#all the smut

[thegreatwicked]

Padawan

Padawan

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Obi-Wan?" 

"Yes, it's Obi-Wan."

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

"What day is it?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What have I done to you?" 

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

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

His?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what it was." 

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

“Then what? What, padawan?”

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

"Please, don't call me that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I to do with you, padawan?”

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

"What're you doing?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Master."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And neither could you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This." 

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

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

“Master, your padawan wants your cock.” 

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

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

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

“Up, further on the bed.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Was this what he’d meant about punishment? 

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

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

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

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

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

“Padawan,” 

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

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

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

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

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

‘Master’s mouth is between my legs.’

‘Stars! He’s licking me.’

‘He’s going to make me come!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes! Please, Master! Please!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps you shouldn't have pushed your luck.

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

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

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

"Touching your master without permission?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Darling, please, touch your master," 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!”

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

“Padawan! Padwan! Padawan!” 

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

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

“Oh! Maker!”

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

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

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

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

"Good girl, now, up you get." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Obi-Wan…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What leg?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, yes, there's more...

~~~

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

Alright! I need a cigarette!

[daydreamgoddess14]

Deserving

Part of the 200 Followers celebration! From the request for @onceuponaoneshot :

Roy Kent x F!Reader - "You deserve better"

Filthy smutty smut y'all. You've been warned! This is also a part 3 to Complaints Procedure & Noisy.

~~~~~

He was gone. 

 

You'd seen the tackle, watched from home as Jamie Tartt knocked him to the floor and damaged his knee for good. He hadn't needed to do anything for the paperwork, Ted had it all under control, and it allowed Roy the distance he needed from Nelson Road. You wondered if you'd even crossed his mind. The boot room hadn't been the end of it. You'd never instigated anything yourself, but he'd sought you out occasionally. You'd let him lose himself in you, always slightly demanding but never degrading, you'd challenge him and go toe to toe on who had the upper hand. He'd wanted to fuck his frustration and anger away and you were a willing participant. It was no strings, no commitments and while you knew it wouldn't last, you didn't expect him to just disappear without a backward glance. 

 

No one seemed to know how he'd fared since he was last seen at Nelson Road and you had no real reason to check in on him. So how you found yourself knocking on his door at 11pm on a random Tuesday night was utterly beyond comprehension. 

"The fuck are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too."

"I mean it, why are you here? Did he send you?"

"Ted? Why would you think that? I thought I'd check in and see how you were?" He grunted. 

"Or you fancied a good fuck?"

"Y'know what, forget I came. I didn't come here to be insulted." You turned to leave,

"No, praise is your thing isn't it? Like to be told you're a good girl." He sneered, leaning against the door frame. 

"Fuck you Roy, you're obviously fine. I'll leave you to it."

"What's up? You're usually into this little fucking game we play?"

"Yeah, when it's mutually good. You're just being a dick for the sake of it. I'm the idiot who thought you might need someone to talk to, I needn't have bothered." You're halfway up his drive when he responds.

"Don't go. At least come and have a drink. You can tell me all the shit everyone's been up to." You cock your head to one side, "I'm sorry for being a dick. I shouldn't have been rude to you." You still hesitate. "You're a sight for sore eyes. It's been too long."

"Who's fault is that?"

"Mine." He admits with a self conscious shrug. 

"You're fucking right it is." Your brushed passed him and into the house, "and I'll have a glass of wine please." You weren't new to small talk with Roy, though it did usually occur after he'd made you come multiple times. You made yourself comfortable on his sofa and watched him in the kitchen, pouring wine from the fridge for both of you. 

"I didn't mean to upset you." He puts the glass down in front of you. 

"You didn't. You know I'm not easily offended, but there's a difference between our usual tête-á-tête and you just being plain fucking mean after 3 months of solitary confinement."

"It's not been solitary."

"I heard you coach 9 year old girls now?"

"Who told you?"

"My niece is one of them, Quinn."

"She's fucking class."

"Hmm. Future England player maybe, according to my twat brother. You're still better than that, though," you drink more, looking for courage in the bottom of the glass, "and I wondered if you might call. More fool me."

"You don't want me to call."

"Says who? You?"

"You deserve better." He sighed. 

"Do I? Is that your conclusion or do I get to make my own?"

"Are you just going to keep questioning my opinion, or actually offer any of your own?" He countered. You smirked over the edge of your wine glass at his frustration.

"Well, you haven't let me have an opinion yet, have you? You've decided that I don't want you to call and that I deserve better, all by yourself. Shall I just submit all future decisions to you from now on?" He shook his head, 

"I've fucking missed your attitude." He stood, taking the empty glass from your hand and putting it on the table, and then gripped your wrist gently to pull you to standing. "I'd carry you, but -"

"You're a fucking idiot," you finished for him, reaching on your toes to kiss him. His arms circled your waist, 

"I'm a fucking idiot," he agreed with a mumble, his lips not leaving yours. You let him lead you to his bedroom. 

"An actual bed? Jesus Roy, you're spoiling me." You laugh, pulling his t-shirt off before taking a step back and slipping your own summer dress off and letting it fall to the floor. Your usual frenetic dalliances have meant that despite knowing your body intimately, he's never actually seen you naked. He drinks in the sight of you in summery coral lingerie in the dim lamplight, his eyes dark as you reach behind to unclip your bra and let it slide down your arms. You drop to your knees in front of him, pulling his shorts down over his hips. He's already half hard. You pull his shorts all the way off, and he steps out of them. On your way back to your goal, you pause just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of his bad knee. You hear the shaky breath leave his body and focus your attention elsewhere which allows him to do the same thing. This is not pity you try to convey with your actions. Your mouth waters in anticipation, all this hurried sex and you've never once had the chance to see him like this, to feel the weight of him in your mouth. You slide your tongue up the underside of his cock and swirl it around the hot tip. He rocks against you, his hands fisted at his side. You take his hands one at a time and put them on your head, looking up his long body to watch his reaction to you pumping his cock with kiss swollen lips. 

"Fuck me, you look so fucking good -" He rasps, his voice strained. You hum in agreement, the vibration running through his body. He tugs your hair lightly, the sensation sending waves of desire to your core and making your thighs rub together in desperation. When he pulls again, it's a request for you to stop, "I need to be inside you," he practically whimpers, pulling you up by the hand. You guide him the couple of steps back to the bed and he sits down heavily, dragging you into his lap as he does. You lift up onto your knees hands on his shoulders for balance as you line him up against you, shifting your underwear to one side. He cups your heavy breast with one hand while the other grabs the swell of your ass as you lower down onto him. With your thighs spread wide over his, the depth is incredible and takes a second to adjust to. His tongue follows his hand across your nipple, taking it into his mouth, rolling it and biting gently. It's enough to have you grinding against his cock and arching your back to have him fill you right to the hilt. Then he echoes the words you've always told him in a desperate whisper, "fuck me." Your forearms on his shoulders give you the perfect leverage to rise and fall on him over and over, the proximity means he's able to lavish attention on your breasts while his hands kneed and grasp your hips, helping you keep your rhythm while his cock splits you open. "God, you're so fucking beautiful," he groans, capturing your mouth in a rough, needy kiss. Considering your previous interactions left you the one feeling needy and yielding, you're currently feeling like the powerful one. He brings his hand up to your mouth, running his thumb across your bottom lip and letting you suck it. He uses it to brush against your clit and you lean back in his arms, partly to give him access and partly so he can watch as you take his cock. 

"See how you fill me up so perfectly?" You breathe, gasping as his circles against your clit bring you closer to release. "Do you even know what you do to me?" You ask, pulling him closer again with a kiss. "This is what I fucking want, this is what I deserve." You tell him. You'd say more, but your words have his hips stuttering as he comes inside you, the feeling pulling you over the edge with him and your words turning to incoherent affirmations and praise. His hands still your hips as you collapse into him, your head falling to the crook of his neck. He kisses your shoulder and up into the spot behind your ear that makes your body unintentionally buck against him. 

"Fucking hell, I'm never avoiding you for 3 months again. You'll be lucky if you get 3 minutes of peace from me ever again." He mutters, biting your earlobe. 

"Promise?" You ask with a low laugh. 

 

FIN

[alidravana]

Spite is a fantastic motivator for writing fic.

For all those who are dropping nasty anons in my moots inboxes, just so you know this is only motivating me to write more BuckTommy fics!

[livingmeetthedead]

I present a gift. Complete with a pretty lilac bow. A final chapter! 🪦

[amorgansgal]

Oh don't mind me, I'm just reblogging all the smut!

[madamechrissy]

i been gone for a bit and the amount of fics ive come back to😝😝

Yesss hehe enjoy all the smut baby 😘😘🤭🤭💗

[blueicequeen19]

Finals are over and I’m on break from school for a month so you can bet your sweet asses that you’ll be seeing a lot of me 🍑👅💦

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Multitudes Chapter Sixteen

Are We Crazy...

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> The pair meet a therapist, and Widow meets Clint... In a nicer way.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 5920

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) Shitty therapists, dismissal of symptoms, forced viewpoints, just general crappy approaches to mental health, particularly psychosis. But also self-realisation and cute stuff.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the warnings, and proceed with caution. You know the drill. A surprisingly feel-good chapter in the end, though. Corresponds to Magic and Madness - Chapter Five, though the two events are unrelated. Masterlist can be found here. It's here that the main reality starts to become evident in this work, in a way that is, for us, beautifully poetic. We deeply hope you enjoy this turn of events. Creators reserve the right to discuss their own condition however they see fit. And uh, smut. Lots o' smut. Sorrynotsorry. Is squirting a porn trope not often seen in real life? Maybe. Is it still something that we think needs to be normalised? Yes. (consider this a content warning for uh mess rip)

Check it out below, or on AO3 here! The snazzy Black Widow divider comes from @/firefly-graphics and I love it <3 The Multitudes Universe one is our own!

<- Previous Chapter (15/72) Next Chapter (17/72) ->

Bruce still wouldn’t let me look at the scale, but between his subtle smile and the bloat still settling in my abdomen, I knew my weight had gone up.

Lunch was a buffet of reheated dishes, quickly polished off throughout the morning by a cycle of Avengers dipping in and out.

For once, Clint and I were the only ones actually sat at the table – a condition of my treatment plan – and it was a startlingly laid-back meal, for once.

… I could get away with it. There’s only Clint here to watch me. He’ll never notice if something that made its way to my plate carefully makes its way back.

Maybe, Widow conceded, but then we looked in unison to the archer beside us, gesticulating wildly, crumbs spilling from his mouth, and they smiled fondly. But you shouldn’t. For him.

For him, I agreed, taking another bite.

“Why don’t you tell me why we’re here?”

I hate her.

The disdain was instant as she’d settled herself opposite me, all sharp angles and high cheekbones, gaze flicking over my body indiscreetly.

Someone that looks like that is supposed teach me to eat?

Widow snorted, rolling their eyes. Talk about the blind leading the blind, huh?

“I have an eating disorder rooted in a history of sexual, emotional, psychological and physical abuse, both in childhood and in adulthood. Oh, and there’s a voice in my head that tells me if I don’t starve myself, I’ll be killed when the people who raised – tortured  - me from a young age finally hunt me down and take me back there. I go days at a time without eating, I make myself sick, and I dig knives into my flesh; the most recent example of this actually put me into a coma for two weeks. We're here because it’s reached a point of no return, and if this doesn’t stop now, it won’t stop all.”

Widow winced as I spoke of them, and I murmured an internal apology. I just want to shock her. She seems unflappable.

“A voice?” she prompted evenly, making a note on the sheet on her lap. “What voice is that?”

“A part of me,” I countered quickly, eyes narrowed. “An irrefutable and profound part of who I am.”

She hummed, watching me carefully. “You seem very attached to something you say causes you distress.”

“They’re learning to do better.”

“’They’? I thought you said there was only one.”

I rolled my eyes at her arbitrary focus, unable to hide my petulance much longer. “They’re a ‘they’ because they don’t fit in to human concepts of gender, not because they are plural.” An amused snort echoed in my mind, wryly but gently pointing to the amount of times I’d referred to us as ‘we’.

“I see,” she murmured, making way more notes than my response had warranted. “And this ‘voice’. Is it here with us now?”

“They are always here.”

“I see. What is it saying?”

Fuck this bitch. I’m not an it.

I bit back a smirk, shrugging. “They don’t always say much.”

Her eyebrow quirked, unimpressed. “Then how do you know it’s there?”

“They are always there. A part of me, like I said.” Fuck this bitch. You're not an it.

“I’m concerned about the validation you are giving to this ‘voice’ through your personification.”

Since when was therapy about just bashing me? I’ve made mistakes, but damn...

I shook my head, willing to give her one more chance. “They aren’t especially relevant; can we just get back to my issues?”

She hummed, chin balancing on perfectly tented fingers. “Actually, I think it is profoundly relevant. I think that most of your behaviour – which I’m reluctant to label an eating disorder, or trauma – is based upon this ‘voice’, and your steadfast dedication to it is deeply troubling. I think it’s highly possible that normal human emotions – sadness when something goes wrong, low self-esteem – have been twisted, not as a result of a litany of various mental illnesses, as you seem to believe, but as a result of an auditory hallucination, your determined belief of which seems akin to psychosis. I think that you would find significant relief in treating and eradicating this ‘voice’, and that the removal of it would be endlessly beneficial for you. Would you say my assessment is accurate?”

I blinked.

I blinked again.

Please… Please let me take this one.

Have at it.

I was jerked backwards, body unmoving but impossibly distant, and I vaguely recognised the sensation when I had conceded control to Widow once before – when they broke Clint’s heart.

“You know nothing,” they ground out, fingers curled into intimidating fists by their sides as they stood, entire body bristling with fury. “You are nothing. You are a poorly-trained fool who wouldn’t understand a real problem if it slapped her in the face – and believe me, it is tempted.”

The therapist paled with understanding, fingers reaching unconsciously for something unseen. “I-I didn’t mean to imply-”

“You did not imply anything. You told this poor, damaged girl that all of her issues are in her head – that they are her fault, rather than the blame resting solely on those who treated her – treated us – the way they did. Do you have any idea how much damage you could have caused? Three days ago, Nat just might have believed you, and it would have killed her.”

“And as for my own ‘treatment and eradication’,” they quipped, fingers quoting sarcastically as they stepped closer, predatory and terrifying, “what do you think now? Do you think I am just an ‘auditory hallucination’, a symptom of psychosis? A voice without a name, or even deserving of the basic fucking dignity of not being repeatedly addressed as an ‘it’, despite being told that I am, in fact, not an it?” Their hands slammed down on the arms of the chair, leaning closer to her trembling face, no longer an inspiration of cheekbones and jawlines, but instead a mess of sweat and terror as she shook her head quickly. “My name is Widow, you little bitch. And if Natasha was asleep right now, you would not be walking out of this room. I will always protect her, and fuck you for trying to tell her otherwise.”

There was no blackout this time, no disconnect as Widow brought true fear to the dangerously underqualified therapist, and I whooped my support as they turned on a heel, storming from the interview room, the glass above the door cracking with the impact.

That was amazing – you are amazing!

“Thank you,” they grunted, bare knuckles stinging as they collided again and again with the heavy boxing bag, sweat running in rivulets down their arms.

“Heart rate spike – Natasha Romanoff, gymnasium.” Friday’s lyrical voice was soft but distant, and I rolled my eyes.

You know we shouldn’t be exercising, right?

“Punch the bag or punch the bitch, it is your choice,” they quipped, and I revelled in the passionate ache in our straining muscles.

“Nat? You in here?”

Widow froze, panting lightly, dropping instinctively into a half crouch. What do I do?

I shrugged internally, stepping back as they tried to drag me forward. It’s your call. But you don’t have to be afraid of facing him as yourself. He might not understand – not at first – but he loves me, and you’re a part of me. He loves us; he just doesn’t understand that we’re not one and the same yet.

Nodding stiffly, they straightened, bruised knuckles curled through habit as Clint stepped around the corner, taking in the bedraggled person stood before him and the steady swaying of the bag.

“Nat, what the hell? Your therapist just left, looking like she’d had the fright of her life – she said… Well, it doesn’t matter what she said, but she definitely won’t be coming back. You’re not supposed to be exercising, either. C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

“Нет,” Widow replied, shaking their head as they stepped back, hands raised defensively. (No.)

… You’re scared. How did I never realise, all this time? You’re not mean, or angry, or vindictive. You’re just scared.

“Nat?” Clint pressed, head cocked with concern, extending his fingers.

Widow met his gaze steadily. I’m terrified. “Нет.”

His brow furrowed, and then cleared, nervous understanding dawning. “You’re not Natasha.” They nodded once, jerkily, eyes narrowing as the proffered fingers receeded. “You’re… You’re The Voice, aren’t you?”

“She calls me Widow now,” they replied, tongue still thick and heavy through a lack of familiarity.

C’mon, Clint. You’ve got this. Please, please don’t be afraid of them.

Please… Don’t be afraid of me.

Clint nodded, fingertips brushing the tattoo on his wrist unconsciously. “She’s safe?”

They flinched minutely, wounded at the implication. “I will always keep her safe.”

Snorting softly, his gaze found the cracks on their knuckles. “You’ve not always done the best job, have you?”

I winced, but Widow simply rolled their jaw, head shaking. “Нет… But I am trying to be better.”

Clint paused, watching them carefully before he inched slowly closer. “That therapist… She didn’t have many nice things to say about our Natasha. Is that why you scared her?” They nodded, gaze dropping, and he extended his fingers once more, reaching across the space between us and him. “Then I’m glad you were there to protect her. Thank you, Widow.”

They looked up in shock, finding his eyes, firm and genuine, resting on their own. “… You are welcome, Clint.”

I gasped as Widow backed away, finding myself once more in control of our body, muscles trembling with exertion and adrenaline, heaving air into tired lungs. My knees trembled and I sat quickly, hands buried in my hair as I sobbed.

There were no more words until I was tucked up in our bed, Clint’s hands gently smoothing antiseptic across our battered knuckles, the skin softened by lack of training. “…Nat?”

I nodded quietly, burrowing closer against his side. “Hi.”

He exhaled softly, placing a gentle kiss to my hair. “Hi.”

“Am I crazy? She… The therapist – she said Widow is a hallucination, and that I’m psychotic. Is the right?” My words were soft, muttered against his hipbone shamefully, but he tipped my head to meet his eyes.

“I can’t say I exactly understand what is happening in that head of yours – but I don’t think you’re crazy, Nat, and I definitely don’t think Widow is a hallucination. She seems as real as you or me.”

I nodded once, swallowing around the lump in my throat, but Widow baulked. “They,” I amended quickly, sensing the cause of their discomfort. “They don’t like ‘she’ – and definitely not ‘it’. They like ‘they’.”

His fingertips brushed my forehead, smiling softly. “They. Got it. Sorry, Widow.”

I grinned as they did, my fingers wrapping with his. “They appreciate that. The therapist… No matter how many times we corrected her, or when I explained that Widow doesn’t really fit gender, she just kept saying ‘it’.”

He grimaced, returning to his careful ministrations on our cracked knuckles. “Yeah… I think Fury might need to reassess the therapists he employs. And, ideally, get rid of a few in the process.” He leant to kiss my hair, and I purred. “Don’t worry. We’ll talk to Bruce, see if he has any thoughts, and then we’ll find one more suitable. If you’re willing to try again,” he added, lip curling. I nodded, and he paused. “I… If both of you are willing to try again.”

Are you?

Widow snorted, rolling their eyes. I’m always happy to scare the shit out of an idiot, so yeah. But thanks… for asking.

Smiling fondly, I burrowed closer against my partner. “Yeah. I think we can do that.”

There was a pause, and then he sighed, wrapping light bandages around my hands. “You know we’re going to have to tell Bruce you were beating up a punching bag, right? I mean, he knew about the alert, and the therapist hauling ass, but I’m gonna have to tell him you were exercising.”

I flinched, but nodded my acceptance, a blossom of pride blooming in my chest at him making the difficult choice. “It’s okay. I get it.” His lips brushed my tender knuckles, soft and tentative, and he hummed thoughtfully. “... I know recovery should be motivation enough for its own sake, but I had an idea for our own little contract.”

I quirked a brow uncertainly. “We... We’re not meant to be deviating from the treatment plan, Clint. Last time-”

He shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. This is more of a reward-punishment kind of deal.”

“Oh? That’s... Interesting.”

He smirked, pulling me bodily onto his lap. “Well, Bruce cleared us to still... Be us, right? So… How about we try that ‘pillow princess’ thing, huh?”

I grinned in response, arms snaking around his neck, purring lightly. “I can’t say I’m opposed to the idea.”

He shivered as my tongue met his jaw, then drew back, swallowing. “Well, there lies the reward-punishment part. I’ll spend all evening, every evening, letting you just lay on that pillow... As long as you’ve been following your treatment plan that day,” he added, his thumbs skimming the bandages on my knuckles, and I scowled.

“But I didn’t know today – that’s not fair. Besides, I did so many good things today, remember? A good first day. I even...” Head ducked, I looked away. “It was just us for lunch, and I knew I could have gotten away with it. But I didn’t.”

I glanced up as his chest puffed with pride, lips brushing my forehead tenderly. “I really appreciate you telling me that, Nat... I guess you’re right. We’ll consider adherence from now. But this is your only free pass,” he added, one finger raised warningly, expression barely shifting as I wriggled in his lap. I nodded and grinned, wrapping my fingers with his, delighted by this new motivation I’d been given. Clint, however, simply paused and cocked his head, watching me uncertainly.

“What is it?”

“How does this... Work, now? I mean... It’s their body too, right? And you know how important consent is to me. I don’t want to... Do anything they don’t want, too.”

Fingertips brushing my chest, I sighed softly, touched. “Clint...”

He really is nice, isn’t he?

He really is.

“Honestly, I don’t think either of us quite know the answer to that. It’s... Complicated – and I’m sure Widow will correct me if I’m wrong – but I think... It’s largely up to whoever is currently in control, y’know? There’s... We don’t have to be around for something, if we don’t want to be.”

Though we should probably discuss any ‘hard no’ limits at some point. Like Clint said... It’s our body. There’s a difference between not wanting to be present for something, and not wanting it to happen at all.

Clint hummed, oblivious, and then glanced at me. “... Has it always been you?”

My hand wavered back and fourth, indecisive. “It’s always been at least me. I’ve always been the one in control. And before you ask, yes – the other night was my idea. Widow wasn’t even around for most of it. It actually... It was a turning point for us, when we took care of you, after. I think it was the start of stuff changing.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

“I’d like to get to know them better,” Clint murmured, his hands trailing my sides lightly. “I think we have a lot in common – we both only want to protect you. And we’ve both been a little… Misguided about how to do that in the past, but we’re trying to do better.”

… I think I’d like that.

I relayed their sentiment, and he grinned, fingers smoothing my hair gently. “And hey, you never know… Maybe one day I’ll find out what they like, too,” he noted, smirking, before paling in panic. “Not that I would ever assume… I don’t think I have a right, or anything. And you’d have to be okay with it, of course. I mean, is it cheating? You’re separate people, but it’s still your body…”

I laughed, pressing my hand soothingly to his chest. “Clint, take a breath. It’s fine. I think we’d enjoy that.”

Speak for yourself. I jerked back, horrified at my lack of clarification, and they laughed. I’m kidding, Nat. I’d very much like a front row seat to his… Prowess. You’ve had your first, I think I’m overdue.

I snorted, rolling my eyes affectionately and pressing my forehead to my partner’s. “Does this mean we’re in a throuple, or something?”

“I think the kids these days call it ‘polyamory’, Nat,” he laughed, lips brushing mine. “But I think we don’t need to put a label on it – at least not yet.”

“You’re the one who called us a couple,” I pointed out with a smirk, recalling his declaration after the attempted car theft. “They picked ‘the wrong couple’, remember?”

Blushing lightly, he nodded. “I remember. I also really hoped you hadn’t heard that. I wanted to ask in a better way.”

“Ask what?” I pressed, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

“If you – oh, God, I feel like a child, but I want this to be official,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, face darkening from pink to magenta. “If you’d be my girlfriend, Natasha.”

A pure, innocent thrum travelled through my body, a happy shiver following in its wake. “I’d be honoured, Mr. Barton.”

After dinner – an uneventful, if somewhat challenging affair – Clint and I cornered Bruce, retiring to the lab with mugs of coffee.

“… And that was when Nat came back – our Nat, I mean. But it’s not the first time – and sometimes it’s not a full takeover like that, she just goes a little… Blank, you know?”

Bruce hummed, watching me carefully. “Do you lose time? Come around in places you don’t remember getting to?” I nodded enthusiastically, unable to count the amount of times I’d disappeared during a particularly stressful mission, or even just ‘woke up’ in the middle of my kitchen, with no recollection of getting out of bed. “How’s your memory?”

I rolled one shoulder thoughtfully, chewing on my lip. “Not too bad, now. But… I don’t remember a lot of stuff from my past. Even things I should. I get flashes sometimes, but… Mostly it’s just a feeling. Fear. Panic. Desperation.” The nights spent exercising and purging that I can only get vague impressions of.

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Bruce surveyed me, head cocked. “How long have you been hearing her for?”

“’Them’,” Clint and I corrected together, and I shot him a fond smile. “I’ve heard them… I guess since the thing with Cl-… The thing with Loki,” I amended, wincing apologetically. “But… I think they’ve been around longer. I think the reason I don’t remember a lot of the horrible things that happened to me is because they do. I think they just… Want to protect me.”

His fingers pressed to his lips, deep in thought, and I exchanged another glance with my partner – my boyfriend, I amended with a shy giggle. “Natasha, I am not a psychologist. But I have some thoughts, and I believe I know exactly who I need to refer you to.”

I swallowed dryly, hands clenched tight. “Do you think I’m crazy? Or psychotic?” I added, heart hammering.

The doctor simply smiled sympathetically, shaking his head. “No, Nat. I don’t think you’re crazy. And I certainly don't think you're psychotic.”

“So… What is it? What’s going on with me?”

He hesitated briefly, glancing between the two of us. “I can’t say for certain, and I don’t want to give you inaccurate information if I turn out to be wrong.”

“Just a theory, Bruce. Please. I… I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes,” I admitted, voice dropping to a whisper.

Wincing empathetically, he nodded. “… What do you know about Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“So it’s often thought to be caused by childhood trauma?”

Bruce nodded, the end of his pen between his teeth. “Though there are arguments about that – but this isn’t the time, and nor is it applicable to Natasha’s situation. I think it’s pretty clear that Widow has been around since her childhood, trying to protect her from the things she endured in the Red Room.”

“Oh, so I’m a textbook crazy,” I snorted, pushing a hand through my hair.

All jokes aside, I felt lighter than I had in a long time. Widow and I had listened quietly as Bruce explained the disorder and common symptoms, becoming increasingly awestruck as to the accuracy of what he was saying.

Though if anyone ever calls me a ‘personality state’ again, I’m going to get violent.

I laughed aloud, drawing the men’s eyes to me. “Widow doesn’t agree with some of the terminology,” I explained, still grinning. Bruce reached for a piece of paper, and Clint leaned forward, listening intently.

“Why don’t you tell us how we can make them more comfortable, then?” the Doctor pressed, pen poised.

My archer nodded, gaze flicking briefly to Bruce. “I’d like a copy, too.”

“Of course.”

I blinked in disbelief, startled and touched by this display of consideration, a far cry from the trained professional who had simply questioned my sanity. “W-Well, uh… ‘Personality state’. ‘Alter’. They’re just… Widow. A person. It makes them feel less important – nobody refers to me like that, after all.” Bruce nodded, his  pen moving blindly across the paper, his eyes still focused on me. “Uh… I guess the idea of their existence being a ‘disorder’ kind of sucks too, you know? Like… They’re not something that needs to be cured.”

“Is there another way you’d like us to refer to your… Situation?”

I smiled fondly as a suggestion echoed in my head, nodding in agreement. “We are… Multitudes. Many. I guess we're just... Nat and Widow, you know? Natasha.”

Clint beamed, reaching out to take my hand fondly. “And I love every part of your multitudes, my dear, sweet Natasha,” he assured me – us – while Widow flushed.

“And we don’t want ‘treatment’,” I added, brow furrowed. “They’re not something that needs ‘eradicating’. The only thing we need is to learn how to communicate more effectively.”

Bruce nodded again, making another note. “I’ll make sure to find a therapist who doesn’t push for integration – fusion, of the alt- the people present, into a single individual,” he explained, wincing sweetly at his fumble.

I shook my head fiercely. “I don’t want that. Neither of us want that.”

… Really? I’d have thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of me, if you had a real chance.

No way, I scoffed, shaking my head once more and drawing looks of confusion from the two men around me. You’ve saved my life, Widow.

I also tried to end it.

What you tried to do – everything you’ve ever tried to do – might have been… Misguided, at times. But you were just trying to keep me safe, even though I never extended the same courtesy to you. I’m sorry, I added, eyes lowering in shame. I… I hated you, and that wasn’t fair of me. No wonder you lashed out – I never once thought about how you actually felt. But we can both do better, right? Together.

Together.

I was exhausted and shaking by the time we finally made our way back to the room,  my body and mind not used to so much work. But that didn’t stop me from flopping back against the pillow with a grin, extending my arms to my lover. “I did good, right?”

He smirked, nodding. “You did… But Bruce had stipulations, remember?” He turned on his heel, leaving without another word, while I blinked quizzically after him.

Juice before, snack after.

Oh yeah. Ugh. Fine.

The small bottle was delightfully cool as he handed it to me, and I purred, pressing the condensation-peppered container against my chest. Clint simply swallowed, looking away, jaw tight, as he drained his own juice in two long pulls.

…He didn’t want you to have to do it alone.

Grinning, I shook my head. Nope.

The archer’s eyes flicked back to me, eyeing the still-sealed OJ. “Nat. Drink your juice. Please.”

I quirked an eyebrow, momentarily offended – I was only enjoying the coolness for a second – before I noticed the slight increase in his breathing rate, the mild expansion of his pupils, and the hands curved into fists in his lap.

… Oh. He’s not being a jackass – he’s impatient.

I slowly unscrewed the lid, humming casually under my breath, while he twitched and fidgeted, teeth grinding audibly. I was halfway through the bottle before he met my gaze steadily, suddenly serious – and nervous.

“I… I’d like to know who… Who’s around for this. If that’s okay?” he added hesitantly. Smiling, I wrapped my fingers around his.

You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to.

Oh, I want to. Neither do you, you know.

I smirked, meeting the oceanic eyes of my dear, beloved Clint. There’s no way I’m missing this.

I wonder if I could…

There was an odd feeling somewhere indescribable, almost a shuffling and rearranging, and we sighed in soft wonder, finally together.

“We can share,” we whispered, half in answer to his question, and half in awe.

His eyes grew wide, trembling fingers caressing our cheek. “Widow?” We nodded, and he smiled. “And also Nat?” Another nod, and he shivered, gaze dropping back to the bottle in our hands. “Finish your goddamn juice, guys.”

The container was empty and tossed away a heartbeat later, and we dropped heavily back against the pillows, arms extended once more. “Now?”

He growled, dropping himself over us, his lips finding ours. “God, yes.”

Clint was patient despite his hunger, and we spent a significant amount of time just kissing and reaffirming consent before he eventually slid his hand under our shirt, light fingertips brushing our ribs. “Is this okay?” he clarified once more, brow furrowed in sweet confusion.

“Clint, Natasha has had several orgasms at your hands by now. It is my turn. Please stop hesitating. This is fine.”

I snorted at Widow’s words, and Clint’s eyes widened comically. “You want me to… Give you your first?” He laughed softly, pushing a hand through his hair. “I could get used to this honour. You’re going to make me cocky.”

We raised a brow at the double entendre, and he pinkened slightly, but our amusement was quickly forgotten as his teasing, tugging fingers found our breast, toying with the pert nipple gently. A soft sigh was dragged from our lips, head tipping back as we hummed. His lips found our throat, licking and nipping, and our hands balled in the sheets, back arching into him. A brief interruption while our shirt was pulled from our body, and then he was on top of us once more, body weight pinning us to the bed. I felt our breathing hitch nervously, and Clint paused.

“Is this okay?”

I… I think so. I think so.

“Nervous,” I murmured on their behalf, gesturing to our position. “Submissive. Vulnerable.”

He winced, raising himself higher on one arm. “Should I move?”

Our legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him back closer, pressing our hips against his. “No,” Widow growled, fingers tightening in his forearms. “Make me love it.”

He swallowed dryly, then nodded, rolling his body against ours, eliciting a stuttered groan from our parted lips.

His mouth started again on our throat, but slowly began to migrate down, pausing briefly to press his teeth lightly around our nipple, drawing out another hiss and whimper of desperation, before he continued his trail, stopping at the line of our sweatpants and meeting our eyes imploringly.

I shivered at the memory of his tongue on me, and we nodded fiercely.

By the time he was back between our legs, which were anxiously half-closed to hide our now-naked body from view, a low tremble had started in our bones.

Are you okay?

Terrified, they admitted, voice soft. … What if he hurts me?

I glanced down, taking in the man patiently rubbing our thigh while he waited for us to relax, content to wait as long as it took, knowing he’d stop if we asked him to – or even if we didn’t, because he didn't need us to say anything to know we'd had enough.

He won’t.

Whether through my words or Clint’s careful ministrations, Widow unlocked our muscles, allowing our knees to fall apart slowly, the archer’s eyes flaring with desire, gaze locked on ours as he slowly inched forward.

“Oh…” Widow sighed, our body leaning into the contact as his tongue trailed slowly over our heat. “Wow.”

I felt Clint chuckle, hands around our thighs to pull us closer as he set to work, licking and nibbling and sucking and – Dear God, what sorcery is this?

I hummed in agreement, our head dropping back. He was, admittedly, even more adept when he wasn’t tied down, the full range of his talents at our disposal.

Though there was another benefit, too.

Widow froze as an uncertain, questioning fingertip touched to our hole, patient and inquisitive.

… We’ll be okay?

I promise.

“Green. Green, Clint.”

They groaned as he entered us slowly, our own fingers finding his hair and tugging lightly, desperately. “Fuck, Barton. Nat was right. You really are worth it.”

He simply moaned in response, redoubling his efforts - tongue swirling - first one, then two digits pumping steadily inside us, caressing and perfect.

We swallowed around the lump in our throat, unintelligible words beginning to fall thick and fast from our lips, hips twitching desperately.

You know what to do, Clint. You know how to break them.

On cue, he looked up, face still buried between our legs, his cerulean eyes on ours as he drew back just long enough to speak. “You wanna come for me, Widow? Prove it. Come for me.”

They whimpered desperately, hips jerking, thighs clenching, our hands grasping frantically to push him ever closer as the climax hit. We – they – couldn’t help ourselves, an undeniably deafening scream of pleasure tearing from our lips as he fucked us enthusiastically, tongue caressing every inch of us, driving us through with unrelenting passion until we were mewling and whimpering, writhing beneath him.

He tapped our thigh, and we unclenched, permitting him to draw back for breath, ears red from the force of our hold. “… Sorry.”

“Are you kidding?” he groaned, raising his head to look at us. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.” He wiped his face, and our head cocked in confusion at the droplets peppering his skin, eliciting a wry smirk. “It seems Widow has a talent I hadn’t yet found in this body.” When we merely frowned further, he gestured to the significant wetness on his cheeks. “Squirting. Female ejaculation. Basically, shooting instead of flowing,” he added when our confusion didn’t ease up.

Oh. Oh. “Oh.”

Our face flamed, and he scrabbled quickly up the bed to grasp our chin. “No. No embarrassment. God, no embarrassment. I fucking loved it. You’re so hot.” His fingers tightened in our hips as he growled, his arousal pressing against us indiscreetly. We reached for him, hand brushing the very tip of his member through his boxers before he twitched his hips away, shaking his head.

“Pillow princess, remember?”

“But…”

“You don’t have to worry about me, guys. I’m more than happy to go without if it means you two are satisfied.”

We hummed, back arching, legs around him once more. “There’s ways we can help without putting in much effort, you know,” we murmured, hips rolling meaningfully. He let our a staccato groan, one hand finding our waist.

“You don’t have to-” “Clint. Shut up and fuck us. And besides,” I added, grinning. “Widow now has an experience I don’t. We’ve gotta even things out, right?”

He moaned, rutting shamelessly against us. “Pretty sure you experienced it too, Nat.”

I nodded thoughtfully, reaching down to slide his boxers down as far as I could reach. “True… But I want to start it. If you think you can manage that,” I implored, eyes wide and innocent as his tip touched to our wet heat.

He slid inside us easily, drawing a sigh of pleasure from our lips and a ragged groan from his own. “Fuck… You’re so wet,” he purred against our ear, hips setting up an immediate, punishing pace. We whimpered at his words, body growing impossibly hotter.

“I love it when you speak to us like that,” Widow admitted tentatively, fingers catching on the skin of his back. “We both do.”

“Oh?” His teeth found our throat, free hand pawing blindly at our breast as he stretched us. “You like hearing how good you feel, huh? How hard it makes me, just thinking about you?”

“Y-yes,” we stammered, head falling back once more. He growled against our skin, deep and predatory.

“You do – you feel so good around me. So tight, so wet… So desperate for me to fuck you, huh?” We nodded with a whine, our own hips jerking upwards to meet him. He hesitated briefly, swallowing audibly, then- “I just love this slutty pussy.”

A gasp of surprise and a moan of delight, our fingers reaching for him desperately, pulling him closer, deeper. “Please-”

“What is it, my little ones? Do you want me to let you come? To let you squirt?” We nodded frantically, and one hand pulled our hair back, his lips finding our ear as his hips snapped forward, frantic and furious. “Do it. Squirt for me, my loves. You can do it.”

We cried out as our body imploded, forcing him out as we contracted, wetness flooding the sheets below. Clint leaned back quickly, pushing himself back in as he watched, revelling in the bursts leaking around him, hands finding our hips to jerk us closer, his thrusts short and deep. “God, you’re hot. You’re so fucking hot-” With a surrendering groan, he pumped himself impossibly deeper, comforting heat filling us up from the inside.

We lay panting in his arms, drenched in sweat – and other things – as his seed slowly leaked from between our legs.

Ok. I… I need a break. But that…

Good, isn’t he? I smirked.

Incredible.

I stretched my tender muscles as Widow receded, sighing contentedly. “I think you broke them.”

Clint glanced down in sleepy alarm, heavy lids as wide as they could be. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Are-”

Shaking my head quickly, I placed one exhausted finger to his lips. “In the best possible way. Evidently, you’re ‘incredible’.”

He laughed, embarrassedly rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t go that far…”

I gestured idly at the mess of our bed, placing a tender kiss to his chest. “You already did. The words were a bold choice,” I added, one brow cocked in amusement.

He flushed crimson and sat upright, shifting himself from beneath me. “I… Aren’t you supposed to have a snack?”

“Clint.”

He paused from pulling on a fresh pair of boxers, red and nervous.

“Yeah?”

“We loved it.” I gestured to the bed once more, smirking. “That should have been obvious. And besides, Widow was right – you know how you love the marks? Well, we love the words.”

He swallowed dryly, colour fading. “…Noted.”

[playrsimpn]

I’M HOME 🥹🥰😍♥️🤭💯🤍🖤

hot girls (me) use tumblr to be publicly insane

[daegudrama]

Title: Just for the Weekend Part 2

Pairing: Reader/Min Yoongi

Summary: When a chance encounter at a music festival turns into something deeper, you find yourself pulled into a whirlwind with Yoongi—a stranger who feels too familiar. Between stolen moments, electric chemistry, and a bond that feels effortless, you're left questioning everything you thought you knew about love and connection. With the festival winding down and the last day creeping closer, one thing is certain: what started as unexpected might just be the most thrilling, dangerous, and real thing you never saw coming.

Word Count: 10,809

Release date: 6/13/25

A few hours later, the desert sky is painted soft and peach as Yoongi stands in the shuttle line, hoodie pulled tight and sunglasses shielding his tired eyes. He shifts on his feet, heart thudding hard, arms crossed trying to keep it together. He checks his phone again. 6:58 a.m.

You’re still sleeping, curled up in the tent he snuck out of like a man on a mission.

The shuttle finally arrives. Yoongi climbs on and keeps to himself the whole way. At the store, he heads straight for the pharmacy aisle. Grabs the Plan B box first. Then a Gatorade. Then condoms—just in case you aren’t pissed off and do want to have more amazing sex with him. Then, for good measure and to give the guys a reason not to grill him too hard, some more alcohol, and peanut M&M’s, because you mentioned craving them the night before.

The cashier doesn’t ask questions. Neither do the security guards when he gets back to the checkpoint. One glance at the Plan B box and they just nod and wave him through like he’s a soldier returning from battle.

When he gets back to camp, the sun is up but the tent is still zipped shut. Jimin, Taehyung, and Jin catch sight of Yoongi, of the bag in his hand, and exchange a knowing look before retreating toward the showers to give the two of you privacy.

Yoongi exhales and ducks back inside the tent.

You’re still asleep, blissed out and warm under the blanket. He kneels beside you, eyes soft. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, and your nose, and your temple.

You stir. Smile. “You’re back…”

Then, all at once, it hits you. Like a slap.

Your stomach flips as last night flashes through your mind—his mouth on yours, your legs around his waist, the ache between your thighs. The high of it. The way you didn’t think. The way you didn’t stop.

Your chest tightens. You bolt upright. “Shit. Oh my God—Yoongi—we didn’t—fuck, I’m not on birth control.”

Your voice shakes. You feel cold and flushed at the same time. You’re supposed to be careful. You’re supposed to be the one who always has things under control. And now—

“I know,” Yoongi says, quiet, already reaching into the bag.

You freeze, confused. “Wait…how do you know?”

“Taehyung mentioned it last night. Then Jimin told me what you said.”

You stare at him as he pulls the box from the bag. The Plan B. Your breath catches.

Some of the panic eases, but not the guilt. Not the feeling that you’d let something slip. That somehow, despite everything, you’d let yourself be careless. And yet, his quiet preparation, the way he thought of you before you even had the chance to panic—makes your heart flip over in your chest. It’s nice, you think, maybe a little dangerous, to be cared for like this. To be held in the hands of someone who sees the fall coming and reaches out first.

You blink, eyes stinging a little, but you manage a nod. “Okay. Good. Thank you.”

Yoongi brushes his thumb over your cheek, his touch grounding. “We’ve got it covered. You’re okay.”

You nod again, more slowly this time, heart pounding but beginning to settle. Your hand closes over his. You still feel shaken, but he’s here. He didn’t run. And that means something.

It means everything.

You take the pill with a sip of Gatorade, then pause and glance at the bottle. “You got my favorite flavor.”

Yoongi shrugs, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “You mentioned it yesterday.”

You spot the candy next. “Wait…are those M&M’s?”

He nods. “You were talking about them in line at the beer tent.”

Your heart flips again. “You remembered?”

He just nods like it’s nothing, even though it clearly isn’t. “Yeah. Figured it might help.”

The two of you settle, sitting cross-legged on the blanket, shoulders brushing as the morning light pours in soft and golden. You talk for a while—nothing heavy. Just music, the festival, the weird dream Yoongi had before the thud woke him up. You feel steadier. Safer. Like the sharp edges have rounded off again.

Eventually, Yoongi stretches out beside you, resting on one elbow, eyes on yours. “So,” he says casually, “when was the last time you had sex before last night?”

You laugh, surprised. “Over a year ago. Maybe longer.”

His brows lift. “Seriously?”

You nod, slightly embarrassed. “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d be breaking the streak this weekend, that’s for sure.”

Yoongi smirks. “Glad I could be of service.”

You shove his shoulder playfully, but your grin gives you away. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I mean,” he leans in a little, voice low, “you did look pretty cocky last night too.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “Yoongi.”

“What?” he grins, eyes dancing. “Just saying. I wouldn’t be mad if we accidentally broke that streak again. Soon.”

You bite your lip, pulse kicking up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His gaze drops to your mouth. “You make it hard to think straight. I keep wanting more.”

You inhale, heartbeat wild. “Then maybe stop thinking.”

Yoongi hums. “Dangerous suggestion.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, your fingers brushing his. “But it’s been a reckless kind of weekend.”

His lips curl. “Best kind.”

And you smile, for real this time, because the storm is past and you’re still here. With him.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

By 10am, the tent is stifling, so you both emerge blinking into the sunlight to start the process of getting ready for the day’s shows. Jin passes you a mirror and a makeup bag while Jimin sits braiding Taehyung’s hair into uneven plaits.

Before anyone gets far, you plant your feet and hold up a pack of electrolyte powder like it’s holy scripture. “Nobody drinks a drop of alcohol until they drink this. I’m not babysitting your dehydrated asses.”

Groans and protests ring out but you’re firm. You go around personally handing everyone their bottle, watching each sip with your hands on your hips.

Once they’re halfway compliant, you finally duck into your tent and change into your outfit for the day— a high-waisted denim skirt, platform boots, and a pink crop top that reads RM's Princess in bedazzled silver gems.

You mix yourself a drink in a red solo cup, humming as you stir in some lemon and a splash (or maybe a few good glugs) of vodka. You turn to rejoin the group—only to choke on your sip.

Yoongi is standing there. In. The. Exact. Same. Shirt.

You burst out laughing, nearly spilling your drink. “Oh my god, are you kidding me?!”

Yoongi looks down at his top, then up at you with that tiny smirk. “What? I thought it suited me.”

Jin claps once, pointing between you. “One of you is going to have to change.” He breaks into his trademark windshield wipers laugh, wheezing.

“You change,” you say, still grinning.

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi replies. “I look fantastic.”

“You look deranged,” Jimin says. “But like, hot-deranged. I support it.”

Taehyung’s mouth is full of cheese puffs but he mumbles, “Couples who match stay together.”

Your grin doesn’t fade, but something shifts behind your eyes. You laugh it off, of course you do, but your brain is already running in quiet little circles. Couples who match...

You wonder, fleetingly, if that’s what this is—just matching outfits and shared drinks and banter under the sun. A weekend thing. A festival thing. Something the heat and the music and the glitter makes feel bigger than it is. But then Yoongi catches your eye across the camp and tips his cup toward yours with a wink. And your heart does that stupid thing again. That little leap. That little what if.

You don’t let yourself linger on it. Not right now. Not when everyone’s buzzing and beautiful and the day’s only just begun.

But even as you turn away, even as you toss your head and join the noise, the thought lingers like the taste of lemon on your tongue: What if this doesn’t end with the weekend? You push the thought out of your head and join back into whatever the boys are doing. 

You and Yoongi slip out of camp earlier than the others, drawn by the promise of the photo booth at the camping hub and the kind of light that only exists before noon at a festival—soft and golden, before the sun gets too mean. The walk is easy, the mood light.

Halfway there, you veer toward a slushie truck with a hand on Yoongi’s wrist. “Free samples,” you grin. “It’s fate.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical, but follows without complaint. The slushie hits your tongue like a miracle—icy, syrupy bliss—and you both moan dramatically in unison, then laugh at yourselves.

“Okay, worth it,” he admits, wiping his mouth.

At the photo booth, there’s no line, just a breeze curling through the open tent flaps and the hum of a nearby speaker playing an old Shinee song. You drag Yoongi inside and sit close, your knees knocking.

First photo: you grab his face and smash your cheek to his, grinning so wide it crinkles your eyes.

Second photo: you twist and kiss his cheek, and he plays along, covering his mouth with both hands like he’s scandalized.

Third photo: he turns to you gently, fingers curling along your jaw. His kiss is soft and slow, perfectly timed with the shutter.

When the strips print out, you both reach for them at the same time, and you can’t stop smiling. They’re perfect—warm light, flushed cheeks, the kind of photos that don’t need filters. You tuck yours carefully into your phone case.

From there, you head toward the front gates, even though they won’t open for another hour and a half. Moonchildren are already gathering, their shirts, signs and purple hearts giving them away immediately. You feel the same low thrum of excitement vibrating in your bones—the deep knowing that today is his day.

Yoongi carries the bigger bag, the one you over packed this morning. It’s stuffed with snacks, two handheld fans, sunscreen, a small blanket, a sweater, wet wipes, a portable charger, and whatever else you thought might save you from wilting later. The main stage is brutal during the day, no shade at all until sundown—but you’ll survive. You always do. For RM, you would stand on the sun.

While you wait, your competitive instincts kick in, and you start arguing about who should sprint for the barricade once the gates open. It’s inevitable that one of you will have to stay behind while they check the larger bag. 

“I’m faster,” you say, confidently.

“You’re chaotic,” Yoongi counters. “You’ll trip over your own excitement.”

“You have the bag!”

“I’ll throw the bag.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

You're both bickering through grins, shifting on your feet as more fans trickle in. The sun climbs higher. The gates stay shut. The moment pulses with potential—of a show, of a day, of whatever this thing is between you and him that neither of you wants to name just yet.

The second the gates open, you're off like a shot.

Dust kicks up under your boots as you sprint for center barricade, weaving through the early rush of festival-goers. Behind you, you can hear Yoongi shout something—probably a warning—but you don't stop. Not when you've got a perfect opening and the barricade in sight.

Security pulls him aside because of the oversized bag, and you throw a quick glance over your shoulder to catch him holding up his hands in mock surrender as a guard rifles through the snacks, fans, sunscreen, and extra layers. You’ll owe him for this later.

The front row is already dotted with a few familiar faces—Moonchildren, RM fans just as eager as you are—but it isn’t packed yet. You slide in between two people with a breathless, elated laugh, your fingers locking around the cold metal bar.

Fifth. You’re the fifth person on center barricade.

You take a second to catch your breath, chest rising and falling as the heat of the sun starts to press down on your shoulders. But your grin doesn’t fade.

Yoongi jogs up a moment later, bag slung back over one shoulder, scowling half-heartedly. “Unfair. You’re fast.”

“You’re lucky I saved you a spot,” you tease, nudging your hip against his. “They could’ve filled up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulls out one of the fans and hands it to you, then cracks open a bottle of water. “At least tell me I didn’t haul ass across a field for nothing.”

You flash him a smile, eyes already trained on the stage being prepped. “You didn’t. We’ve got a perfect view. Center barricade. It’s happening.”

He bumps your shoulder and settles in beside you, matching your grip on the rail. The rail you soon won’t be able to touch because it’s too hot. Around you, the pit starts to fill, voices buzzing with excitement, music thrumming in the background like a heartbeat.

The first act starts and the heat becomes harder to ignore. You're sweating already, but the energy in the crowd helps distract you. The sun is relentless. You twist your hair up and Yoongi quietly hands you a hair tie from the bag. His fingers brush the nape of your neck and linger for a beat too long. When you glance at him, he's already looking at you, a slow smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

He doesn’t seem the type to be touchy in public, but something about the heat, the music, the way you look right now—it short-circuits his restraint. He lets his fingers brush your hand when you reach for your water. Presses his knee against yours until the contact feels permanent. During the second set, he hooks an arm around your waist without thinking, tugging you back against him. You lean into it without comment.

Taehyung appears first, glitter across his cheeks and a flower crown askew on his curls. He thrusts an extra crown toward you. "Put it on, Post-It Princess," he says with a wink, and you do, laughing as the petals tickle your forehead. Jimin and Jin aren’t far behind, weaving through the crowd to find you.

Jin takes one look at you and Yoongi and raises an eyebrow. “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he says.

Jimin just beams and pulls out his phone. “Selfie time.”

The four of you cram together, sweaty and glowy and chaotic. Yoongi ducks out of the frame but you catch him smiling as he watches you.

Jimin brings you a tray of skewers and lemonade he hustled from a vendor. “Eat before you pass out,” he says, holding a skewer to your lips like it’s a test of loyalty. You take a bite and make a satisfied noise.

When you finally open the bag Yoongi carried all morning, you grin. Everything is exactly where you packed it. None of the snacks have been touched. “You guys didn’t eat anything?” you ask.

Yoongi shrugs. “Figured you had a plan.”

Your chest warms. Silly, maybe. But it feels like being seen.

Between sets, Yoongi sinks down beside you. Then, surprisingly, he stretches out and rests his head across your lap. Your fingers move to his hair without thinking, brushing through the soft strands as he closes his eyes. His face is peaceful in the hazy light, lips parted just slightly.

You glance up and Jin is watching with a knowing look. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and nods like: yeah, we see it.

As the third set begins, you can feel a light buzz building from the drinks, the sun, the joy. The pit is full now. Your friends dance around you, spinning and shouting lyrics, completely alive.

Yoongi stands behind you now, arms on the barricade on either side of you, close enough that you feel his breath when he leans in and murmurs, “Still okay?”

You nod, pressing your head back to his shoulder. “Perfect.”

When the next act ends, the stage goes dark for setup. There’s one more performer before RM. Taehyung, Jimin, and Jin take off to meet friends or hunt down food, but you and Yoongi stay. The pit is electric, buzzing with the promise of what’s coming.

He doesn’t move far from you. Instead, he takes your hand, fingers interlaced lazily while the sun begins its descent.

And you sit there, center barricade, flower crown wilting, glitter smudged, heart full.

Yoongi stretches out beside you, his head resting on the barricade while you sit, the heat of the day starting to soften as the sun lowers. He’s quieter now, just taking everything in, but his eyes flicker to you every now and then, as if he can’t help himself. His gaze holds, and when it does, you feel a subtle warmth creep into your skin.

You glance at him, still catching your breath from the last set, and feel an unspoken pull between the two of you. For someone who isn’t big on PDA, Yoongi’s been a little...touchier today. His fingers brush against yours, not by accident, and his arm grazes your shoulder more than once. Every time it happens, your heart skips a beat.

“What?” you ask, voice teasing but laced with a hint of curiosity.

Yoongi gives you a half-smile, leaning in a bit closer. “Nothing. Just thinking about last night.”

You feel your breath hitch at the mention of it, heat flooding your face. You’d been so caught up in the chaos of the day that you hadn’t really thought about the way his lips had felt on your skin, the way he’d kissed you with a hunger that had made everything else disappear. The way his hands had touched you like he didn’t want to let go, even for a second.

“What about last night?” you manage, trying to sound casual despite your racing heart.

Yoongi’s eyes glint, and his voice lowers, almost a growl. “You were...distracting.” His words linger in the air like a challenge, and you feel the space between you both heat up.

You look away for a second, collecting yourself, but the grin that spreads across his face tells you that he’s enjoying this, enjoying the way he’s getting under your skin.

“You should’ve known better,” you say, leaning closer to him, voice dropping to match his tone. “I warned you, I’m trouble.”

“Oh, I know,” Yoongi replies, the corners of his lips curling as his gaze flicks from your lips to your eyes. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

A beat of silence passes before you, feeling the heat of his words settle in your chest. You bite your lip, letting the tension stretch between you before you pull out your phone.

“Come on,” you say, breaking the tension but still feeling that electric hum between you. “We’re taking selfies. We look too good today to not document it.”

Yoongi groans dramatically. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.” You smirk, pointing the camera at both of you. “Smile. You’re too cute to ignore.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away. When you click the first picture, his eyes flicker over to yours, mischievous and playful. You angle the phone again, snapping more shots as you both get into it, laughing and leaning closer with each picture.

“Wait, hold up,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “I think we need one more...but this time, I want to see if you can do better than that grumpy face of yours.”

Yoongi leans in a little more, his breath brushing your cheek as he whispers, “I think I’ve been holding back all day. Want me to show you?”

Your stomach flutters at the challenge in his voice, and before you can think twice, he leans in to kiss your temple, his lips lingering there a moment too long. The camera clicks as the moment catches on film, and you pause, your pulse racing.

For a second, neither of you says anything, the air thick with the unspoken.

“Damn,” you murmur, breaking the silence, “we really do look good together.”

Yoongi hums, a playful smirk still tugging at his lips. “Told you.”

You check the photos, your fingers trembling a little. You swipe to the next one, seeing the way Yoongi had caught your eye just as he kissed your cheek, and something inside you tightens—something that’s been building ever since you met his gaze for the first time today.

You’re still reeling a bit from how close everything feels—how close he feels—when you notice Yoongi unlock his phone, thumb lazily scrolling through something with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts his position slightly, letting his leg press against yours as he gets comfortable again.

You glance down, curious, and your eyes immediately widen. You clock it instantly—that’s AO3.

Worse: you recognize the fic. Instantly.

He scrolls past a banner you know by heart, a stunning red-and-black graphic with clean font and jagged lines of war paint across a pair of silhouetted faces. Your heart jumps into your throat.

“Wait.” You practically launch yourself sideways, staring at the screen. “Is that—War? By glosswrites?”

Yoongi freezes. Like, full body goes stiff, thumb hovering mid-scroll.

You gasp. “It is! Oh my god. I love that fic! That’s, like, one of my top five Namkook fics of all time. No, scratch that, top three. Glosswrites is a genius. Their prose? The dialogue? The pacing in the siege arc? Unreal.”

Yoongi clears his throat and stares down at his phone like he wants it to disappear. His ears go red. “Uh.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do you look like you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar?”

He shifts again, clearly flustered. “...I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

You blink. “Say anything about what?”

He hesitates. Then, in a voice so low you almost don’t catch it: “I’m...glosswrites.”

You stare.

You stare.

Then, your hand flies to his shoulder. “SHUT. UP.”

Yoongi winces but laughs, turning away slightly like he can hide the way his cheeks are turning pink. “I didn’t think you’d read any of my stuff. Or recognize it.”

“You idiot, of course I recognize it!” You hit his arm lightly, half-scolding and half-overjoyed. “Are you kidding? You wrote Kingdom Come, Saltwater and Bone, and that absurdly emotional post-apocalyptic Namseok fic, didn’t you?”

He nods sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That one got away from me.”

You gape at him, still trying to wrap your head around it. “Yoongi! I have cried real tears over your fics. I’ve stayed up until four a.m. refreshing the tag for an update. You made me care about political intrigue.”

Yoongi laughs again, eyes crinkling. There’s something in his expression that’s half embarrassment, half soft pride. “Damn. I really wasn’t expecting this reaction.”

“I’m obsessed with your writing,” you say, tone a little breathless. “You make heartbreak feel like poetry.”

His smile falters just a little, turning more sincere. “Thank you. Really.”

There’s a long beat where neither of you says anything. You’re still buzzing with the revelation. You look at him differently now. This person you’ve been falling into all day is also the architect of worlds that have lived rent-free in your head for years.

And he’s looking at you like he’s relieved you know.

You shake your head, grinning. “I can’t believe I hooked up with glosswrites.”

Yoongi chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Please don’t say it like that.”

You lean in closer, teasing, “Glosswrites. Kiss me again.”

“Stop,” he mutters, but he’s laughing, his ears still pink. “You’re gonna ruin my mystique.”

“Oh babe,” you say, curling an arm around his shoulder, “it’s too late for that. You’re mine now, and I know your secret.”

“Guess I’ll have to kill you,” he murmurs, tilting his head to rest against yours.

“Mm, let me reread Saltwater and Bone first.”

He groans, but his hand slips into yours without a second thought.

The sound system booms to life again, pulling you both back to the present. The stage lights flash in rapid bursts as the next artist steps up—someone with a strong cult following and a gritty, underground sound that makes the whole pit come alive with renewed energy.

You shift, stretching your legs while Yoongi leans against your side, still scrolling absently on his phone, probably checking comments. You glance at him with a smirk.

“Still reading your own reviews, glosswrites?”

He groans into your shoulder. “You're never letting this go, are you?”

“Never. I feel like I need to re-read everything now that I know it’s you. The longing scenes? The angst? Yoongi. You wrote that stuff.”

He lifts his head and raises an eyebrow. “And?”

You lean in, dropping your voice. “And now I can’t stop thinking about the scene in War where Jungkook says, ‘If I die, I want it to be with your name in my mouth.’ You wrote that.”

Yoongi flushes, and you grin with wicked delight.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, biting back a smile.

You nudge his knee. “Can’t help it. You’re hot and emotionally devastating. What a combo.”

The set on stage builds slowly—dark synths, flashing strobes, heavy bass that makes the ground tremble beneath your feet. The artist before RM throws the crowd into a frenzy with two unreleased tracks.

“I produced one of these,” he says casually, just loud enough for you to hear over the music.

You whip toward him. “What? Which one?!”

He just shrugs with a smug little grin, eyes sparkling.

By the time the set winds down, the anticipation in the air is tangible. People are chanting, screaming, checking their phones and recording the stage. Everyone knows who’s next.

The giant LED screen flickers to black for a long moment.

Then a low hum begins to rise—like the sound of static filtered through deep water. The bass line pulses faintly under it, then grows. A single spotlight flares center stage, casting a long, stretched shadow.

You grab Yoongi’s hand instinctively, and he laces his fingers through yours.

And then—RM.

He steps out from the smoke, hoodie half-zipped, chain catching the stage lights, posture calm but charged like a storm about to break. The entire crowd loses it. People are screaming, hands in the air, crying, chanting his name.

RM raises a mic. No fanfare. No big opening drop.

Just:

“Let’s talk.”

The pit erupts.

Yoongi whistles low. “He always knows how to start.”

You nod, eyes locked on the stage, already breathless. “God, he’s so cool.”

Yoongi leans toward you, still holding your hand. “He really is.”

RM launches into Intro: Persona, his voice crisp and sharp, weaving between the lyrics and the beat with practiced ease. The crowd sings every word like it’s gospel, and your heart thuds in time with the music.

There’s something powerful and raw about watching him perform—like he’s stripping himself bare in front of thousands and daring anyone to look away.

You glance sideways. Even Yoongi, for all his calm, has that look on his face—the one he only gets when something is really hitting. Like admiration, pride, and a little awe all at once.

RM rolls seamlessly into Do You, and the crowd surges forward like a wave. His delivery is sharp, rhythmic, full of bite—words slicing through the heat and dust as he prowls the stage. He spits each lyric with the kind of conviction that makes you feel like he’s aiming them right at your chest.

“You do you and I’ll do me,” he shouts, and thousands scream it back.

You and Yoongi jump and shout right along with them, your hands still loosely clasped between you. It's sweaty, chaotic, overwhelming—but it’s perfect. The kind of moment that feels like it belongs to just the two of you, even with thousands of people pressed in on all sides.

By the time Yun comes on, the sun has dipped low enough to give the stage an eerie golden glow. RM's tone shifts—slower, weightier. His voice pours over the crowd like honey and thunder. The visuals on the screen behind him flicker with old video footage: abandoned alleyways, dried fields, a shot of a cracked statue’s face.

You blink through the heat, suddenly aware of how still it’s gone in the pit. Everyone's listening.

RM pauses between verses and says, “For the ones still figuring themselves out...I’m right there with you.”

The silence that follows is reverent. You feel it sink into your skin.

Yoongi leans in and murmurs, “He’s good at this part. The unraveling.”

You nod slowly. “He makes being lost sound like a roadmap.”

There’s no reply from Yoongi, just the brush of his thumb along the inside of your wrist, grounding you as RM transitions into Forg_tful. The melody is softer, almost tender, like a lullaby for every scar you thought would never fade.

He sings, not just raps—his voice fragile in the best way, like something made of paper and light.

You feel the sting in your throat before you even realize you're getting choked up.

Yoongi squeezes your hand. You glance at him through blurred eyes, and he doesn’t say anything—just gives you that quiet look of his, like he sees everything and won't ask a single question you’re not ready to answer.

Then the bass drops back in for Still Life, and the crowd roars to life again.

RM grins wide under the lights, bounces across the stage, and yells, “Y’all still alive out there?!”

The pit answers with pure chaos. You scream, jump, laugh—and when Yoongi pulls you into his chest with both arms slung around your waist, you don’t even think, just melt into it.

He mouths the lyrics along with RM, pressed close to your ear:

“I’m still life / But I’m movin’.”

And in that moment, you are. Every part of you is alive, humming, held, understood.

The lights dim again, and you think maybe it's time. Maybe it's really happening.

Then the synth line from Joke hits like a warning shot.

The crowd erupts. Yoongi jolts upright beside you, and you both instinctively grip the barricade as RM walks out under a wash of white light, already spitting bars like the stage is on fire. His presence is magnetic. He’s commanding every inch of the space, making the mic an extension of his body. His tongue twists with impossible speed and precision, each word slicing through the air like shrapnel.

You don’t even try to sing along—you just scream and jump and grab Yoongi by the wrist as the bass drops and the entire pit moves like one living thing. It’s chaos. It’s glorious. It’s RM unchained.

As the song ends, RM breathes heavy into the mic, smirking like he knows exactly what he just did. He lets the silence linger, soaking in the energy. When he speaks, it’s soft, reverent.

“This next one’s for the people who’ve ever felt a little out of place,” he says, his voice quieter now, lower. “You’re not alone.”

Then the first notes of Lonely float out. The vibe stays up because this song is a fucking bop. The crowd only gets louder as he sings, “I’m fucking lonely, lonely, lonely…”

RM bounces around the stage, lit only by soft blue lights. When it ends, he doesn’t speak right away. He takes in the crowd with a look on his face like he can’t believe this is actually happening. 

And then: "This is the last one."

The opening strings of "Wild Flower" begin, delicate and trembling. The crowd doesn’t scream—they exhale. As if they’ve been holding their breath for years.

RM closes his eyes when he sings the chorus. Youjeen’s voice pours from the speakers like thunder wrapped in velvet, and the entire field seems to swell with the sound. The visuals behind him erupt—images of fireworks blooming into flowers, wild and free, petals carried by wind and ash.

You’re openly crying now, and so is the person next to you. Even Yoongi wipes under his eyes with a quiet sniff.

When RM hits that final “I just wanna be—wanna be a rock,” the sound is deafening. Every voice joins him. It feels like release. Like peace. Like defiance and surrender all at once.

And then it’s over.

He bows once, deep and long. “Thank you,” he says. Just two words, but they ring with everything.

The lights fade.

Yoongi turns to you slowly, tears still shining in his lashes. “Holy shit.”

You nod, voice gone, heart too full to speak. You just grab his hand and hold it like an anchor.

Because this? This was everything.

You're both quiet for a moment after RM’s set—still soaking it in. The field feels like it’s buzzing, but neither of you rushes to leave. You and Yoongi just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, a little dazed, like waking up from a beautiful dream you don’t want to forget.

Eventually, he bumps your hip with his. “Drink?”

You nod, and he threads his fingers through yours like it’s second nature. Like he needs the contact just as much as you do.

You wind your way through the crowd, his hand never leaving yours, until you find a drinks stand. He orders something fruity, you go for something cold, and then you’re wandering off toward the far corner of the venue with your cups in hand, the music from the other stage just a distant thump now.

You settle in a grassy patch beneath the shadow of an art installation—some kind of massive chrome sphere that reflects the setting sun. The sky is stained gold and peach. Yoongi flops down dramatically, his legs sprawled wide, his cup tilted toward yours like a toast.

“To Namjoon,” he says, voice a little rough.

“To Namjoon,” you echo, tapping the rim of your cup to his.

You sip in silence for a beat before Yoongi reaches out, resting a hand on your thigh like he’s just placing it there for a second. But it lingers. His thumb moves—slow little circles that make your breath catch. He’s watching you, too. Lazily. Like he’s savoring something only he can taste.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here,” he murmurs. “With you. After that.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “You sound like you’re about to write a poem.”

He leans in. “I might. But it’d get me banned from AO3.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Yoongi.”

He just laughs—quiet, low, and pleased with himself.

And then his lips are on your neck. Not rushed. Just soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, the edge of your ear, down to your collarbone. The warmth between you builds, a slow simmering thing. You shift, knees brushing, his hand sliding higher. His touch isn’t desperate—it’s confident. Comfortable. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“You’re trouble,” he says, barely a whisper.

“And you’re a menace,” you reply, catching his chin and pulling him into a kiss that tastes like fruit and heat and something a little dangerous.

When you pull back, breathless, cheeks flushed, you say, “We should walk.”

He stands with a groan, offering you a hand. “Yeah, before I do something regrettable right here in the grass.”

You giggle, but take his hand anyway. Together, you wander off again—this time toward the Always Tampax pop-up. It’s impossible to miss: glowing neon letters, loud music, and the heavy thump of bass pulsing from within.

Inside, it’s a fever dream.

The walls are lined top to bottom with pads, tampons, and menstrual cups. There’s a glowing dance floor in the middle. People are grabbing boxes like they’re free drinks. A DJ is spinning under a giant tampon chandelier.

You burst out laughing. “Is this…the tampon club?”

“Looks like it,” Yoongi says, spinning a box in his hand. “Best stocked club in town.”

“Take as much as you want!” a worker calls out, dancing past in a glittery jumpsuit.

You take a few packs, stuffing them into your bag. Yoongi grins and grabs one for himself too. “Emergency stash. Never know.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling. You stumble out the back exit, still laughing—and freeze.

There’s a trailer behind the pop-up. Sleek. White. A sign taped to the door reads: REAL BATHROOMS. FLUSHING TOILETS. SINKS WITH SOAP. Like a mirage in the desert.

No one else is around.

You exchange a look.

The stall is tiny, barely enough room to turn around in—but that only makes it worse. Or better.

He’s on you as soon as the door locks—mouth hungry, hands fast, pulling you in like he’s waited all day. You gasp into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair. The energy between you is heady, electric, a continuation of everything RM’s set stirred up.

Yoongi presses you against the wall, one hand on your hip, the other slipping up the back of your shirt, warm and firm and just a little possessive.

“You looked so fucking good watching him,” he growls against your throat. “Could barely keep my hands to myself.”

“You didn’t,” you manage to whisper, smiling into his mouth.

He kisses you again, slow and deep this time. Not teasing anymore. Just wanting.

Yoongi doesn’t waste time. His hands are on your waist, then your hips, pulling you flush against him as your back presses to the metal stall wall. You barely have time to gasp before he’s kissing you—hot, deep, like he needs it. Like he’s starved for it.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” he breathes into your mouth.

You smile against his lips, teasing. “Just by existing?”

“Worse,” he mutters, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, palms sliding up the bare skin of your back. “Looking like that. Laughing like that. Dancing on me during RM’s set like you wanted to break me.”

You tug at the drawstring of his shorts in retaliation, laughing softly as he groans. “Maybe I did.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed and breathless. His pupils are blown, lips swollen. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice raw.

You don’t hesitate.

Then it’s frantic—your mouths crashing back together, your fingers yanking his shirt up, his hands everywhere at once. You’re not sure who reaches first, but suddenly he’s pulling a square foil packet from the pocket of his shorts with a smirk and a half-laugh.

“Gotta be safe this time,” he says, almost sheepish, but his voice is low and rough.

“Seriously?” you whisper, breath catching, half-laughing, half-turned on beyond reason.

“Girl Scout energy,” he murmurs, already yanking your skirt up for easier access. “Always prepared.”

Your breath stutters as you help him, both of you moving fast and clumsy, like you can’t get close enough quick enough. Clothes shoved aside just enough. Skin against skin, heat meeting heat. The stall is small, but you make it work—bodies pressed together, hands braced against cool metal, your mouths locked like you’re afraid to stop.

When he finally sinks into you, you gasp—biting your lip to stay quiet, forehead pressed to his. Yoongi groans low and broken, his hands gripping your thighs to anchor himself.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel like a fever dream.”

Your response is lost in a moan you muffle against his neck, your nails digging into his back as he starts to move—slow at first, teasing, until your hips catch his rhythm and he picks up pace. The cramped space only heightens everything—every breath, every whisper, every desperate sound. The stall rocks just enough to make you both laugh mid-moan, trying to stay quiet and failing miserably.

You whisper his name like a prayer, over and over, and he kisses you every time like it’s the only thing grounding him.

By the time it’s over, your clothes are disheveled, your lips swollen, and your heart’s pounding like you’ve just sprinted the length of the main stage.

Yoongi kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. Reverent. “That…was insane.”

You grin, cheeks hot. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He leans back slightly, fixing your hair like it matters, and smirks. “Tampon club forever.”

You laugh so hard you have to bite your knuckle to keep quiet.

Then you flush, wash your hands in the tiny sink, and steel yourselves.

The walk back through the Always Tampax pop-up is a blur of flashing lights and pulsing bass. You both try to look casual, but you're giggling like teenagers, bumping shoulders, doing everything not to meet the eyes of the employees handing out free pads and tampons.

Yoongi grabs a box off the wall on your way through, still smirking. “Souvenir?”

You swat his arm, breathless with laughter. “Shut up.”

It’s around 11:30 when you and Yoongi slip out of the pop-up, blinking against the dark sky now lit only by strobes, projections, and the glittering glow of festival signage. The grounds still buzz—like the desert itself is vibrating with leftover energy. You lace your fingers through his as you start heading toward the Red Bull Mirage, half-thinking the others might’ve migrated there.

You’re right.

Jimin, Taehyung, and Jin are in rare form, leaning on the pop-up bar, absolutely plastered and shamelessly flirting with the Red Bull reps like they’re auditioning for a music video. Taehyung has glitter on his collarbones and no real sense of volume control; Jimin is twirling his sunglasses like it’s a dance prop, and Jin…well, Jin is shirtless, loud, and demanding samples like a celebrity chef at Costco. He is still sipping from his fish shaped flask. 

You groan affectionately and lean into Yoongi. “Our children.”

“They need supervision,” he deadpans, and you can’t help but laugh.

Despite yourself—and the reality of your bank account—you buy a round of vodka Red Bulls for the group. A poor financial choice, maybe. But the day’s been good. Better than good. And, frankly, they deserve it. Especially if they’re going to be hearing you and Yoongi rustling around the tent again later tonight.

Taehyung shrieks when he sees the drinks and throws himself dramatically into your arms before snagging one. “You’re a goddess,” he says. “An angel. A sugar mama in desert form.”

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, but you’re grinning.

The five of you wander off, still laughing, and collapse onto a stretch of grass tucked behind one of the smaller art installations. The music from nearby stages pulses in the distance, layered with ambient lights and bursts of laughter from strangers.

You sit in a loose circle. Jimin and Taehyung are falling all over each other, limbs tangled as they drink and giggle and whisper. Yoongi’s pressed against your side, head resting on your shoulder, one hand lazily draped across your thigh. His touch is gentle now, warm and grounding.

Jin, glowing with sweat and pure Jin energy, is animatedly recounting his wildest moments from the Yuma tent earlier. Something about a stilt-walking DJ, a guy in a fur coat, and a beat drop so filthy it made a stranger cry.

“I swear to god,” he says, gesturing wildly with his cup, “I saw someone propose and someone puke in the same five seconds.”

You snort. “Festival romance and reality, hand in hand.”

Everyone laughs.

The circle quiets after a while. You finish your drinks slowly, the buzz setting in just right. The night air is cool now, breezy against the heat that still lingers on your skin. Yoongi turns his face toward your neck, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. No one comments. No one needs to.

You lean back slightly, just enough to take it all in.

The lights. The music. The taste of Red Bull still on your tongue. The thrum of bass in your chest. Your friends—beautiful and ridiculous and yours. Yoongi, solid against you, warm and safe. You feel cracked wide open in the best way, joy spilling out where stress used to sit.

And for the first time in months, you feel whole.

So damn happy you could cry.

You’re just starting to debate whether to lie back in the grass or gather yourselves when Jin suddenly claps his hands like a dad at a cookout.

“Alright, my turn to contribute to this night of decadence,” he announces, wobbling to his feet. “Who’s hungry?”

All hands go up immediately.

“I saw a dumpling stand near the dome installation,” Jin says, eyes gleaming. “And a taco truck. And maybe some kind of fusion birria thing that made me emotional just walking past it.”

“God bless you,” Jimin whispers, reaching out like he’s seen a vision.

“I’ll be back in ten,” Jin says heroically, adjusting his nonexistent shirt and sauntering off into the crowd, looking like the drunkest bachelor at a wedding.

Yoongi’s still nestled close to your side, and you rest your head against his for a moment. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your wrist, the two of you content in your bubble of music, heat, and late-night joy.

When Jin returns, he comes bearing glory: two brown paper bags overflowing with tacos, dumplings, spring rolls, and something covered in sauce and cheese that no one can name but everyone accepts like gospel.

You relocate to a quieter spot, closer to the edges of the venue, away from the last stage still thumping. You all drop to the ground again, forming a loose circle lit by the soft ambient glow of a nearby art sculpture shaped like a glowing rib cage.

The food is divine—warm, salty, spicy, greasy. Perfect.

Jimin moans through a bite of his taco. “This is the best decision you’ve ever made, Jin.”

“I’ve made a lot of good decisions,” Jin says smugly, licking his fingers. “Like taking my shirt off. You’re welcome.”

Taehyung is curled up next to Jimin, messily devouring a dumpling with chili oil all over his lips. “We should eat like this every day,” he mumbles.

Yoongi passes you a spring roll and brushes a stray hair behind your ear. “You’re glowing,” he says quietly, just for you.

“It’s the sauce,” you say with a grin.

“It’s not.”

You don’t say anything, just lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek before going back to your food. You’re full, a little buzzed, and absolutely basking in the warmth of the moment—your friends, the food, the lights, the air heavy with music and memories already forming.

For now, there’s nowhere to be but here.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

You leave the venue in a loose pack, Jin leading the way like some kind of wine-drenched tour guide, still narrating his culinary triumphs as you all wind your way through the glowing art installations and past the last of the festival stragglers.

Taehyung has one arm slung around Jimin’s waist, the other hand holding a half-finished canned cocktail he snagged from someone on the way out. Jimin’s sipping from a tall cup of something neon and probably deadly, but he looks radiant under the moonlight, giggling as Tae nuzzles into his neck.

You’ve got your own drink, something citrusy and way too strong, and Yoongi's sipping from a flask he swore he wasn’t going to bring. You bump hips a few times as you walk, your bodies naturally leaning toward each other.

"You're a menace," you murmur as he takes another swig.

"You're the one who made me drink water before the bathroom incident," he fires back, smirking. "I consider this revenge."

The path to the campgrounds is alive with other festival-goers—groups with glow sticks, couples wrapped in dusty hoodies, someone playing guitar near one of the towers with a turtle on it. It all feels like one long afterglow, stretched out and humming.

When you reach your cluster of tents, Jimin immediately ducks into the supply tent and emerges like a champion.

“Who wants shots?” he sings, holding up a sleeve of tiny red solo cups in one hand and a full bottle of tequila in the other.

The answer is everyone.

You grab a small bag from your personal cooler and begin distributing water bottles, each prepped with Liquid I.V. and labeled in black Sharpie. You shove one into Yoongi’s hand before he can even think about touching a cup.

“Hydrate first, cowboy,” you warn.

He pouts but obeys, cracking the bottle open and downing half of it. “You’re so responsible when you’re tipsy. It’s alarming.”

“It’s the Virgo moon,” you reply without missing a beat.

Everyone takes a seat in the makeshift circle between tents, the fairy lights overhead blinking softly. Jin takes his shot like a champ. Taehyung downs his with a flourish and then demands a second. Jimin’s perched in Yoongi’s lap, teasing him as he sips water, and you’re already reaching for the next round.

The night isn’t winding down—it’s evolving. Buzzing. Glowing. And none of you are ready for it to end.

The tequila makes quick work of everyone.

By the second round of shots, Jin’s thrown his arm around Jimin’s shoulder and is dramatically reenacting the moment he got trapped in a crowd of shirtless ravers at Yuma earlier. “I thought I was going to die in there. Sweaty. Hot. Glitter in places I didn’t know could hold glitter.”

“Oh no,” Jimin says, resting his chin on Jin’s shoulder. “Poor baby. Do you need…mouth-to-mouth?”

“Only if you’re the one giving it,” Jin fires back with a wink.

Taehyung gasps like he’s been personally betrayed, grabs Jimin by the jaw, and kisses him square on the mouth in retaliation. It’s warm and playful and sloppy—Jimin laughs into it, kissing back just as dramatically before turning and grabbing Jin by the collar.

“Fine. You get one too,” he says, kissing him with a flourish.

Jin whoops, nearly tipping over from where he’s perched on a folding chair, and Taehyung cackles as he pours more tequila into a waiting solo cup. “We’re starting a revolution,” he declares, pointing at no one in particular.

“Of kissing?” you ask, already laughing.

“Of joy,” Taehyung corrects. “And bisexuality.”

The night is electric with that kind of high that only comes from heat, alcohol, and too much love between friends. You’re pressed into Yoongi’s side, his arm around your waist, both of you sharing the same fleece blanket someone dragged out of a tent earlier.

He leans in close, his voice low in your ear, “Are they always like this?”

You glance at him and grin. “Honestly? This is pretty tame.”

He laughs, squeezing your hip. “I love it here.”

There’s music coming from someone’s Bluetooth speaker—something funky, bass-heavy, perfect for slow dancing or grinding or just drunkenly swaying. Jin’s trying to convince Taehyung to start a strip tease, while Jimin dramatically pours shots for an invisible audience.

You and Yoongi just watch it all, cheeks sore from smiling, toes curled into the dusty grass. He kisses the side of your head. You nudge your nose into the collar of his hoodie.

Jimin flops down in the grass again and throws his legs across Taehyung’s lap. “I love you idiots so much,” he declares.

“Shut up and take another shot,” Jin says, but his grin gives him away.

You look around the circle. There’s dirt on your calves, glitter on your arms, the faint sting of sunburn under your shirt—and you’ve never felt more beautiful, more alive, more surrounded by your people.

Yoongi leans in. “Third shot?”

You raise your cup. “Let’s make it four.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The music from someone’s Bluetooth speaker fades in and out with the breeze, but you’re barely listening. Not when Yoongi’s knee keeps bumping into yours. Not when his fingers graze yours every time he takes a sip of his drink.

You glance over, catch him already looking at you. His dark eyes unreadable and lips parted like he might say something but changes his mind. You don’t look away.

“Quit staring, menace.” you murmur, nudging his leg with yours.

“Can’t help it.” He smirks, but it’s slow and lazy, the kind that says he’s been thinking things he probably shouldn’t say out loud. Not here. Not with everyone still around.

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t shy away when he shifts closer, his thigh brushing yours again, firmer this time. You can smell his cologne now—warm and woodsy, familiar. Dangerous.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” you say, voice dipping lower, “and I’m gonna think you’re trying to get in trouble.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping to your mouth like gravity’s got a grip on him. “Maybe I am.”

There’s barely a beat of silence before he adds, quieter now, just for you. “Wanna sneak off?”

The words settle in your stomach like a spark looking for fuel.

Your gaze flicks to the others—Jimin dancing, Taehyung throwing popcorn at him—and then back to Yoongi. His hand rests lightly on your leg, fingers splayed over the denim of your skirt, thumb tracing lazy circles that make your breath catch.

You pretend to consider it, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “Lead the way.”

Yoongi’s grin sharpens, eyes gleaming with something wicked as he stands and offers you his hand like it’s a promise. You take it without hesitation.

Yoongi already had someone prepare a space, and it was honestly kind of perfect. The back seats of Jin’s SUV are folded down flat, covered in thick blankets, extra hoodies, and a couple of pillows he must’ve stolen from the tent earlier. All the windows are blacked out with jackets and towels tucked into the edges, and with the trunk door shut, the sound of the outside world dulls to a soft hum.

You crawl in first, laughing under your breath, and Yoongi follows right after, pulling the door shut behind him with a definitive thump. The space around you feels stolen—intimate, secret. The air is warm from the heat of the day and still carries that electric buzz from earlier. You're both drunk, skin flushed and nerves on fire.

He settles next to you and immediately reaches out, brushing hair behind your ear and tilting your chin toward him. “You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, just before kissing you.

The kiss starts slow, but Yoongi’s never been good at hiding what he wants. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb dragging over your cheekbone while his mouth deepens the kiss, breath hot against your lips. Your fingers dig into his side, feeling the warmth of his skin under his shirt as you push it up and out of your way.

He shrugs out of it, eyes locked on yours, then leans back in, dragging his mouth across your neck, open-mouthed and deliberate. His hands are all over you—exploring, gripping, sliding under layers. Every touch makes you more restless, more eager, your hips shifting against his with growing urgency.

You let out a breathy laugh when he groans softly, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back just enough to say, “Gotta be safe this time.” He pulls a condom out of his shorts pocket and tosses it to the side like a promise. The look in his eyes is serious, dark, and full of heat.

Clothes come off slowly, messily, with whispered encouragement and breathless gasps between kisses. Your hands roam, learning the shape of his back, the way his muscles tighten when you drag your nails lightly down his spine. His mouth returns to yours, then to your collarbone, then lower.

The two of you move together in sync, laughter dissolving into low moans and hushed curses. The SUV rocks gently, and you both muffle your sounds against one another's skin, too far gone to care who might hear. You feel everything—every roll of his hips, every gasp against your neck, every lingering touch that leaves your body on fire.

And when it’s over, the windows are fogged, your bodies tangled, chests rising and falling in a warm, slow rhythm.

You lie there in the afterglow, cheek pressed to his shoulder, both of you grinning.

“You think they heard us?” you murmur.

Yoongi kisses your forehead. “Jin said the car muffles sound. He sounded confident.”

You burst out laughing and slap his chest lightly before pulling your clothes back on, piece by piece. You’re still wrapped up in blankets in the back of Jin’s SUV, limbs tangled, clothes lazily half-on, the smell of his skin still clinging to yours like warmth after the sun’s gone down. The windows are fogged, the outside noise a muffled thrum behind layers of cotton and metal. It feels like you’re the only two people in the world.

Yoongi shifts beside you, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. His fingers trail along your spine in slow, absent circles. You think he's about to fall asleep—his breathing is even, his body loose against yours—but then he speaks, voice low and unsteady.

“I need to tell you something,” he murmurs.

You lift your head from his shoulder, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

He hesitates. You can feel the tension gather again in his body, like a string being slowly pulled taut. He looks up at the ceiling of the car, then over at you, eyes soft but serious.

“This isn’t just…this isn’t just amazing sex to me,” he says, quietly but clearly. “I know it might look like that, like we’ve just been vibing and hooking up and having fun, but it’s more for me. It’s been more.”

Your breath catches a little. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I keep trying to play it cool, like I can just ride this out until the festival ends and deal with it later, but I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to go into tomorrow wondering if this is only what it’s been under the stars and the lights and all the noise. I need to know if this… us…is something real or could be. I need to know if I’m not the only one feeling it this deeply.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and trembling. You’ve never seen him look quite like this—open, exposed, vulnerable in a way that’s different than physical nakedness. Like he’s offering up something delicate, and trusting you not to break it.

“I think about you all the time,” he continues, quieter now. “I hear you in my head. You’ve got this—this hold on me. A soft spot that I didn’t see coming.”

It’s like hearing the lyrics of a song that always felt too close to home. Something quiet and aching, raw at the edges. Your throat tightens.

“Yoongi…” You sit up slightly, cupping his cheek, feeling the faintest tremble in his jaw. “I feel it too. I didn’t know how to say it, but I do. It’s not just the festival. It’s not just the sex. It’s the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. It’s how you make me feel safe without trying.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s waiting to be sure, like he’s not quite ready to believe he didn’t screw this all up.

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your nose brushing his. “It’s you. You’re what’s real.”

Yoongi lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in for days. His hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you—not with hunger this time, but with something slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Outside the SUV, the party is still going. Laughter, music, someone yelling about needing more tequila. But here in this little cocoon, it’s quiet. Sacred. A pocket of time that belongs just to you two. And in the soft dark, with your fingers threaded through his and your head resting on his chest, you know—this is the start of something.

You’re reluctant to move at first, wrapped up in Yoongi’s warmth, his words still echoing in your chest, but eventually, the rising sounds of laughter and music outside coax you back into the world. It’s almost 2am, but the camping area is alive, pulsing with leftover energy from the festival grounds.

Yoongi stretches with a quiet groan and opens the hatch of the SUV. Cool air rushes in, a sharp contrast to the warmth you’d been curled up in. You blink against the dim lights from scattered lanterns and strings of fairy lights zigzagging across tents.

As soon as your feet hit the grass, Jin’s voice cuts through the air like a siren.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls from his lawn chair, a half-empty White Claw dangling from his hand. “Look who’s decided to rejoin society.”

Taehyung, draped over Jimin like a living scarf, wiggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Must’ve been a religious experience in there. You both look very…cleansed.”

Jimin dissolves into laughter, clutching his stomach.

You try to keep a straight face but end up giggling as you lean into Yoongi. He smirks, but before he can fire back, Jin holds up a finger.

“I swear to God, Min. If I find so much as one mystery stain in my backseat, you’re paying for a full detail. Inside and out.”

Yoongi raises a hand in solemn promise. “Noted. Full detail. Deluxe package. Wax and everything.”

That gets a loud cheer from the group, and someone tosses Yoongi a beer, which he catches with ease.

As the teasing fades into chuckles, a familiar beat starts up from a Bluetooth speaker nearby—something bassy and smooth, enough to get heads nodding and hips swaying without much effort. Someone’s doing cartwheels in the distance. Someone else is offering glow sticks.

Yoongi turns to you, drink in hand, eyes still soft beneath the mischief. “Dance with me?”

You nod, sliding your hands into his as he pulls you gently into a little pocket of space between tents. The grass is cool beneath your feet, and the air smells of sunscreen, booze, dust and faint traces of festival food. Around you, groups of campers are still laughing, dancing, and clinging to the magic of the night like it might slip away if they stop.

He sways with you, hands low on your waist, lips brushing your temple once, then again. You close your eyes and let it all soak in—his body pressed to yours, the gentle thump of music, the hum of laughter, the occasional flicker of fairy lights above your heads.

Nobody wants day two to end. Not yet. Not when it’s been this good.

Not when tomorrow night means goodbye to this little dreamworld.

The music rolls on, one song blurring into the next like warm waves. The five of you move between lazy dancing and lounging, circling back to the foldout chairs and the soft patches of grass where someone’s laid down another blanket.

Jin eventually throws on a hoodie—still shirtless underneath—and starts making hot ramen with his tiny camp stove, dramatically narrating the entire process like a street food vendor on TikTok. Taehyung joins in as his sous-chef, passing him seasoning packets like they’re sacred scrolls.

Jimin, emboldened by a second vodka soda, clambers into Yoongi’s lap for approximately two seconds before collapsing beside him and laying his head on your thigh. “You guys are too cute,” he mumbles, poking at Yoongi’s knee. “Disgusting. Inspiring. Beautiful. Ew.”

You laugh and run a hand through his hair while Yoongi just shrugs like he’s being unfairly persecuted. “We’re in our honeymoon era,” he says, which earns a dramatic fake gagging sound from Jin.

“Already planning the registry,” you add sweetly, and Jimin slaps your knee with a groan.

By now, someone from another camp has brought over more snacks—half a bag of marshmallows, some chocolate bars, and a pack of mango-flavored Hi-Chews. You trade them for one of your Liquid IVs, and the barter economy is thriving.

Taehyung disappears for a minute and comes back with a little handheld disco light, the kind that projects neon sparkles onto the sides of tents. He sets it down in the middle of the blanket like a disco campfire, and for a few minutes you all sit and stare at it like it’s the most mesmerizing thing you’ve ever seen.

Yoongi curls his fingers around yours. You lean against him, shoulder to chest, legs tangled. It’s comfortable in a way you didn’t know you needed—like even though the night’s been loud and wild, this quiet glow, this warmth, is the best part.

“This has been the best night,” Jimin sighs dreamily, eyes closed.

“No,” Jin counters, holding out the instant noodles with the gravitas of a king. “Now it’s the best night.”

You all eat noodles straight from the pot with chopsticks and plastic forks, sharing bites and making dramatic noises of appreciation. No one mentions the hour, or the ache in their feet, or the fact that tomorrow is the last day. You’ve all silently agreed to pretend time doesn’t exist.

•Part 3•

[heartbreakincident]

nothing but respect for our troops (smut writers) but listen. i dont want to be the person to tell you this, but not every character is going to be a dom or a sub. some people. and i know this is hard to hear. but some people do have vanilla sex. and some of those people might even be The Character.

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ satoru's a goddamn psycho. and, okay, you knew it was a bad idea. but, hey, april fool's, right? a flimsy excuse, at best. you'd thought that would make it better, but you've never been more wrong.

yeah, you knew faking a hushed call, stringing him along with that cheating bullshit, was playing with fire. but, how the were you supposed to know he'd snap like this? he's the king of pranks. that hypocrite.

"s'different," he growls, his hand a fucking vice around your throat. a choked sob escapes, your back arching, every nerve fried. it's some ungodly hour, two or three am, maybe. "some lines — fuck —shouldn't be crossed, you get that?"

he rams into you, deep, every thrust hitting (bruising) your cervix. his other hand digs into your waist, a painful grip. "too much," you whimper, too fucked-out to even twitch. you just pray he'll stop his relentless assault.

"whose pussy is this?" he demands, his voice a low, filthy tone. you can't even form words, just a broken moan. "look at you," he grunts, his hips rutting against yours. "can't even talk right. bet no one else could get you this fucking wrecked, huh?"

satoru's hand slides down, pinching your nipple hard. you whine, whether from pain or pleasure — you couldn't tell. "i asked you something, bitch," he hisses, and, as if he'd punishing you, he pulls almost all the way out, relieving you (if only for a second), before slamming his thick length back into you.

"y— yours!" you scream, the heat coiling in your gut, a familiar, desperate burn. you're just a toy now, his to use, and you know he wouldn't have it any other way.

satoru groans, his words slurring, a sure sign he's close. "ngh, don't fuckin' forget it."

your boyfriend didn't, in fact, let you forget it — spilling inside you, hot and thick, your body convulsing around him as you came again, another wave of raw, mind-numbing pleasure. all for another round.

you're officially retiring from april fool's.

[softaestluv]

Johnny who makes it everyone else’s problem that he hasn’t got laid in weeks, that he’s so fucking pent up he can feel it in his teeth. Won’t stop his Scottish whining that his hand isn’t enough, needs a warm cunt to fuck or he’ll go insane.

So, you take one for the team, let him fuck all his pent up cum inside of you because you don’t think you can hear another description of how sad his hand feels. Hope to get him to shut the hell up.

But now he just won’t stop whining about needing to fuck your cunt.

[minimiance]

size difference kink but in the “i grew up being made fun of for being chubby so now the idea of a giant of a man being able to toss me around and tower over me without making my weight a problem makes me really horny” way, you get what im saying?

[ellenchain]

I am Jayce