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pumpkennpie · 6 months ago

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landoscar, sex toys please!!

oh amelia, a woman after my own heart!!

landoscar + sex toys for this kink meme list! wc 1142 (oops)

“Fuck, Lando, please,” Oscar keens, hands fisted in the sheets so hard that his knuckles are turning white. He fucks himself down on Lando’s fingers, rolling his hips to make the digits brush against the lovely little spot that makes him see stars.

“God, you’re so easy for it, huh?” Lando laughs, a wonderment weaving through his words that Oscar does not have the mental capacity to unravel right now.

“Easy for you,” Oscar replies, heady and breathless. He knows he’s playing into Lando’s possessive streak, but he’ll do anything if it means finally getting something bigger than Lando’s three fingers in him.

“Fuck, okay.”

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut, whining when Lando pulls his fingers out. There, in the darkness behind his eyelids, his other senses are heightened. He can feel every movement Lando makes on the bed as if they share a body, and the smell of sex is heavy in his nostrils.

Maybe that’s why he jumps when a low buzzing sound breaks through the silence.

“‘M just checking it’s charged first. We’ll go slow, okay?” Lando assures, running the back of his hand over the skin behind Oscar’s knee.

Oscar cracks his eyes open and nearly comes at the sight in front of him.

Lando is on his knees between Oscar’s parted thighs, naked save for a pair of skin tight black boxers. His hair is mussed from where Oscar’s hands had been gripping it while Lando blew him, and there’s a pink flush high on his cheeks, muted from his tan but so telling to the state he’s in. He’s hard, the long line of his cock visible through his boxers. There’s a damp patch at the tip, and Oscar fights the urge to sit up and mouth at him through the fabric.

But the thing that makes Oscar shiver with anticipation is the object in Lando's hand. It’s the toy he bought while drunk and lonely, waiting for Lando to come back from galivanting across Greece with Fewtrell. It's smooth with gentle curves, longer than his own cock, but thinner. More precise, he supposes.

Lando had giggled when he first saw it, not because he was judging Oscar for the purchase, but because the vibrator is jarringly hot pink. Oscar had just blushed and told Lando that it was the only one left in stock.

Oscar watches raptly as Lando uncaps the lube and pours it over the tip of the toy. Some of it drips off, landing right on Oscar’s leaking cock. It’s cold, but the shock it sends through him is intoxicating.

Hmm. File that one away for later.

“Alright, ready?” Lando asks, shifting closer to Oscar and lifting one of Oscar’s legs over his shoulder.

Oscar is so exposed like this, splayed open for Lando to see the most intimate parts of him. Oscar kind of never wants to be clothed again if it means Lando will always look at him like this, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, like he’s something holy. Made to be worshipped.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes.

The first press of the toy against his hole isn’t much different to Lando fucking into him. It’s not as warm, but it’s blunt, a dull pressure that only leaves Oscar wanting more.

“I’m good, you can-” Oscar’s words break into a moan when Lando pushes the vibrator in. It’s a better stretch than Lando’s fingers- not as good as his cock, but enough to make him grin through it.

Lando sets a steady, slow rhythm, watching Oscar’s face intently. Oscar knows he must look a mess right now, flushed red from the tips of his ears to the tip of his cock. He’s unbearably hard, brought right to the edge by Lando’s mouth earlier before being fingered open for what felt like eons.

The tip of the toy is curved, and within a minute, Lando has figured out the exact speed and depth he needs to push into Oscar to hit his prostate with every stroke. Soon enough, Oscar is panting, rutting his hips to get- he doesn’t even know. Closer? Maybe.

More. He needs more.

“Lando, please, turn it on,” he all but begs, one of his hands leaving the sheets to grip Lando’s bicep.

Lando is nothing if not merciful.

Even though he knows it’s coming, the first hum of vibration jolts through him like electricity. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt; sharp and all-consuming, both too much and not enough.

His body can’t decide if it wants to pull away or push into it, so it does both. His hips jerk up off of the mattress, and the leg propped over Lando’s shoulder tightens, pulling him in closer. The toy pushes in deeper, and the vibration brushes his prostate.

Oscar might scream- he’s too far gone to recognize the sounds he’s making. He’s babbling, rushed together syllables that create a steady stream of yesmorepleasefuck.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” Lando praises, turning his head to the side to nip at the inside of Oscar’s thigh.

He feels hot and cold, shivering and sweaty. Feverish. Lando turns the vibration up, and the sensation teeters right on the line of perfect and too much.

Oscar can’t feel his limbs. Lando is pressing the vibrator into him, keeping it there longer with each stroke until he’s barely pulling out. Oscar grinds his hips down, and Lando gets the hint. He begins moving the toy around in little circles, near constant brushes of vibration against Oscar’s prostate that has him curling his toes and clenching his jaw.

It’s so overwhelming, this unrelenting stimulation, that he doesn’t realize he’s going to come until it’s happening.

There’s fire running through his veins, something bright and burning that whites out his vision as he bears down on the toy. His cock spurts against his stomach, and Oscar is distantly aware of come landing on his collarbone.

He's coming, untouched. It’s the most intense thing he’s ever felt.

“Fuck, Oscar, oh my god.” Lando’s voice is coming back to him in waves, hot pulses as he comes down from his high.

The sensation returns to his limbs slowly, a tingle that starts in his fingers and toes and runs through his muscles until he’s shaking with it. He opens his eyes just in time to watch Lando come, groaning as he spills over Oscar’s spent cock.

Oscar’s not sure when Lando slipped the toy out of him, but he’s glad that he did it soon enough to not overstimulate him. There’s only so much Oscar can take in one night, and this might fill that quota for a few days.

Lando gently drops Oscar’s leg back to the bed before flopping down next to him. When his body stops bouncing on the plush mattress, he turns his head and smiles wide at Oscar.

“Good?”

“I’d say so, yeah.”

#!!!#this was fun to write!!#i sprinted and almost hit a new pb wpm so that was cool!#ken writes #kink meme #prompt fill #ask ken #landoscar #landoscar smut #landoscar drabble

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tennessoui · 3 months ago

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Would you like to do this one for Obikin ? 👀

22. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

💯

[from this list of prompts]

[2. 'have you lost your damn mind?' (LATEST) - 5. 'are you jealous' - 13. 'kiss me.' - 14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.' - 18. 'this is the stupidest plan you've ever had. of course i'm in.' - 19. 'the paint is supposed to go where?' - 24. 'you're the only one i trust to do this' - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 28. 'marry me?' - 29. 'i thought you were dead' - 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' - 37. 'wanna dance?' - 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

22. 'I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice.'

"Oh," a very familiar voice says. "I wasn't aware you were attending the banquet tonight."

Anakin stares down at the empty plate before him. The servers are moving around the tables as guests rise from their seats and begin to chatter amongst themselves. Anakin thinks for a moment about trying to catch his master's eye, but Qui-Gon is across the hall in deep conversation with the representative of Alderaan the last time that Anakin checked. And anyway--he's not sure his master would intervene to help him with this problem.

Even though, technically speaking, this problem is half Qui-Gon's problem. Or, like. At least a quarter of it.

Probably.

"Though I suppose I would have known if you'd responded to my comm-message," the voice says in a lilting and crisp Coruscanti accent that Anakin knows is as much of a ruse as the rest of him.

Anakin scowls down at the table and counts to five. He is here to represent the Jedi Order as a senior padawan. He is not here to start a diplomatic incident by stabbing Prince Kenobi in the hand with a shrimp fork.

Or is it Lord Kenobi?

He thinks, yes, technically probably a lord. Or maybe it was a knight? A duke? Anakin can never remember all the words that make up Kenobi's title. He just knows that Kenobi's elder brother married the queen of Stewjon, so he's now the king consort, and Obi-Wan got to claim a bunch of useless titles without even doing any of the hard work.

And so Obi-Wan Kenobi gets to call himself a prince now when once, he'd called himself a padawan.

Once, even, he'd called himself Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan.

Anakin counts to five again and gathers up all the diplomatic words and scripts he's learned over the years. Then, he actually turns and faces Kenobi, and all of those words fly out of his mind.

Kenobi looks unfairly good in the ivory white of his outfit. The top half is mostly lace, which--isn't it cold in space? Isn't it cold on Stewjon?

He's wearing a small, ceremonial circlet atop his auburn hair, and the glinting gold of the crown offsets the white of his robes nicely. He just--

He looks so beautiful, even as he's lounging in the chair next to Anakin, eyes pinned on his face as if he'd wait all night just to hear him speak.

That sort of look is dangerous. Anakin knows that intimately well. That sort of attention...Anakin isn't built to withstand it for long. Not without succumbing to all and any of Kenobi's demands. He's sure he has a backbone, but it just melts when he's around Kenobi.

But not anymore. Anakin's twenty now, and he's going to be Knighted any day. He's above such weakness.

"I'm sixteen years your junior," Anakin bites out, hand becoming a fist in his lap. "Don't you think maybe it's a little inappropriate to be comm-messaging me without my master's approval?"

Despite the venom he tries to weave through what should be a cutting rebuke, Kenobi's eyebrows raise. He doesn't look ashamed nor does he look particularly discouraged. "After all the rest of the inappropriate things we've done together, darling, I'd think you'd overlook a comm-message."

Anakin's scowl grows exponentially, but Kenobi continues without pause, "Though if you'd like me to get your master's retroactive approval for every time we've interacted, I shall of course. Do you think he'd approve of your judicious but creative use of the Force when you used it to hold me up against the Senate Commons wall and kriff me silly before my meeting with the Chancellor, or should I leave that out?"

Anakin can feel his face flushing, and he's quick to stand, throwing his napkin onto his empty plate and striding away. He needs--he needs to be further away from Kenobi. He needs to not look at the man, not hear him. Then, he'll stop wanting him.

He must stop wanting him. It's ruining his life.

So of course Kenobi follows him because there's nothing he loves more than ruining Anakin, apparently. He's not even being subtle about it anymore, grabbing Anakin's wrist in plain view of all and sundry and using his grip to tug him out of the banquet hall and into an unused nook of space.

It's small enough that there's not much room to stand apart, but Kenobi at least makes the good faith attempt to drop Anakin's wrist and step away from him. In the Force, he feels strange. Worried, almost, which is not an emotion that Anakin has ever felt from Kenobi. Kenobi, who crafts an air of not caring about anything or anyone whenever Anakin and his master are near. Kenobi, who's purposefully disrespectful to Master Jinn, acts purposefully slow and air-headed and conceited.

He could have been one of the best of us, Jinn had told him once. It was the only time he'd ever talked about Kenobi. He made different choices, and I suppose he still blames me for them.

"Come now, Anakin, tell me what's wrong," Kenobi says, nudging at him almost clumsily in the Force. The touch startles Anakin. It's been twenty years or so since Obi-Wan left the Order. Or since Master Jinn refused to take him back as his padawan after a mission on a civil-war struck planet and Obi-Wan had had no choice but to leave the Order.

Jocasta Nu told him once: all stories have different endings and beginnings when the teller changes.

He thinks that's especially true when it comes to whatever tension exists between Kenobi and Qui-Gon. Though Anakin wasn't wise enough to keep himself out of it, he's certainly not stupid enough to shove his nose so forcefully into the middle of it.

"I've seen the way you've looked at me tonight when you think I'm not looking," Kenobi is saying, wheedling really, as his Force signature rubs even more insistently up against Anakin's, like a--like a loth cat winding around his ankles, searching for affection it knows it will be offered.

No. Not anymore.

"Enough," Anakin snaps, throwing up his highest shields and pushing away from Obi-Wan.

"Just tell me what I've done, darling," Kenobi says. Pleads, really. A part of Anakin thinks it's a very good look on him, and then hates himself for thinking it. Weak. Kenobi makes him weak. "It's not that you don't want me anymore, or you'd have spent less time gawping at me all night."

The words are cruel in their truthfulness and they hit unerringly at Anakin's shame, and so he's snarling back at him before he can stop himself: "Everyone was gawping at you, you're dressed like a schutta."

Kenobi doesn't look to be offended, which riles Anakin further.

But then--then the man steps closer and rests a hand on his chest. They're of a height now that Anakin's grown another two inches over the summer. Obi-Wan's eyes are right there. His lips, also.

"And yet who have I dragged off into a dark corner to ravish me?" Kenobi asks, voice pitched low and eyes blinking sultry blue at him from beneath his eyelashes.

"Yeah," Anakin bites, "only because even after twenty years you're still trying to get back at my master for throwing you out like trash. But the stupid thing is that he doesn't even think about you anymore."

The words hit the way Anakin had meant them to, but as he watches the way Obi-Wan's eyes shutter, the way his mouth tightens and the way he takes a step back and his hand coming up to hold his elbow, Anakin realizes that he didn't--he didn't realize what it would look like, to hurt Obi-Wan.

He hadn't realized Kenobi could be hurt, that Anakin had that sort of power.

And maybe he doesn't really, maybe this is just Anakin's master hurting Obi-Wan all over again, but it's still Anakin wielding the weapon. Anakin who was trusted enough that Obi-Wan did not see it coming.

"I see," Obi-Wan says, and Anakin can't hide his wince at the tone. He doesn't like that tone. Didn't realize how warmly Obi-Wan spoke to him until the chill set in.

But it's not as if what he said was wrong, Anakin tells himself. And it's not as if Obi-Wan's been fair to him either, using Anakin like that.

And--and sure, maybe when they first started...whatever this is--was--maybe Anakin had wanted to use Kenobi too. After all, he'd been eighteen and charged with guarding some rich senator at an event just like this one. And Padmé Amidala had been there, and Anakin had been so desperate for her attention that he'd thought--maybe if he could make her jealous by talking with Kenobi--

And talking had turned into kissing had turned into bedding, but it hadn't been about Kenobi, not really, not that first time. It'd been about Padmé and how much Anakin had wanted her to notice him, see him for the man he'd become.

And he's sure that Kenobi had bedded him with ulterior motives too--not to make Qui-Gon jealous, of course, which is a thought that Anakin doesn't even like to think about, honestly--but to make Qui-Gon upset. Master Jinn didn't like the slimmest reminders of his old apprentice. To find out that his old apprentice had bedded his new one...no, Master Jinn did not, in fact, appreciate that.

So they'd both had ulterior motives the first time they slept together, and they'd probably had them for a while after too. It was an arrangement. A casual affair.

Before Anakin had gone and developed feelings for Kenobi, of course.

And now it's not fair. None of it's fair, because Anakin's in love with him and Kenobi's still just sleeping with him for the sake of some bruised pride he's been nursing for twenty years and now Anakin's gone and hurt him, genuinely hurt him, and he doesn't feel the way the Chancellor had told him he'd feel when he told the prince where to shove it. He just feels awful, like he'd been hurt too.

"I apologize for wasting your time, Padawan Skywalker," Kenobi is saying when Anakin tunes back into his voice. His face is hidden behind a cool mask of untouchable indifference. His arm is still crossed in defense over his chest. "I was mistaken in the understanding we had between each other, and I have thus overstepped erroneously."

It's not fair, Anakin thinks wildly as Obi-Wan steps away from him like he's going to move out of the alcove altogether. It's not fair that Obi-Wan's apparently so good at the diplomatic script of the Jedi that he can fall back on it at any moment, even after all of these years, and it's Anakin who can apparently only ever use his words to hurt.

So Anakin doesn't use his words. It's instinct, probably the first one he ever learned, to reach out in the Force instead. Nudge their Force signatures closer together and drop his shields so he can feel--truly feel--the heat of Obi-Wan's presence in the Force entangled around his own.

It's easier after that to reach out his hand and catch Kenobi's wrist. Then it's easier than anything else to use that hold to push him up against the wall and bracket him in with his body to keep him there.

Kenobi doesn't fight against his touch, but he doesn't bloom under it either, the way Anakin's gotten used to him doing. He doesn't even look at him, keeps his eyes on the neck of Anakin's Jedi robes.

"No, I'm sorry," Anakin murmurs, squeezing Obi-Wan's captured wrist. "I didn't--I didn't mean that. Not at all."

"If you didn't mean it at all, you wouldn't have said it," Obi-Wan points out, which is...well, correct, technically, but Anakin doesn't like to hear it.

"I was just...someone told me that," Anakin admits. "And I--I mean, I know you and I know--what we have. And what it is. And I'm fine with that, I understand it. I just let it get to me, that maybe you only like me cause you're still out for revenge against my master. But, um."

Obi-Wan is looking at him now, something soft and quizzical and confused coloring his gaze.

"I thought I couldn't stand being nothing but revenge to you," Anakin makes himself say, even though his breath feels caught in his throat. Danger, danger. He is skirting too close to the truth. He is saying too much. But if he doesn't say anything, what then? "But that's not so bad, I guess. It's better than being nothing to you at all."

Which is a lesson that Anakin has just learned and is eager to never experience again. Even if it makes him pathetic and weak and spineless and some prince's playtoy, or whatever else the Chancellor had implied. He'd like to see the Chancellor stand up to Obi-Wan's dignified yet wounded eyes.

"Darling," Obi-Wan says, and for a moment his hand cups Anakin's face. It's just long enough of a touch that Anakin can't help but to lean into it with an exhale. "You've never been nothing to me."

Anakin gives into the urge to kiss him. It's a miracle that Obi-Wan lets him.

It's also nowhere near enough; Anakin is a greedy sort of man. He doesn't want nothing or a little more than nothing from Obi-Wan. He wants everything.

#asks #obikin #had the realization writing this (it is 2k)#that these are just like. fics. not prompt fill drabbles LMAO #obi-wan is going to fuck anakin senseless and then interrogate him on who exactly was telling him bad things about their relationship #like first of all whose business is that #second of all who is anakin trusting that much #third of all what do you mean it's the chancellor of the fucking republic #so im imagining qui-gon just point blank refuses to take obi-wan back after melida/daan #and so obi-wan does actually go back to melida/daan and stays there rebuilding for a bit #and then he runs into some stewjoni people and they're like whoa ho! are you part of the royal family?#and kenobi is like? i don't think so ?#and they're like no way youre the jedi one right wow thats great #and obi-wan is like no no no longer a jedi #and they're like oh! well wanna come to stewjon with us #and obi-wan is like. sure.#and so he goes lol #the only thing is that he really does refuse the title of 'knight' even tho he serves in the kingsguard for a bit #he has a complex about being a jedi knight or no knight at all #thankfully after a decade or so he decides to become a scoundrel instead #(a public figure so to speak)

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apinchofm · 21 days ago

Text

Rollins + hushed conversation in-between kisses

She shouldn't have let him in, but he kissed her like he needed to do it before he died that afternoon if he had not.

"This is...a bad idea...oh...we shouldn't..." Heather murmured as they kissed, letting Robby walk her to her bedroom, a path he could complete with his eyes closed.

"A terrible idea." Robby whispered, teeth grazing her neck and she whimpered.

"Just awful." Heather sighed and he kissed her again, only breaking the kiss briefly to help pull off her lycra t-shirt. He always focused on her - at work, outside of work and always in these moments.

"Just getting this out of our system." Robby whispered, kissing her again.

"Exactly." Heather murmured against his lips.

#prompt fill #drabble #robby x collins #dr robby #michael robinavitch #heather collins #the pitt fanfiction

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wynnyfryd · 2 years ago

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Since you asked so nicely…and I’m nothing if not a giver… Steve very seriously saying to Eddie “That’s rich coming from the guy who tried to kill me less than two hours ago” in whatever scenario your Big Brain can come up with (ily ur amazing btw)

“Can’t believe you let a twelve year old drive off with your car,” Eddie snorts as he tosses another bottle cap into the hole in the floor of the boathouse.

“Can you stop that?” Steve clips. He doesn’t understand why Eddie’s bothering to do it, anyway. It’s too fucking dark to see the caps once they hit the water, but the steady plunk plunk plunk is starting to drive him a little nuts. Eddie is starting to drive him a little nuts.

You have to stay with him, Steve.

No one else is strong enough to protect him if someone comes looking for him, Steve.

Goddamn horseshit, is what it is.

Without Eddie’s little game of toss, the boathouse is… really creepy, actually. All creaking wood and nocturnal animal noises and Eddie’s shaky, rattling breaths.

“She’s fourteen,” Steve says to fill the silence he regrets asking for.

“Huh?”

“Max. She’s fourteen, not twelve.”

Eddie scoffs, lets his head drop again, hiding behind a curtain of hair. He brings a strand up to his mouth, mumbles, “Like that makes it any better.”

Okay, you know what? Steve doesn’t need this. He just does not need this. Not from the fully grown drug-dealing goth weirdo he’s being forced to babysit.

Seriously, who is Eddie Munson to go questioning his judgement when he’s trying to do the guy a fucking favor?

“That’s rich coming from the guy who tried to kill me less than two hours ago,” he bites, rubbing at the spot on his neck where the jagged glass pressed in.

“Oh, fuck off, man,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I didn’t try to fuckin’- I wouldn’t… w-wouldn’t-”

Oh, no. Goddammit.

Eddie’s eyes go all wide and wet, his lip quivering around the word ‘kill,’ and Steve can just hear his mother tutting about his lack of decorum. The boy just witnessed a murder, Steven.

“Shit, man, Eddie, I’m-”

Eddie makes this sound — this pathetic thing, stuttering and damp, like mildew in his lungs, and his cheeks burn red as a tear tips over his lashes. Shit.

Shit.

“Hey,” Steve tries, reaching out to clap a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, but Eddie rears back, voice cracking as he snaps, “Don’t touch me!”

Eyes hot. Breath wet and heaving.

Steve’s gonna get decked for this.

“I’m- just… Just come here, man,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around Eddie, pulling him in, and Eddie folds like crumpled paper, collapses into Steve’s side and sobs, shaking them both so violently that Steve scoots them back a little from the edge of the hole in the floor just to be safe. He wraps Eddie up with both arms, and Eddie slumps down into his lap, and they’re-

Jesus. They’re cuddling. Steve Harrington is cuddling with Eddie Munson. What the fuck. What the fuck?

“You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, rocking them gently and brushing damp curls out of Eddie’s eyes, because, like. Might as well, right? This is already so weird.

#steddie #steddie drabble #always the goddamn babysitter #and then they kiss or something idk #love youuuuuuuu #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #my writing #prompt fill

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thereyoflights · 7 months ago

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29 for the caitvi ficlet pls

29. sweat

cw for implied sex

—

When Caitlyn wakes up, Vi is gone, her side of the bed long gone cold.

Darkness hangs over Piltover past Caitlyn’s window, so she figures it’s the early hours of the morning. Her bare feet meet cold tile as she rises out of bed, and she wraps a robe around herself as she slips into the hall. Her father is never up this time of day, but she’d rather not risk being seen half-naked when he knows she’s been sharing a bed with her girlfriend.

There aren't many places for Vi to disappear to in the Kiramman mansion.

Caitlyn settles on her best guess.

She finds Vi in the doorway of the gym room, using her arms to lift her head over the pull-up bar secured in the frame. She’d broken the header off and fallen on her ass twice before Caitlyn was able to get it installed, much to her dismay, but she can appreciate it now. Especially the view.

Vi is only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a sports bra, leaving the majority of her tattoo on display. The defined lines of her arms deepen as she pulls herself up over the bar once, then again and again. Sweat glistens across her skin, beaded in some places and streaking down paths of moisture in others.

Caitlyn’s mouth waters at the sight.

Vi seems to notice her presence then, stormy gray eyes falling to meet hers. Her arms go slack on the bar before she lets go and lands on her feet. “Cait,” she says, “hi.”

“Hi,” Caitlyn greets. “You weren’t in bed.”

“Sorry,” Vi says. “Just had to get my mind off things.”

Caitlyn nods with a hum. She’d figured as much. Vi never leaves bed without her unless she’s tossing and turning, unless she’s thinking too much for her own good. Working her body to its limit was the only thing that seemed to help — well, that and�� other equally physically demanding things. The thought tugs at Caitlyn’s gut, desire thrumming deep in her veins.

Caitlyn hides her blush in Vi’s neck. She smells like sweat and leather and chalk, and it’s all so undeniably Vi that she feels intoxicated with it. But Vi’s body feels tense against hers, and it tells Caitlyn everything she needs to know: her mind has been on overdrive.

“Did it help?” she asks, anyway.

Vi shakes her head. “Not really.”

Next best thing, then, Caitlyn decides.

She flicks her tongue out along Vi’s sweat-slicked neck, salt bursting on her tastebuds, and Vi gasps. Vi’s body shudders against hers, then loosens, and Caitlyn smiles against her skin, victorious. “Maybe I can help, then?” she prompts, voice low.

“Yeah,” Vi says, already breathless. “Maybe you can.”

Send me a number

#caitvi #caitlyn kiramman #vi #vi arcane #vi x caitlyn #vicait #arcane #league of legends #caitvi fic #caitvi fanfic #piltover's finest #prompt fill #drabble #bri’s writing #violet arcane

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rosanna-writer · 4 months ago

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I wish you would write a fic where...

Feyre and Rhys meet under different circumstances, where “he courts her properly.” No Amarantha, Rhys still has dreams of his mate and dares to cross the Wall to find her. Whether Feyre is still poor and hunting or the Archerons never lost their fortune and she’s stuck in the life of a “proper young lady” I’ll leave up to you.

This one got away from me and ended up being a full oneshot clocking in around 2k words! A quick thank you to @thesistersarcheron for permission to yoink some of her worldbuilding, too <3

You can read it Here on AO3 or under the cut!

After years of searching for his mate, Rhys had tried not to hope too fiercely when Azriel reported that the holes in the Wall had become large enough for ships to pass through. But it had only been a matter of time before humans found their way to Prythian again.

Still, Rhys hadn't anticipated that any of them would show up in the Hewn City. He'd hardly believed it when he'd heard that one of the minor nobles was hosting a human girl of all people. But apparently, she'd come on behalf of her father, a human merchant, seeking to make a deal and bring back some of the jewels and precious metals that the Night Court mined and exported, then sell off to the highest bidder.

Maybe Rhys had been foolish to think that humans wouldn't risk their lives to come to Night when the possibility of profit beckoned.

Since appointing Morrigan as his Second, Rhys rarely attended revels in the Hewn City. But he found himself outside the council room, skulking around to eavesdrop on the backroom deals the nobles negotiated when wine was flowing freely.

No one had bothered to put a privacy shield up, and human voices carried well. Even through the closed door, he heard the woman well before he saw her.

Despite the room full of ruthless faerie merchants who'd torn apart their rivals with their teeth, the woman's youthful voice remained steady. "If you can't do at least ten thousand, then I'll walk."

No one had taught her to shield, and Rhys caught bits of her thoughts along with the words she said aloud. This merchant's daughter was nervous. Desperate. The trip to the Hewn City had been an attempt to reverse her family's rapid reversal of fortune as he father ran their business into the ground.

For several more minutes, she negotiated, stubborn despite her racing thoughts. Rhys knew an expert when he saw one—he'd been handling trade deals and treaties with other courts since he'd merely been a crown prince. Eventually, everything ended with, "I think you've got yourself a deal, Miss Archeron."

The name seemed to tug at him. And Rhys was oddly relieved to hear that she wasn't married. But his mystery woman—he didn't even dare call her his mate behind the thick adamant walls protecting his mind—was an artist, not a businesswoman. Someone soft and kind, who painted flowers on a table with gentle hands.

This couldn't be her. Could it?

Papers rustled as something was signed, and the faint smell of mirthroot and tobacco reached him as celebratory cigars were lit. Miss Archeron's revulsion seemed to jab at Rhys's mind, even as she took one and smoked it. She didn't cough.

After an age, the whole group left the council room, eager to return to the feast. Rhys slid his hands into his pockets and waited. The door opened, and they all stopped short.

A pair of blue-grey eyes met his, and the world stopped. Rhys knew those eyes. He'd caught a glimpse of them in a dream, a brief flash in a mirror that he'd never been able to stop thinking about. Her scent hit his nose, the same one he'd woken up to when he'd dreamt of her.

For just a moment, her eyes lit up with recognition. "High Lord," she said, staring right at him. It didn't sound like a greeting.

Rhys couldn't sense a trace of fear from her. The shadows faintly rolling off his shoulders told her who he was with a single glance. And yet she'd leveled her gaze at him, treating him like an equal.

The woman didn't know it, but that was a gift Rhys rarely received.

He tipped his head, studying her. Hoping for more of a reaction, really. "You must be the guest of honor," he said. "It's been so long since we've had a human in the Night Court. I wanted to welcome you personally."

"Why?"

It wasn't a bad question; Rhys supposed she was right to be suspicious. "The human warriors I fought alongside during the War were some of the bravest I've ever met." It wasn't a lie.

She made a face, and Rhys tried not to cringe at her flurry of surprised thoughts as she realized how old he must be if he'd fought in the war. But there was relief there, too. The possibility that her people might find allies among his after all. Hope bubbled up in his chest, and Rhysand wasn't quite sure if the feeling was his or hers.

She didn't say anything immediately, so he continued, "If you'll allow me to escort you back to the dining room, Miss..."

"Archeron. Feyre Archeron."

A childhood full of having courtly manners drummed into him was the only reason Rhys managed to offer her his elbow while Feyre's name clanged through him like a bell. She blinked again, and he had the sense that she was unused to anyone being so...genteel with her. Odd, considering she was apparently the daughter of a wealthy man.

But if it meant that no human boys had come sniffing around Feyre, then Rhys certainly wasn't about to complain.

Something crashed over him the moment her fingers brushed the fabric of his jacket. He'd suspected it for years now, but all those trips below the Wall in an attempt to confirm those suspicions couldn't prepare him for the shock of a mating bond snapping into place.

He fought the urge to winnow her out of the party—to bring her somewhere he could bury his head between her thighs and swear himself to her without any prying eyes. But Feyre was human. And Rhysand was not his father.

Her lips parted, but before she could get any words out, he was tugging her along the hallway. But the last thing he wanted to do was spook her, so he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Rhysand, but please call me Rhys."

Those blue-grey eyes narrowed in suspicion, as if she thought the invitation to use his nickname were some sort of trap. Mortals, from what Rhys remembered, had all sorts of superstitions about giving a faerie one's true name. He forced himself to smile, hoping it didn't appear menacing.

Cauldron, it had been so long since he'd needed to look friendly on purpose. Doing it in the Court of Nightmares felt wrong.

"You're not what I expected from a High Lord."

She sounded more confused than frightened, and the expression on his face felt just the slightest bit less like a mask. "Good. Generally speaking, High Lords are insufferable."

The look on Feyre's own face softened in answer, even as she snorted and said, "It's bold to think you're an exception to that rule." The sight of it tugged at something right behind Rhys's ribs, a twinge that flooded him with an odd giddiness.

Perhaps he wasn't doomed to an eternity with a mate who hated him after all.

They'd nearly reached the carved doors to the throne room, where various nobles would doubtlessly begin lining up to ingratiate themselves to him and the vultures would quickly start circling a lone human woman. Unacceptable. But he couldn't just whisk Feyre away like a predator separating a youngling from the herd, either.

"Is this your first time in the Night Court?" he said, already knowing the answer.

"It's my first time in Prythian at all, actually."

"And what time did you arrive?"

"Just before dinner."

Perfect—Rhys sent a silent prayer to the Mother that Feyre would have descended down into the bowels of the mountain well before sunset. "There's no night sky more beautiful than the one above my court. If you aren't one for dancing, I can show you. Or we can return to the party. Your choice."

He was trying not to listen to her thoughts, but her relief at an excuse to leave the party was palpable. He caught a few silvers of thought about wicked faeries and dancing until humans died of exhaustion. Mortal rumors that he could disabuse her of quickly, at least.

"I could use some fresh air," she admitted. Spots of color appeared on her freckled cheeks.

"So could I. One moment, then." Her arm was already resting in the crook of his elbow, so it was a simple matter to winnow them both to the balcony on the palace at the top of the mountain.

Feyre's breath caught in her throat as they materialized in one of the hallways open to the elements. Moonstone pillars framed the sea of stars before them, the gossamer curtains gently rustling in the jasmine-scented breeze. Rhys had never thought twice about this view; he usually hated coming here and counted down the hours until whatever official business to attend to ended and he could return to Velaris or Illyria.

But Feyre's thoughts rang in his mind, bright and clear and completely awestruck. I want to paint it.

One day, he'd tell her about the dreams of her hand painting flowers on a table and the glimpse of a dresser drawer with a moon and stars. But not quite yet. Not until he'd gained enough trust that she wouldn't run away screaming if he called her his mate.

"How long would it take you to paint?" The words were out of his mouth before he could consider them. Shit. Did Feyre know he was a daemati?

She stilled, almost the way a faerie would. "Who said anything about paint?"

"I wouldn't let a human into my lands without knowing anything about her. You're a painter, aren't you?" The half-lie seemed harmless enough.

"It's something I do in my spare time. Not that i have much of it these days. It's been more difficult than ever to keep my family's business afloat."

If Rhysand got his way, that wouldn't be an issue much longer. A part of him ached to damn the Court of Dreams and take her to the Rainbow in Velaris, but even he wasn't stupid enough to reveal a secret like that, no matter how beautiful Feyre looked in the moonlight.

Instead, he contented himself with asking, "Do you take commissions?"

Feyre's voice went sharp. She finally pulled her gaze away from the stars and snow-capped mountains in the distance, just to glare at him again. "Do you enjoy mocking me?"

"I'm a High Lord, Feyre. I have all the jewels and riches I could possibly wish for. Art—especially a piece that's one of a kind—is far more valuable to me."

Rhys couldn't get any closer to telling a human with an unshielded mind about Velaris. But he hoped Feyre might intuit something for herself—perhaps the mating bond meant that on some level, she was inclined to trust him.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, almost protectively. "I'm not even sure I should be calling myself an artist. I paint, but I'm no talent."

Rhys disagreed. But he could hardly tell her that he'd seen her paint through glimpses out of her eyes when he'd dreamed, not when they'd only just met.

"Let me be the judge of that. It's difficult enough as it is to get one's hands on human-made art in Prythian, all thanks to the Wall. For that reason alone, I'd commission you, but I'll confess I have an ulterior motive."

That finally wrenched Feyre's gaze away from the stars, and she trained the full force of those blue-grey eyes on him. "What?"

"It's just one way to make sure I get to see you again. Without the annoyance of dragging you away from Hewn City nobles, too. I'd much prefer to have you all to myself and show you the rest of my court."

Feyre considered his words for a moment, and the pause felt like the longest in Rhys's life. "I think I'd like that."

Rhys supposed it was a start. For now, that was more than enough.

#feysand #it was nice to get back to writing rhys POV <3 #prompt fills and drabbles

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runraerun · 10 months ago

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Billy with hanahaki disease ?🌸?

Pain!:’)

I love it! Here ya go🌸🩸

Fic prompts are: OPEN if anyone else is interested 💌 -> 📬

Tw; blood, slight body horror.

—

It started shortly after Billy moved to this shitty little town in the middle of assfuck nowhere. He chalked it up to the air quality being dogshit compared to California, or maybe he was allergic to that pungent smell of manure that the locals seemed totally nose blind to. The absolute last thing he would have considered was a goddamn plant had started growing inside of him–a love plant.

It was rare. You were only susceptible to it if you had a certain gene that you inherited from your maternal line. Lucky him.

Guess he can’t say his mom left him with nothing when she packed her shit up and skipped town. No, instead of a forwarding address, Billy’s mom left him her shitty, fairy genes. Thanks, Mom. Real swell of you.

“Has there been anyone you’ve had your eye on?” The school nurse asks, voice pitched low, gentle, like she was trying to soothe some kind of volatile beast.

Billy spits another mouthful of blood into the pan he’s holding, the crumpled up flower petals that he’d just finished hacking up look like chunks of his lung rather than a part of a plant. Runs his tongue along his teeth to try and fish anything out that may have gotten left behind in the carnage.

“No.” He says, stubbornly. He doesn’t look up from the pan.

“Well, Hanahaki disease can only take root under very specific circumstances. It feeds off a pheromone our bodies release when we experience a certain emotion; the stress of a love that’s unrequited. It’s the only–”

“I said no, alright?” Billy barks, voice still a little ragged from his coughing fit. Like he’d swallowed with a mouthful of gravel. “Get off my back.”

The nurse sighs, but she doesn’t move to stop him when he puts the pan down beside him and gets to his feet.

“It’ll only get worse if you ignore it, Mr. Hargrove.” She warns.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Billy mutters, but he doesn’t have the energy to put any heat behind his words, so it doesn’t do much to wipe that stupid sympathetic look from her face. He grabs his jean jacket and leaves, shoving the door open with enough force that it slams back against the wall.

Despite his repeated denial, Billy knew who was responsible for this fucking mess.

Steve Harrington.

With his perfect hair and his stupid fucking Bambi eyes, lighting up every goddamn room he strode into with those long legs of his. Jesus… How could Billy ever have stood a chance?

Just thinking of him brought a tickle to the back of Billy’s throat. He suppresses a cough into his fist as he stomps down the hallway, now empty due to everyone else having gone home for the day. Except Billy, who of course couldn’t fucking breathe after gym class today after getting a little too rough with Steve.

It hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, but something about the way Steve elbowed Billy away, how he barked at him to give him some breathing space, yelled at Billy to fuck off already—it had Billy’s chest acting up.

He held out for most of the class, fighting against the fucking petals that were pushing their way up through his fucking esophagus by beating at his chest, shouting to clear his airways, but then in the showers, Steve had avoided him completely. Had somehow managed to slip and out of the stalls without Billy noticing, depriving him of their usual naked back and forth banter that Billy had come to look forward to.

It was one thing for Steve to hate him, but it was another thing entirely for Steve to be indifferent toward him. That was way fucking worse.

The sting of rejection quickly turned to a coughing fit, worse than any he had experienced before. Like he’s hacking up a fucking lung. A few of the other boys had asked him, ‘you okay man?’ or, ‘should we get the coach?’, and worst of all, ‘oh shit is that blood?’

Billy was barely able to shove his legs back into his jeans and shoulder one of his classmates out of his way before he stumbled into the nurse’s office.

Fat lot of good that did him…

He’s gotta pick up Max. He can’t afford to hang around and talk about his pathetic, one-sided love with a complete stranger anyway. Billy leaves the school, gets into his car, puts the windows down and cranks the music as loud as he can stand it, and he tries very hard not to think about Steve and this ever growing thing that’s taken root inside of his chest, steadily consuming him from the inside out.

Christ, who knew he was such a fucking romantic…

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chasing-will-o-the-wisps · 22 days ago

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Something something Dr. Robby thinks you’ve been a very bad girl and need to be punished with his [REDACTED]…👀👀👀

So I DM'd you about writing an edging drabble and then this landed in my inbox the next morning and I was gonna roll with the trope, but then I was like, nah, this screams Daddy Dom overstim punishment.

Anyways, here you go, babes. 💕

#the pitt #wisps-writes-fic #dr robby x reader #prompt fill #drabble request

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johnslittlespoon · 1 year ago

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"Such a good little pup, aren't you?"

u know i have to request this (from smut dialogue) with buck and bucky😭😭😭😭

prompts | i got three requests with this dialogue right off the bat LOL we are all a dog–coded bucky hive mind truly. <3

Gale’s hand tangles in the soft dark curls of the man sat between his legs, feeling thumbs drag slow circles over the muscle of his calves while John looks up at him adoringly from where his cheek is pressed to his thigh.

Long lashes flutter when he gives John’s hair a little tug, pulling him closer, smiling fondly at the way he shuffles forward on his knees and then settles, watching Gale expectantly.

“Aren’t you just the prettiest thing?” He purrs out, and a soft pink spills across John’s cheeks. Gale lowers his other hand to rest over his belt buckle, and John goes very still, gaze flicking between Gale’s face and his lap, and he can’t help but breathe out a quiet laugh at his anticipation.

“You think you’ve been patient enough?” He asks, like he hasn’t just had John sit on the floor next to his chair for the better part of an hour, catching every subtle shift from the corner of his eye each time he’d turn a page of his book.

John nods slowly, like it’s a trick question, but Gale gently pushes his hair back in reassurance, nodding.

“I think so too,” he agrees, retracting his hand and instead working his belt open, watching John’s lips part as his eyes zero in on the motion, a visible shiver running through him at the quiet clink of the metal. He gets his zipper down and pulls himself out, dragging his hand up and down lazily, stomach twisting hot at the way John’s tongue reflexively slips out to wet his pretty pink lips.

He waits, letting John squirm for a little bit longer, only caving when he hears a whisper of a whimper bubble up in his throat.

“Alright,” he gives the go ahead, and John eagerly leans forward, splaying his fingers out over Gale’s thighs, not needing to be reminded not to use his hands, not when he’s like this. He groans when John licks a sloppy line up the underside of his cock, bringing a hand back down to twist in his hair, though he doesn’t have to give much else direction before soft wet heat wraps around him.

Gale curses under his breath, lightly pressing against the back of John’s head, and spit–slicked lips slide further down with ease. He feels John hum around him when the tip of his nose brushes against his stomach, watches his eyes slip closed, feels his hands twitching on his thighs.

His throat contracts around him when he swallows, and Gale can’t resist rocking his hips up just a little, hissing at the sensation, heart skipping a beat at the whine it drags from John. He pets his hair, keeping the weight of his hand in place when he rolls his hips again, and John’s fingertips dig into the fabric at his thighs, the vibrations of a blissful moan running straight up his cock and sinking into his bones.

“Such a good little pup, aren’t you?” He rasps appreciatively, and John’s eyes are already glazed over when he blinks them open to look up at Gale the best he can, cheeks beautifully flushed. “It’s like you’re made for this.”

Gale slides his boot inwards just enough to slip his calf between John’s parted legs, finding a slow rhythm as he grinds up into his velvet–soft mouth. He can feel John’s hips subtly twitch forward against his leg, and he presses it harder into his clothed crotch in encouragement, unable to drag his eyes away from the image before him.

“Good boy,” he breathes out. “Take what you need, darling.”

Muffled gags and moans fill the room as John ruts against his leg, looking drunk on his praise, all worked up and needy just from Gale using his throat. It’s a sight Gale will never grow tired of, and one he’ll never stop feeling lucky to witness.

#i was possessed. i cannot make all of the drabbles this long or i will not move from my laptop until next week #listen. just. dog coded bucky my beloved combined with writing bj scenes? my weakness. my one true love #john egan is dog coded #johnslittlespoon prompt fills #johnslittlespoon asks #johnslittlespoon spicy #buckbucky #buck x bucky #clegan

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wawamouse · 17 days ago

Text

Oz Drabble Prompt: Somebody's watching you Word count: 100

Blood pounds in Ryan’s ears.

The metal plate in his hands falls with a heavy clang to the floor as adrenaline hums through his veins. Staring down at Keenan’s limp form—at the flecks of pink mush poking out between the blood matted hairs and caved in bits of skull, Ryan feels his stomach suddenly clench and threaten to heave.

Yeah, that’d be just what he needed—to puke his guts up over the body. No fucking thanks.

Ryan forces the nausea down with a grimace, looking away from his handiwork—

Glancing up.

Meeting rounded eyes.

Zahir Arif.

“Oh, fuck.”

#oz hbo #my fic #crosspost from ht100 bc it's just too short to feel worth throwing up onto ao3 #but i finally wrote a prompt fill that was an actual drabble!! woohoo lol #ryan o'reily #zahir arif #fun fact: originally honeytrapping was gonna be a prompt fill for this one but as usual it got too long #so i just posted the first segment as the prompt fill and put the full thing on ao3

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sagegreenfrogs · 5 months ago

Text

Pip + Claudia: Confusion

(from @dragonprincedrabbles for Harrow's Bird-thday) and yes I know I'm late shhh

— —

The town of Laurelburg was bustling with civilians. Candles, incense, and offerings were laid at a statue of Lady Justice, holding her scale and blindfold. Claudia stopped to pay her respects, pouring some of her hot brown morning potion into one of the libation cups and nodding at the statue as she took a swig.

She hadn’t returned to Katolis for a while, not after Aaravos’s ‘Death.’ Her hair was shorter, fully white. She was missing multiple limbs, and scars littered across her face. Her cheeks had grown sullen and pale, ever-lasting bags rested under her eyes. Her somewhat sickly appearance was sure to draw unwanted stares, but she didn’t have to worry about people recognizing her, except for Terry and Soren, but she was sure they stood no match.

Mount Kalik towered above the town, covered in snow. A brisk flurry of air swept at Claudia’s hair as she ambled through the streets. She pulled her cloak tighter, shivering.

Finally, she reached the building she was looking for. The local animal shelter.

She swung open the door. It creaked and the sound echoed through the mostly empty building. A short, sickly pale, and somewhat rodentish man sat behind a clerk’s desk.

“Hello?” Claudia waved a hand in front of the man, snapping to grab his attention.

The man looked up at her. He clearly saw her hair whitened by dark magic- and gulped nervously. “H- Hello. Welcome to- uh- welcome to Laurelburg Veterinary services. How may- how may I help you?”

“I need horse food” She rested an elbow on the desk, leaning forward. “Fruit, seed, whatever.”

Sweat trickled down the clerk’s wrinkly forehead. “Yes- um, you’ll find it on that shelf to your left.”

Claudia grabbed a bag and walked towards the door.

“Uh- Ma’am, you’ll have to pay for that-”

Claudia threw a bag of coins at him, striding out the door. “Keep the change.”

— —

Crickets chirped and the sun set behind Claudia’s back as she made her way to the clearing in the forest where she’d left Blythe, her steed. She could fly anywhere she wanted, but having a horse drew less attention.

“I’m ba-ack!” She sang out to no one, besides the horse.

The mage patted Blythe’s mane, giving her a handful of feed.

“Who’s a good horsie?” Claudia didn’t have much joy or companionship since losing Aaravos, her steed had become a beloved companion.

As she was loading her bags onto Blythe’s saddle, she heard an incessant squawking. A bird that just wouldn’t shut up.

She flung around, ready to use it for parts.

“You little-” Claudia stopped dead in her tracks, bewildered by what she was looking at. “Pip?” King Harrow’s pet bird screeched at her. “I could have sworn dad used you up years ago.” It continued to stare at her, its screams hauntingly human.

The truth dawned on her. “Dad entered King Harrow’s chambers with his staff that night, and Soren said he’d heard him recite a spell.”

She ran her thumb along the Infantis Sanguine markings on her palm. “Erusaurt ym si luos ruoy. The spell to change the vessel a soul resides in. It’s you, isn’t it? King Harrow?”

The bird- the king? Continued to stare at her.

It made another strange noise before flying away.

“Wh- Wait, no-” Claudia jumped on her horse, chasing after it. “Come back! I can use you!”

#claudia's fun to write I should spend more time with her #tdp #happy birthday harrow #happy birdthday harrow #tdp claudia #tdp harrow #tdp spoilers #I guess #tdp pip #drabble #continuethesaga #give us the saga #continue the saga #giveusthesaga #prompt fill #king harrow #claudia tdp #magefam #the dragon prince

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magnusbae · 1 year ago

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Hi! What about "Can you stay with me?" (and if you'd like it my bonus prompt is "drunk") 💗

The initial draft was written while I was quite literally fainting late at night & the second one fully rewritten while I am dazed and out of it. I would say that I was method writing Obi-Wan who is indeed very much drunk in this one, dearest anon. Thank you for the prompt~ 😊💖

+++

Obikin || 4,004w || Drunk Obi-Wan is agonized by the prospect of his freshly knighted Padawan leaving him behind— and more. 😌 Some flavors of gentle lime in this drink, very light, very sweet. 🍋💖

▾▾▾

"Can you stay with me?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi sounds properly pathetic and he knows it. Grasping at Anakin’s Tabards as he is, mind swirling in hazy circles around the notion he was doing his very best to avoid thinking about for the past few months. It is not long now that Anakin would look at his Master and see him for what he really was. Perhaps even today. Inebriated as he is, he makes for a good serving of disillusionment. All Anakin needs to do is look, and see, and then…

It seems inevitable—his Padawan will leave.

Former Padawan. Anakin is no longer his Padawan, and that is the heart of it, isn’t it? The severed braid was the firs step. Them having each a battalion of their own, stationed light years away from each other with only the occasional joint mission, a second. The third and final step would be for Anakin to finally open his eyes and look, and see.

It won’t be hard to unveil the carefully crafted Jedi Master facade Obi-Wan had cultivated for the past decade. No, it won’t be hard at all. If Anakin were to stop glorifying him, stop shaping him to be what ever form of idol he had needed for while growing up, if only he were to take an unbiased look at him…

There will no longer be, Kenobi and Skywalker.

For the naked truth was, Anakin had outgrown him, had become more powerful and capable than his Master. There’s little left that Obi-Wan could still offer, still teach. He should be proud. The only one still refusing to see it, is Anakin himself. Once that revelation comes to pass however, it will be complete. A true break, as befitting the Jedi way. Obi-Wan finds no peace in the thought, no completion nor satisfaction in the successful completion of his Padawan’s training—a symbol of his own Mastery.

Not when it means losing him. Not then.

Given his state of drunkenness, words slurred and feet unsteady, he thinks that it’s worth putting to question whatever or not he was a good Jedi at all, least of all a Master. Try as he might, he finds it hard to ponder further. His choice to look inward is as always an avoidance, an escape. An easy detour from looking outward, from looking at Anakin. Anakin who’s eyes he can feel like a physical touch, boring into his very soul.

Obi-Wan’s avoidance is nearly as strong as Anakin’s natural magnetism. One is counseling him to avoid looking, save himself the pain of witnessing the exact moment in which the realization dawns upon the boy. The second, stronger still, demands his undivided attention on him, demands him to look. Demands him.

Obi-Wan looks up, he meets those eyes, his demise.

Anakin’s eyes widen and he blinks, endless blue clearing as if coming out of some sort of shock.

“Can I—” Anakin splutters “—Obi-Wan, even if the council explicitly ordered me to go save the entire karkin universe just now, I wouldn’t be leaving your side— stars you’ve any idea what you look like right now?

Obi-Wan’s tongue is heavy but he parts his lips to answer, something clever to be sure, he always finds something to say.

“No, never mind.” Anakin cuts in before he could speak. There’s such decisiveness in his tone, such confidence. His former Padawan stands tall, his arms are strong and sure as he handles Obi-Wan closer, making him lean more of his weight against his chest. It’s broad and firm. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things, should not be aware of those things. It is a further evidence that his Padawan is well and truly grown. Further evidence of his own failing as a Jedi, as a Master, as a…man. Obi-Wan should not be inhaling and smelling home. Should not be leaning closer, itching all over for more, more.

“You’re so wasted that I am surprised you’ve even recognized me at all.” Anakin continues talking, as if the universe is not shifting beneath Obi-Wan’s feet as it is him who finally looks with his gaze unbiased. “The drunken messages though, those you will be seeing tomorrow” there’s dark mirth in that dear voice. “I bet you wanted to send them to— someone else.” Anakin glances at him, eyes narrowed.

Obi-Wan’s offenses at Anakin’s assumption he could ever not recognize him dies over under his gaze, dark and rich, his eyes are captivating. Before Anakin, he did not know that a blue can hold such multitudes. Both the clear morning sky, and the moon lit sky. Beautiful. They loosens his tongue as well as any truth serum would. That or the bottle he had finished on his own finally soaked through.

“I will always—” His voice comes out so thick that he coughs, starting Anakin from his dark contemplations, whichever those might be. His eyebrows furrow and he quickly snatches a cup of something clear off of a passing robo-waitress’s tray. Irritated with the distraction, Obi-Wan accepts it and drinks if only to make way for the words to follow. He will not let it go. Not now that he’d started. “I will always recognize you, Padawan Mine, drugged, beaten, or otherwise preoccupied— I will always—” “Drugged?!” Anakin cuts in again, arms tightening around Obi-Wan and strangling the annoyed huff at being cut again “You did not mention anything about being drugged, what the kark’ Obi-Wan?!”

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry, similar to how being drugged would feel. His mind swims and all he sees is Anakin. There’s warmth in his chest, there’s a burn in his gut, there’s a tug in his—

“It’s hard to tell” he says sheepishly, embarrassed, eyes straying away from Anakin’s strong jaw and up, up to the lights on the ceiling. He should not be thinking of how Anakin’s proximity is enough to replicate a strong drug. How out of orbit he feels around him as of late. “They all start the same, so…”

Anakin is hardly listening. Instead he is surveying the club with a look of fury that is bordering on homicidal, freeing one hand to rest it on his lightsaber. There’s the distinct feeling of Anakin stretching his force signature out, covering the room, no doubt attempting to locate anyone within their proximity who might have dared drug his former Master. Oh if only he knew that he was the culprit all along.

Obi-Wan snorts, finding an odd sense of humor in it.

Anakin’s gaze darts back to him, sharp and accusing. He looks so handsome under the colorful, dim lights. He looks so…

“Ah-nakin.” Obi-Wan sighs out and shuts his eyes lest his spinning head forces him to sober up in the most un-jedi manner.

“Stay with me,” the request comes so easy, what was it that he was so afraid of? It’s so easy, too easy. Frighteningly so, to reach and touch Anakin’s forearm. There’s skin beneath his touch, warm and human, tense muscles beneath. “Ah” Obi-Wan sighs out in realization. Anakin had rolled the sleeves, so very unofficial for a Jedi and yet so very Anakin of him.

Master Windu would have hated it. It wouldn’t surprise Obi-Wan if this was exact reason why Anakin did it to begin with, after all, he was most adept to handling heat and was not bothered by it even while all else were. Obi-Wan really should have reprimanded the boy more often, should have stopped Anakin from executing all those harmless little vendettas of his while growing up.

If only he did not find them to be so endearing, so amusing. If only he was a better Master, a proper Master. He would have.

His brain is foggy and he had already forgotten what was it it that he had hoped to achieve by touching Anakin, only that his fingers are circling his wrist and touching the spot at which he can feel his life pulsing. What a terrible habit it is, being intoxicated while negotiating. You should only ever drink enough to appear drunk, never more. How is he to get what he wants, when he has no ideas what it was?

Obi-Wan’s eyelids are heavy when he tries to blink them open and focus on Anakin. There’s the signature frown, so familiar Obi-Wan can’t help but smile. Anakin is chewing his lips, a compulsion he had never managed to rid himself of. He looks torn between the need to locate and deal with the ‘enemy’, and…. Obi-Wan.

The way Anakin looks, that should not be reminiscent of the targets Obi-Wan opts for charm as the main form of negotiation with. Should not stir the excitement of a hunt, of a game to be won. Obi-Wan should not use his looks to achieve his goals, he should not use them to get what he wants, he should be a better man than that.

Obi-wan is not a better man.

Licking his own dry lips, he let’s go off of Anakin’s wrist and reaches for Anakin’s cheeks. There’s a tremble in the touch, his, Anakin’s? He is not certain.

“Dear One, you can chase your enemies tomorrow.” He speaks in a hushed murmur, he hopes he sounds soft and alluring “Tonight, will you guard this drunk Master of yours?” he looks up, through his lashes, breathing shallowly, feeling hot, hot, hot all over.

Anakin let’s go off of the lightsaber. It’s an answer enough to what he had picked. It still is deeply gratifying to feel the boy’s hand cover his own, guide it until he wraps his arm around Anakin’s shoulders. It’s an awkward angle, with Anakin being taller than he— he cares very little for it when Anakin wraps an arm around his waist.

“Let’s go.” He is tight lipped and determined, guiding Obi-Wan out and into a speeder that is parked not far off. If Obi-Wan was even slightly more aware, he’d realize just how much attention the pair of them had draw, how all of the eyes had followed them out. Sometimes he forgets, how famous they had become during this accursed war. Sometimes, he is glad to not remember.

Anakin is terribly efficient at getting them to the Temple. One blink of an eye they’re flying through the busy highways of Coruscant, the next he is tossed unceremoniously onto a bed that feels and smells familiar. His bed.

They’re in his quarters. Their quarters until very recently. He is breathing harder and he does not dare to think of why. If he does not think, it does not exist. He is self aware enough only to feel how disheveled his robes feel on his body, how messy his hair is, how hot his skin feels all over. He is a mess.

“Dear one?” he questions. He refuses to acknowledge how his own tone drops, refuses to admit he is rolling his vowels in a way he knows thickens his accent in the most attractive of ways. He doesn’t know why he is flirting with Anakin Skywalker when the boy is barely out of his knighthood and is Anakin. His Anakin, his Anakin on whom he just looked in a way he really should not be looking at, through his eyelashes, with a heavy, wanting gaze.

The redness of Anakin’s cheeks is evidence enough that he hears and understands the situation well enough. That he is very much aware of what his Master is doing. That he is… perhaps affected.

Obi-Wan swallows, trying to push himself up to his elbows. He needs to sober up, he must tell him that he is merely jesting, that it is all a little tease, a little laugh, nothing more, just….

Anakin cuts him to it. Before he can excuse, or joke, or explain.

“Not while you’re drunk.” Anakin bites, sounding frustrated, lips swollen red from biting. Obi-Wan startles, surprised.

What did Anakin just say? Imply?

Blatantly threw straight into his face, more like.

Yes, but not while he is drunk.

Absurdly, a swell of pride fills his chest to the brim. Anakin’s manners and chivalry surprises him, pleases him. He had raised him well after all, he did not fail him, at least not in this.

His pleasure must bleed into the Force as Anakin regards him with a dark, baffled look. It’s so dark, most would find it intimidating, but for Obi-Wan it’s… dear. He can see the gentleness in that look, the care. There’s warmth in the force when Anakin insist on tucking him in, fingers methodical in the short, careful gestures. Tucking him in as if he was a child. Him, his Master. Former.

Obi-Wan was tucked in only once in his lifetime, at least as far as he can remember. His first night in the Jedi Temple. So tense he was, so out of his depth, that the he was taken pity of, tucked in with a quiet promise of everything making sense soon. It helped.

It had never happen again.

“Ahnakin.” he tries to protest, tries to pull a face of offended indigence. It’s hard to do when he is practically shining within the force. A single look from his apprentice is enough to quiet him down.

“Master.” Anakin replies, and there’s a little eyeroll there. His cheeks are still flushed but he seems as determined as Obi-Wan to not address the Bantha in the room. “You really should be more careful” he lectures him in a way Obi-Wan can distinctly remember doing a few years back, when Anakin had gotten drunk for the first time.

He leaves then, without a word. Obi-Wan’s throat closes and there’s a pang of pain in his heart. No this. He remembers now. Him. Leaving. That was the whole reason, that was why—

“Master?” Anakin sounds concerned, a glass of water and a container of what looks to be painkillers in his hands. “Are you sick?” a few strides and he is by Obi-Wan’s bed again, placing he glass and container at the bedside table. He looks well and truly worried.

Unthinking, Obi-Wan sits up. So sudden that he does feel sick from the motion. He ignores it. He reaches for Anakin’s face with both hands, cupping his cheeks with a grip that is too strong, too desperate. A Jedi should not hold onto things with such fervor.

All it takes for him to lean is to Anakin, is to stop resisting if only for a moment. Anakin’s pull was always there, stronger and stronger until it had become a daily challenge to ignore it, to pretend he does not feel it. All it takes is to stop resisting and his lips find Anakin’s, pressing against that plush softness, inhaling his exhale and finally, finally feeling anchored, inside the orbit he was always meant to circle.

He tilts his chin, leans in, knowing his beard will scratch pleasantly against the smooth jaw, kisses in deeper—

“Mahster—!” Anakin gasps into the kiss, a pang of shock and uncertainty clouding the force around them, sipping through the open nerves of their broken bond. He does not want to take advantage of his Master, does not want him to end up hating him, does not want him to wake up and be disgusted, appalled— but he wants, he wants so badly.

“Oh, Anakin.” Obi-Wan breathes out, unsure if it’s endearment of relief that fills him up with warmth, with lightness. One thing he is certain of, no one had ever been, or will be, as sweet, as kind, as dear as Anakin is to him. “I could never hate him.” There’s a drunken lisp to his voice, he needs a moment to correct himself. “You.” He manages, meeting Anakin’s eyes and not blinking, not wanting to miss a single moment. Wanting to see the exact moment in which Anakin realizes he is serious, that he is the most honest he’s been in years.

Anakin seems to be realizing it too, his eyes widening and cheeks coloring a deeper red than before, he bites his lip.

“I might be…” Obi-Wan’s gaze drops to Anakin’s lips and he thinks about… “intoxicated…” he forces himself to look up, away from temptation, away from sin. “Drugged, possibly.” He is still not fully certain if he is, or it truly is just Anakin with a touch of alcohol. “But I am very much aware that…” he smiles before completing the sentence, it widens so much further with the words to come “…my Padawan simply cannot take advantage of his Master…” there’s really no need to be using this many terms of belonging, especially when they are outdated and irrelevant, but he just cannot… “On the contrary, I am the one who should be deeply ashamed for…mnnn-”

Anakin’s lips quiet him up, he was never a patient listener, never could hear his Master finish a thought. This is the most effective he had ever been at cutting Obi-Wan’s line of thought, by far. He kisses him in a way Obi-Wan would have never guessed him capable of— it’s soft, sweet, patient. A tender thing, careful, loving. Obi-Wan gasps. Thinking, dazedly of how Anakin will grow to be an amazing lover, so attentive, a beast holding back his fangs in favor of gentle lips…

The thought sets a burning coil of arousal deep in Obi-Wan’s gut.

Not good. Beyond not good. He should….

The thought is present and yet he licks at Anakin’s lips, asking for permission. He is granted one without resistance, without hesitance. Anakin’s lips part and he can taste him and oh, oh. Obi-Wan groans, muscles tensing as he shifts to sit straighter, moving a hand to Anakin’s nape and pulling him closer.

He nearly chokes when the boy sucks on his tongue, arousal shocking him into near soberness.

“Anakin…” he knows, there’s not enough alcohol in the universe to convince him that this is not going too far, he knows and yet…

He kisses Anakin again, a little hungrier, a little more wanting.

He must stop this madness. To think that he had started it, to think that he had taken advantage of his trusting, sweet—

“No, Master.” Anakin answers, and Obi-Wan wonders just how much of his shields is truly left if his thoughts can be read so easily, so plainly. “You’ve asked me to stay, and I will stay.” That assuredness is back, firm and leaving no space for argument. This is the same man who leads men on a battlefield, who commands, who leads. Obi-Wan finds it impossibly, undeniably, devastatingly attractive.

“You will sleep.” Anakin decides then, tearing his eyes away from Obi-Wan long enough to gesture at the lights, turning them off with the force. “And I will stay with you.” His eyes land back to Obi-Wan, dark mirth dancing in what Obi-Wan can still see of him. “To keep you safe, Master.” He is teasing him, the little devil.

“How will it even…” Obi-Wan doesn’t want to mention how narrow the bed really is, Anakin would know, with his constant complaints about how leg room and…

“Don’t worry about that.” Anakin answers, confidence so cocky, so boyish that Obi-Wan huffs a surprised laughter, breaking into giggling when Anakin practically falls on top of him. They struggle like that, laughter mixing, limbs tangling, hair in a mouth and fingers against sides— Anakin captures him then, they’re on their sides, Anakin’s back is firm as he pulls Obi-Wan all the way to himself, forming….

“Absolutely not!” Obi-Wan’s voice raises and breaks a little, attempting to wriggle out of the trap he inadvertently fell into. There’s still some pride life in him. He will not permit this Jedi Knight, his former Padawan no less, big spoon him, 16 years his senior and former Master. Force be his witness, he will not allow it.

Anakin makes a suffering, exasperated exhale when Obi-Wan manages to slip out of his grip— only to be yanked back by the force. All he manages is a choked gasp of protest before the air is knocked out of him, his back hitting a firm chest a little too hard. There’s a vindictive sort of satisfaction in hearing Anakin chokes out a surprised exhale too, clearly, he did not account for the impact being this strong.

“Karkin’ hell…” he hears the boy muttering and snorts out, laughing even while Anakin wraps his mechno-arm around him, pulling him back into the not-as-offensive as before little spoon position. Fine, he thinks. He’ll allow it, just for this one night….

His eyes close and he shudders when Anakin’s nose press against his nape, he can feel the slow, deep inhale— can feel the content exhale that follows.

“Finally.” Anakin breathes out, as if he was waiting for this moment longer than the few minutes just now. Like he needed it, himself. Like it was not Obi-Wan, pathetic and alone, messaging his former Padawan while drunk beyond reason that led him here, but his own needs, own wants. Like he needed this too, him. Like he needs him. Obi-Wan.

“Oh Force…” Obi-Wan calls upon it without realizing, without meaning it. Only the force can stand witness to this moment, judge it, measure it. Guide him, tell him right from wrong. “Force.” His voice trembles with it, realizing for the first time that Anakin does see him, in truth, does and still…

“It’s fine with it.” Anakin remarks, nonchalant, amusement coloring the timbre of his voice. “You don’t have to shout at her, I don’t think she like it very much” Anakin refers to the Force differently every time, Obi-Wan suspects he does it simply for the joy of throwing off the younglings.

It unsettles Obi-Wan as well, he will not admit that much, though. Anakin’s connection with the force was always stronger, always different than anyone else’s. If he’s saying that the Force is not finding this offensive…. Obi-Wan will trust him. Anakin enjoys messing around at times, stretching the truth about how the Force works, but he’d never lie about this, not to him.

Obi-Wan’s body relaxes so completely that he practically sags into Anakin, relief, so much relief. It feels…. Good. There’s rightness to it that even without the Force humming pleasantly in his ears, he’d recognize. Like sharing a sleeping cot in the war zones, minus the blood and gore and pain… it feels secure, it feels…good….

He feels himself being lulled to what he suspects will be a long and restful sleep. Such a luxury as of late. “Mnh..” He jolts a little when a hand moves across his side, resting at his hip bone and then back up to his side. He should not permit Anakin this much leeway with him and yet…. He likes it… oh he likes it.

So he doesn’t comment it, allowing him to continue, to stroke him and care for him, and hold him. He is not leaving.

Sleep comes ease, as easy as an inhale. One moment he is aware of all that surrounds him, the scent and warmth, the weight and touch. The next he is sinking into the open embrace of rest. Distantly, he feels the touch of a Force Signature he knows as well as his own. It is the only half of it, after all. Accepting it, is as easy as breathing too.

There’s a distant shift, even in sleep he can feel the bond snapping back into place, like moons falling into a familiar route, circling a singular sun. Maybe it was not Anakin who was the sun around which Obi-wan was revolving all along, but their shared….

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