemed to be no other explanation about it. A toxic liquid spilt onto your wrist when you were wandering somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, and so now you must bear the speculations and the whispers whenever someone new catches a glimpse of the marking.

It’s an odd kind of thing, all angles and thin lines, coalescing in a shape that seems too particular and sharp to be an accidental blob. When you press your thumb down and close your eyes, though, you can see the exact moment you received it, smell the harsh sanitized basement, but somehow catch a whiff of summer lavender.

Could this be your emergency?

Quickly, you try to fill your mind with a thousand other thoughts, flooding your head to the point that scent is once again a distant memory. Everything that followed that day was filled to the brim with misfortune and misery, and you don’t wish to relive it in the slightest. Not until you absolutely have to.

Your mother is right, the duke is only interested in the land your father offers. To her, though, that’s some kind of blessing. For you, however, seated at the table, it feels like the darkest wickedness. Only once does that man glance in your direction, and you can see his nose briefly wrinkle as he silently dresses you down, as though he feels that fucking you would be some kind of burden that he would skip if allowed.

Everything about him fills you up with a strange sense of terror. It’s the way he holds himself, you think, looking over his posture and general facial expression. Tall. High. He might not be the largest man in the room, but he certainly acts the part, stepping over those he doesn’t necessarily deem to be equal.

To your parents though, that’s just a sign of good breeding. Something that you somehow don’t possess, even though ancestry is theoretically squeaky clean. Through your eyelashes, you observe him, lips glued shut with the waxy lipstick smeared against them. You want to crawl out of your skin, melt into the floorboards, fade into the wall, but you’re stuck in place beneath your mother’s critical glare.

Knowing exactly what she might be thinking, you try to mingle, but everyone has long learned that you’re not the type for conversation. Your search for a discussion amounts to you wandering circles around the ballroom, doing your best to seem interested in what’s going on, but ultimately being ignored.

Eventually, you end up back at the table, filled to the brim with foods so decadent and delicious your mouth waters at the scent. Cautiously, you look over your shoulder as you reach down, to find your mother staring at you from a nearby corner. Your hand freezes, and you retract it, almost ashamed.

The mark on your wrist throbs, gently reminding you of a possibility you can allow yourself to have.

Biting down on your tongue, you merely pour yourself some of the lemon flavored water laid out to the side, hoping to fill your stomach if only for a few moments. Everything is too bright, too much, you’re drowning in the absence of everything you could possibly want.

Even though you know your mother will be at her wit’s end, you snag a champagne flute and decide to go back to your room. The bubbles burn as you drink the flute down faster than should be done, retreating back through the crowded hallway. On your way out, you see a servant carrying another tray of alcohol, and you recklessly switch out your empty cup.

Bitterness swells in your throat. You don’t fucking deserve this, you never have. A part of you wants to burn the mansion down and let the sweeping darkness devour the ashes, but you’ve never had the courage or smarts to pull such a feat off. You spot another platter of champagne and make the trade once more.

Just as you begin sipping the brightly flavored alcohol, you bump into someone sturdy. Hard, dark, tall… your fiancé, unfortunately, you notice. Quickly, you lose all confidence you had been building up and instead curtsy out an apology.

“When your father said you were as quiet as a mouse I didn’t think it was possible,” he laughs, almost good naturally, “I didn’t think a woman could be quiet even if her life depended on it.”

The tops of your ears flare.

“But this is a nice surprise, I think it might make up for your other shortcomings.” He waves his hand in your face, as though you are deaf, not mute, then laughs again. “I suppose we’ll see whether or not you can squeal on the wedding night.”

An almost extinct temper raises its ugly head, you’re furious, but above all else, you’re embarrassed. The alcohol makes your anger boil over more, and to add insult to injury, he doesn’t seem to take the hint to stop talking.

“At least you wouldn’t be able to complain. I hate it when women think they deserve to be heard.” And just like that, he abandons you, wandering off towards a group of people you recognize as your neighbors.

Angrily, you drink more of the champagne, going up the stairs and trying to keep yourself calm. But you’re not calm, you’re furious. At yourself, at your parents, and at that babyfaced ass who has the audacity to mock you in the middle of your joint engagement party. By the time you get to your room, your face is hot and boiling with rage, the empty champagne flute mindlessly left on some random surface, and you bury yourself in the bed. You’ve drunk a fat more tonight than you have in years.

You can’t call a servant to help you out of this satin nightmare, not without your mother being informed, so you’re stuck trying to dislocate both your shoulders in order to reach at the strings lacing the top together. Nothing seems to be working, and you are getting more and more frustrated with your progress, each fucking second wasted on your struggles, making you more upset at the overall predicament.

And then, a thought.

Your drunken mind thinks it’s brilliant. The last thread of your sanity warns you that it’s stupid. But both parties involved agree that it would be very, very funny.

Your thumb finds the mark on your wrist.

Call an eternal being forth just to untie your corset? Absolutely ludicrous. Stupid, even. But definitely hilarious. At least, your drunken mind thinks it’s funny. Slowly, you trace the mark around with your indent finger, your eyesight blurry with drink.

Touch the mark. You place two of your fingers against the pulse of your wrist. Recite my name. Three times, unbroken.

It’s not an incredibly complicated ritual. You’ve recited it in your head many times, staring out of your window, tongue making the motions in your mouth. One favor, you get only but one favor, and every single day you’ve had to deal with another one of your mother’s lectures, your father’s criticism, or some other critical motion from most other people in your life, you’ve thought of him.

But now, while drunk, and after the party, it seems like a fine time to bring him forth from the Otherworld. If only to cause a bit of much-needed chaos. You close your eyes, urging your tongue to move, and you say-

“Étienne. Étienne. Étienne.”

Nothing happens. There is an overwhelming silence, one that causes your body to collapse further into the mattress, your brain slowly shutting itself off in a desperate attempt to sleep off the inordinate amount of alcohol that you’ve consumed. Your tongue and mouth are dry, almost as though they were stuffed with towels and cloth, a hazy exhaustion blocking your vision from comprehension.

And you’re asleep.

You don’t exactly know how long you were asleep for, only that you wake up with a throat as dry as the Dark Desert, lips cracked and bleeding, wrist tingling almost painfully like a thousand little pins are piercing into your flesh, though your face is oddly wet. The candle flickers at your side, likely lit by a servant, illuminating red dampness left on your pillow. A headache pinches between your eyes as you try to process those different elements.

“Here,” a smooth, low voice says, a gloved hand offering up a linen handkerchief.

You accept it, then realize who the hand belongs to. Quickly, you scoot yourself back right up to your headboard, spine pressing almost uncomfortably against the heavy wood.

He’s silent for a moment, eyes so dark and blue you feel like they’re sucking you in as though they’re a whirlpool, and you’re adrift in an ocean clinging to a piece of wood. Then he laughs, shockingly youthfully, hand over his mouth as you yank the handkerchief out from his fingers, pushing it up to your nose to catch the continuous drip of blood. Your mouth tastes like hot copper laid out in the sun, and droplets of redstart swimming in your vision.

“My dear,” he says, cocking his head to the side, curiously, “you called me here.”

“No I di-” fuck, the memory of what must have been only a fe hours prior swimming upward in your mind. “Well, I didn’t mean it.”

“Unfortunately whatever your intentions are, I cannot leave until your wish is fulfilled.” Luckily, he doesn’t seem at all annoyed. Only mildly disinterested in what your problems might be.

“Can’t you just go back?” You ask, voice losing its rasp as you swallow a mouthful of blood.

“That’s not how this works,” he says, almost disappointed in your desperate attempts to make him leave.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You’re shaking,” He observes, settling on the edge of your bed.

It’s as though the spirit of your mother possesses your body, vomiting out a sentence about your chastity as a lady, “there’s a man in my room, at night, with no chaperone present.”

A perfectly manicured eyebrow pops up. “You know I cannot hurt you.”

“It’s not about you, it’s- it’s about my reputation as a lady-”

The other eyebrow follows suit, and he’s looking at you so sceptically it appears he thinks this is some sort of trick. He reaches over and grabs hold of your hand, drawing your wrist close as to double-check for the mark. “I don’t remember you being such a meek little thing.”

“I was ten the last time we met.” You say, trying to keep your voice even.

“And you bit me, if I remember correctly.” And he smiles, as though the memory of a precocious child is somehow a fond one.

This can’t be happening, you can’t be having this conversation with him. A conversation. Talking. You swallow thickly, raking your nails through your scalp, trying to breathe. “I was only trying to defend myself! You- you ki- you killed-”

“He deserved it,” he says, and you are unfortunately inclined to agree.

You can’t tell if the droplet of liquid running down the side of your cheek is blood or sweat. Taking in a shaking, angry breath, and you stare down at your hands, eyes stinging. Ah, tears, okay. This is fine. Everything is fine.

“Ah, darling, I’ve forgotten myself.” He reaches over, and you flinch, so he quickly retracts his hand. “Let’s try again. What do you want from me?”

You think back to all the tiny, ugly little pinpricks of insults you’ve garnered every goddamn day of your life since the incident. You think about your husband to be, you think about your mother, you think about your long-dead grandfather. Everything hurts. Everything is wrong. Slowly, you close your eyes and breathe, trying to keep yourself together, just for another few moments.

“I’m to be married to a nearby heir,” you say.

He cocks his head.

“I don’t want to be.”

#fae/reader #fae #fae x reader #exophilia #monster/reader

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