#battle station shenanigans

[daddy-ul]

battle station things

AND THE DRUM STICK!!

That's why Metallica needs 2 guitars, clearly.

[subwaytostardew]

Update: New Portraits!

I finally got around to making vanilla-sized portraits for submas! There's no HD Portraits support for 1.6 just yet, so I cleaned up their original portraits to match Stardew's color palette a bit better (so much hue-shifting...) since I couldn't really record events with lazilly downscaled portraits. I'm still working on Elesa's right now and I still need to get to everyone else, but it's chugging along...

Anyways, here's Ingo and Emmet's new portrait sheets!

▷ Station Steward Thylak

[ddejavvu]

Betrayal - Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Summary: months into the war and it's not as exhilarating as you'd hoped - not for your battalion, anyway. when the air conditioning in your compound blows, an old friend brings his tech genius of a padawan to fix it for you. while anakin is working, you convince his master to spar for old times' sake, and simple adrenaline gives way to a landslide of long-buried feelings neither of you should have for each other.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni, fem!reader, jedi!reader, reader is a general, sweat kink (? they are really sweaty and i talk about it a lot), oral (m+f receiving), semi-public sex (risk of being caught), sparring, lightsaber use, throatfucking, messy kisses, scratching/marking, lotsa spit, obligatory 'had you said the word' (sorry satine i had to steal his line)

WC: 16.9K / navigation / inbox

A/N: sorry this took me so long to finish! i didn't have time to write for like two months but it's done now and i hope you enjoy it <3 this is set a couple months/a year into the clone wars, but i have chosen to fuck with their ages a little bit. in this, anakin is like 12-14-ish, even though he was older in AOTC when the war began.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Neglecting the option of taking a padawan under your wing is what stuck you on this humid, blazing, hellish planet, and you almost regret it. You’d wanted more freedom in your duties, didn’t want a youngling clinging to your leg begging for help with their rudimentary saber drills, so instead you swapped it for what you thought would be constant battle, exhilarating speeder chases, and the glory of proving yourself. Unbecoming of a Jedi to wish for, yes, but you’ve never claimed to be Council-worthy.

Now your butt is sticking to the chair you’re planted in, overlooking a very empty, very desolate, very boring outpost. It’s so hot that you think you’ve melted into the chair and fused with its fabric. Standing might tear your skin away from your flesh, leaving an imprint of you behind in your seat.

“General,” One of your clone troopers calls, sticking his head through the doorway to your station, “Nothing on my scanners.”

“Nor on mine,” You drawl lazily, “We’re scheduled to be inspected today. Any word from the crew?”

“None.” He laments, “I just hope they bring a droid that can fix the cooler.”

The base you’re stationed to isn’t always this disgusting. The structure is wired with an air conditioning system to keep the inside much cooler than the outside, but after a rather unfortunate incident with a freshly manufactured astromech droid with some crossed wirings, both lay broken and singed in the maintenance bay. Your clones don’t know how to tinker with droids or heating systems, and you’d probably wind up just as ash-covered if you tried.

“Alert me when they land,” You order the trooper, leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the scanner screen before you, “I want to have time to change into an outfit I haven’t soaked through with sweat.”

The scanner grows warm against your flushed skin far too soon. Everything is hot, and sticky, and gross, and you find yourself yearning for the cold showers you used to despise at the temple. Perhaps you yearn for the temple in general, for the familial atmosphere shared among overconfident Padawans and exasperated Masters. You think specifically of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a man you’d trained with, now Master to his apprentice Skywalker.

You haven’t seen the pair in years, but you remember Anakin’s blonde mop of hair, as well as his penchant for chaos. Watching Obi-Wan’s eyes fill with horror at whatever shenanigans his Padawan had gotten into that day was part of what helped you make the decision to decline one yourself, though you hold no distaste for the boy. He was simply young and untrained in the ways of the Jedi, and you were not a patient enough person to gracefully navigate that predicament then. You’re not sure you are now, either.

Even though you know you’re better suited on your own, you wonder if you’d have been more fulfilled with a Padawan learner of your own. Surely anything could be better than this, wasting away- rotting on a planet hot enough to boil your blood if you stepped outside without proper protection.

Your base is secluded and temperature-controlled, even if the contraption that the Republic had fashioned under pressure of time to keep you isolated is rather crude. It’s, in essence, a large dome, seals in place to ensure that vessels can land and takeoff without destroying the temperature control. It’s cooler within the dome than it is outside of it, but the hurriedly-designed system can only do too much, and you greatly depend on the air conditioning to do its job. Now that it’s not, you’re irritated from the heat, and you wish that the inspection team would just hurry up already. The patience you’d had drilled into you from your early years as a Youngling is nowhere to be found under the pressure of a heat wave, and your foot taps impatiently against the floor while you itch for some action.

You think it’s rather pathetic that you yearn for excitement so badly that you’re anxiously awaiting the inspection team. Their job takes barely an hour, a scan of your equipment and a survey of your troops. They’ll walk in and out without so much as a pleasantry, but you long for something new, something more, something exciting.

The call over your comms comes over an hour later, a time in which you remain at your post but begrudge it all the while. “General,” Your trooper barks, voice staticky and rough over the channel, “We’ve got visitors. Inspection team’s here. Initiating landing procedure.”

“Copy that,” You bolt out of your seat, barely remembering to lean over the microphone to reply, “Thank you.”

Finally.

Finally, someone new to talk to, even if they have the same face as everyone else you’ve spoken to on this long, dreary assignment. You’re friendly with your troopers, of course, but that itch for more is back in your brain, igniting you with vigor you don’t normally possess as you rush to greet the inspection team.

However, when you reach the landing bay, and the ship’s hydraulics hiss, clone troopers aren’t the only ones to disembark. Jedi robes make their appearance, shrouding the very man you’d just thought about, as well as the child by his side. 

Obi-Wan wears the years that have passed since you last saw him, but time has treated him well. His hair is longer now, gone is that stiff Padawan buzz. His braid is missing as well, giving way to luscious strawberry blonde strands that he’s slicked back so that they drag against the back and sides of his neck. Longer hair looks good on him, just as it had when he was fifteen and had refused a haircut for months in a typical, if rather tame, display of teenage rebellion. Anakin is also significantly older than you’d kept track of, but he can’t be older than fourteen if his lanky limbs and awkward demeanor are any evidence.

Obi-Wan smiles at you, and you nearly forget to shove down that shameful part of you that wants to take more out of him than he can give you. Even as Padawans you’d always gravitated towards the man opposite you, sneaking out to roam the gardens after hours together or sharing sly glances across mission briefings. But he’s an honorable Jedi Master - a member of the Council itself, so you’ve heard - and you wrestle down your repressed feelings to grin at him.

“General Y/L/N,” He greets with a smile so charming you lament that the Jedi Order interrupted his chances of being a model.

“Master Kenobi,” You greet, but you know he’ll chide you for the honorific if you use it more than once, “I wasn’t aware you’d be on the inspection team.”

“We’re not. Technically.” Obi-Wan admits, arm coming to press against Anakin’s back and nudge him forwards, “We got word that your air conditioning system is out, as well as one of your new astromechs. Anakin here is still an excellent mechanic, I thought we’d come out to offer you some reprieve from the heat.”

Anakin looks embarrassed by the attention that’s fallen upon him, in typical pubescent fashion, and you take pity on the timid teenager, casting your glance back at his Master, “Maker, thank you. We’re melting out here.”

“I can imagine,” Obi-Wan laughs, and you turn again to Anakin who’s anxiously awaiting your orders.

“Anakin, if you could fix our air conditioning, that would be wonderful. Honestly, I’m not even sure I want the droid fixed, it’s what got us into this mess in the first place. But they’re both over there,” You point to the shorted out panels, “And my troopers will offer you any supplies you need, like tools or wiring or refreshments.”

“Thank you.” Anakin nods, hands clasped behind his back obediently even if he looks mortified to be the center of attention once more, “I’ll have things up and running as soon as possible.”

“I’m leaving you here,” Obi-Wan warns the boy, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I don’t often leave you alone with machinery and tools, Anakin, for reasons we’re both aware of. Promise me you will not do anything reckless?”

“I promise,” Anakin mutters reluctantly, and you avert your eyes so he has some semblance of privacy.

“I mean it, Anakin. This is no time to experiment with your technical prowess. You simply fix their system and you wait for me back on the ship, understand?”

“Master,” Anakin pleads, “I understand.”

“Very well. Get to your duties,” Obi-Wan dismisses the boy, turning to you only after he sees his Padawan crouch by the singed panel.

“He shouldn’t take long. He most likely will try to tinker with the astromech, though.” Obi-Wan smiles sympathetically, “He’s not one to leave a droid unusable.”

“I remember he had a particular talent for mechanics,” You muse, starting off towards the main base intent on leading Obi-Wan to your rec room, “If I recall correctly, he figured out how to inconspicuously rewire his communicator to give you an ‘unavailable’ signal if he didn’t like what you were asking him to do.”

Obi-Wan scoffs as he lets you lead through the doorway, “Yes, my Padawan has always had very selective hearing. I’m sure you don’t mind not having one of your own.”

“That’s one of the reasons I justify my choice,” You chuckle, letting the door shut behind you as you make your way through the halls. The base that the Republic had granted you is spacious, even decked out with training facilities and rec rooms interspersed throughout your rows of quarters, but it’s unbearably hot and you’re tired of being cooped up inside of it.

“This isn’t bad for a base,” Obi-Wan muses, robes swishing behind him as he strides beside you, “But I hope Anakin fixes that cooling system soon.”

“Try being stationed here permanently,” You scoff, tugging at the sweat-soaked neckline of your tunic, “I have long since abandoned my robes.”

“Do you have somewhere I could set this?” Obi-Wan asks, fingers catching the front of his cloak as he slings it off. It falls gracefully from his shoulders, and he holds the garment up as he laments still having to wear the rest of his robes.

“You can leave it in my quarters,” You veer sharply to the right, letting him catch up, “They’re just down this hallway.”

There’s unmarked doors on either side of the corridor, and you’re still impressed that each clone trooper knows where their bed is at night. Your door has a plaque beside its frame that reads ‘General’s Quarters,’ and you’re not confident that you could navigate the halls without it. You type in your access code, and the door slides open with a hiss.

“Just set it on the bed,” You gesture towards your mattress, “If we have some time, I thought,” You reach into the closet, pulling out your seldom-used lightsaber, “We could spar.”

Obi-Wan laughs, discarding his cloak onto your bed as his eyes crinkle happily at the corners, “You’re lacking a bit of excitement here, aren’t you, Y/N? There’s no way you’d duel me willingly after I took you down the last time.”

You’d sparred together since you’d been handed a saber for the first time. Sure, your initial weapons were wooden, then training blades designed to be duller than their more advanced counterparts, before you’d finally been granted allowance to manufacture one of your own. But there were no more dedicated sparring partners than the two of you, and you can tell the man opposite you is fond of the reminder you’ve given him, even if he is trying to tease you.

“You did not take me down,” You gawp, “I mean- yes, I was on the floor, but I wasn’t done! You didn’t win!”

“Mm, yes. I didn’t win because no one did.” Obi-Wan sends you a sly grin, “Anakin interrupted us, don’t you remember? We never got to finish.”

“Then a rematch,” You insist, gesturing towards the open doorway, “Once and for all we’ll prove who the better duelist is.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll win. After all, I can tell you spend every waking moment practicing and making sure you lose none of your fighting abilities,” Obi-Wan’s hand darts out to switch on your holotable, revealing an in-progress game of chess. You’re losing.

“I’ve only been using that as of late,” You snap, defensive, “It’s insufferable to train without proper ventilation. And only when I’m not on duty. I don’t spend all of my time sitting and playing chess.”

“Losing at chess.” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow, finally stepping out of your quarters so that you can shut it once more, “Come, Y/N, show me to your training grounds.”

The training room is just as hot as everywhere else on the base. You walk through the doors and humid air greets you, something that wrinkles Obi-Wan’s nose and rustles his mustache.

 “God, I hope your Padawan knows what he’s doing,” You groan, rolling up the sleeves of your own tunic but jumping excitedly into action despite the heat. You ignite your saber, slightly embarrassed by the thrill that the weapon gives you as it thrums to life. You haven’t felt this in a long time, at least, not paired with the thrill of battle. It’s significantly less awe-inspiring to ignite a saber against a training droid you know wouldn’t be able to singe your tunics if you stood stock still. Obi-Wan brings his to life as well; blue and green lights bathe your faces.

“I’ll go easy on you.” He smiles infuriatingly, cocking his head slightly to one side, “Ready?”

“Ready.” You jolt right, a fakeout before you dart left instead. He catches on rather quickly, though, and his blade clashes against yours as you aim for his leg.

“Nice start,” Obi-Wan admits, “But you can’t rely on misdirection for your entire fight. You’ll have to overpower me.”

“I could easily overpower you,” You swing left, breaking the contact of your two sabers, then jabbing so that he has to move his foot out of the way to avoid the plasma. He stumbles, barely catching himself against his back foot, but it gives you time enough to bring your blade up and around to nick at his shoulder, a hole now slashed into his tunic.

“Okay,” He stands straight, eyeing the tear in his clothing warily, “I won’t go easy on you.”

“Never underestimate your opponent,” You tease proudly, saber still ignited, “That’s one for me, Obi-Wan.”

“That doesn’t count,” He scoffs, standing at the ready, “I told you I’d go easy on you. Now I’m serious.”

“All I’m hearing is excuses,” You gloat, feet light as you step around him, “You lead this time, Kenobi.”

He does. He swings downwards, and you block your face with your own blade to stop him. He nearly jabs at your gut before you can prevent it, and you feel the heat from his blade as your own comes to block his.

You fling his weapon away with yours, and he lets you. After such a long period of no action (and shamefully little meditation) your abilities with the Force have grown slightly weaker, as have your regulatory skills. You can still sense what he’s going to do when he squares his shoulders, but you’re almost not fast enough to interpret those senses, and you barely make it to block him from swinging his blade in a fiery circle that would clip the edge of your arm.

“You’re rusty,” He taunts, his own Force abilities stronger than ever as his presence seeps through the cracks in your mind. You try to force him out, but it takes effort, and it’s effort you can’t expend elsewhere. It means that you can’t foresee his intent to aim for your face, and his blade hums inches away from your cheek as he holds it there.

You freeze; you’re caught.

We’re even,” You grunt, sweat beading at your forehead, “But we’re not finished.”

“Hang on,” He disengages his saber, letting the apparatus clatter to the ground as he tugs at one of the outer layers of his robes, “I’m going to shed a few things.”

“Stripping will not help your cause.” You tease, “I’m not distracted by sex appeal.”

Clearly, he isn’t expecting your jab, and he lets his mouth fall open as he slings off one of his garments, an incredulous laugh filling his throat.

“Y/N. You’ve obtained a foul mouth somewhere along your career. It certainly wasn’t in the temple.”

“It’s the clones,” You groan, “Try being stationed with a troop of grown men who went through puberty in record time. They’ve got the appetite of an adult with the filter of a teenage boy.”

“They’ve never tried anything with you,” Obi-Wan narrows his eyes questioningly, and you try to avoid looking at the sweat glistening against his tanned neck as he strips to his base layer.

“No, they’re respectful.” You assure him, “Just crass.”

“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan frowns distastefully, “They haven’t had Jedi training. I suppose I’m not surprised.”

He stands there for a moment with only his undershirt covering his chest, then decides that it’s still too warm, tugging at its hem to raise it over his head.

You feel your insides ignite with a fire you haven’t felt in a long time when his bare chest is exposed, skin marred and riddled with coarse, wiry hair. His stomach is flat but not as tight as you remember in your youth, softer now. You can tell there’s an impressive layer of muscle beneath the milky white skin, though, even if it’s not outwardly visible. He uses his tunic to wipe the sweat off of his face so you’re granted a moment to ogle him, your mouth watering as you try to conceal your thoughts. 

“Okay. Enough with this child’s play.” You shake your head, letting Obi-Wan have just enough time to toss aside his tunic before you plant your feet against the mat. Obi-Wan stands at the ready, both of your sabers ignited, “I want a real match. A long one, now that we’re warmed up. Best two out of three, Kenobi. Winner takes all.”

“Winner gets to stand in front of the air conditioning vent when Anakin gets it up and running,” Obi-Wan suggests, sweat trailing down his neck and over his chest. You avert your eyes, lest the fraile state of mind you’re in betrays you.

“Fine.” You shrug, reaching for the hem of your vest. It’s tactical, good for keeping with you on duty, but it’s etching lines of sweat into your back now. You sling it off, letting it land in a heap similar to Obi-Wan’s robes, and exposing the tank top you have on beneath it. “I know just the one I’ll pick. In my room, there’s one just above the bed. Maybe I’ll let it hit my back while I win at holochess.”

“I think the heat might be getting to you,” Obi-Wan cracks, a slight heave to his chest as he tries regulating his breathing. It’s hard when you’re as hot as you are to get enough oxygen, and you’re doing the same. It’s awfully difficult not to indulge in the view of his bare chest rapidly rising and falling, and you feel a tug below your gut as a vision flashes through your mind. It’s of what else could make him pant in such a way, and you can’t afford to entertain the thought, not around him. “I’m not sure which outcome is more delusional; that you’ll win this duel, or that you’ll win at holochess.”

“You’re wasting time,” You croon, charging with your blade poised for battle so that you have no more time to fantasize, “I think you’re scared.”

“Do I feel afraid?” Obi-Wan laughs, blocking your attack with little effort and redoubling to launch one of his own. The clatter of your sabers almost drowns out his words, “Reach out, Y/L/N, all you’ll feel is confidence.”

“I’m not sure I could feel you if I tried,” You lament, chest heaving as you block one of his swings, “Not while my mind is occupied with our duel. I am rusty, you were right.”

“Practice more,” He chides, “Less chess, more meditation.”

“One is a lot more boring than the other!” You groan, barely managing to get your arm up in time to take a shot at his own, “And the less boring one is chess, so that’s really saying something.”

“It may be boring but it is beneficial,” Obi-Wan lectures you, and you wonder if he thinks you’re still a Padawan. You fight with heaving breaths and monumental effort, the heat sucking your energy out through the sweat that drips down your skin. He turns and his back is glistening, which is really not a sight that helps you to stay focused.

“Now I’m starting to see why Anakin tinkered with his communicator,” You call, as Obi-Wan whirls around your left side, “You’re very dull as a Jedi Master!”

You have to throw yourself onto the floor to avoid a swing at your head, your right shoulder aching as you do so. But you scramble away from him, righting yourself and miraculously avoiding the blade of your saber coming into contact with the training mat.

You stumble to your knees, driving the forward momentum you have against Obi-Wan as he tries blocking you. You nearly get a nick out of his pants, but he pushes you backwards with the threat of his blade, and you fall with your back to the mat.

Your stomach drops when a blue blade hums hot and bright near your throat, its tip directed at your jugular. It doesn’t matter that it’s on its training setting; it’s inescapable and daunting when it’s an inch from your skin. You’re done for. 

“I may be dull,” Obi-Wan pants, beard glistening as sweat streams down his neck. His chest heaves as he speaks, bare and open for your eyes, and his pink tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth to dart along his lips, “But I am victorious. Does this remind you a little bit of the last time we fought?”

It does. He’d been standing over you then as he is now, and you’d had to fortify your mind back then not to let slip vulgar thoughts about being on the floor below him. His thighs, meaty with muscle and strong from training, are hidden behind loose pants, but their crotch has tightened slightly, a chub to what should be a relaxed surface.

A pang of arousal shoots down your spine, and suddenly the lightsaber near your throat isn’t the most daunting thing in the room. It’s Obi-Wan.

He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as you lay beneath him.

“Your thoughts betray you,” He observes, and you feel his invasive presence in your mind, sucking out the private thoughts coursing through your brain. They’re of panting breaths, heaving chests, wandering hands, and meshing tongues; passionate embraces, intimate attachments. Things no Jedi should fantasize about, not under the code. Things that should bring shame to you, and maybe they do, and maybe you like it.

“Your body betrays you,” You’re able to muster, swallowing the saliva pooling in your mouth as you glance pointedly at his bulge. It’s only grown since you’d last glanced at it; evidently your visions did something to him too.

He sees, or perhaps, feels what you see, freezes, then clicks his saber off. The blade retracts with a hiss and there is a distinct vacuum of sound where its humming once was. He breaks the unnerving silence with a clatter as he tosses it aside, feet still firmly planted on either side of your hips. 

“It’s natural.” He weakly supplies, a poor defense, “It’s adrenaline-fueled, nothing more.”

“Really? So when you duel sith lords, when you chop the heads off of battle droids, you walk away with a stiff dick?” You carefully observe his body language, feet poised like he might bolt if you make any sudden moves. He’s flighty, and you have to make your next moves carefully.”

“Y/N,” He begins, his voice weak, “I wish you wouldn’t use such foul language.”

“Is it the language that bothers you?” You push your elbows against the mat, hoisting yourself up at an obtuse angle to meet his eye better, “Or is it the truth it carries? Obi-Wan, you were right. It’s natural. And it is not something to be ashamed of.”

“It is against the Code,” He reasons, his voice still fighting to sound resolute. He offers no other reasoning, and you know it’s because he has none.

“It’s not.” You insist, “The Code is ancient and rigid. And celibacy is not required, only a level head.”

“That’s the problem,” He chuckles weakly, “I don’t have a level head when it comes to you, Y/N.”

“You seem as though you do.” You press cautiously, careful not to push your luck, “I’ve never felt anything unprofessional about your feelings towards me.”

“That’s because I haven’t been around you in a long time,” He admits, “Not consistently. I was better at controlling it- no, hiding it when we were Padawans. I had to do it every day, it was natural to me. But I am out of practice now, and I have been since you were stationed here. I barely have the ability to hide how I feel about you, Y/N. And- and it is not something the Council would approve of.”

You sit up now, fully straightened. You’re still between his legs, but you’d need to rise to your knees for your face to be level with his bulge. You plan to.

“The Council is not here. Nor can they see us, or hear us, or feel us. They will not know what we do, Obi-Wan.”

“I will know.” He breathes, his voice growing weaker each time he tries raising it against you, “Y/N, I will never forget a thing we do together on this base. If we… If you touch me, I will remember every brush of your skin against mine for eternity. If you- kiss me, I will never be able to put the thought of your lips on mine out of my head. And I would not know how to live without it for the rest of my life.”

Your heart sinks in your stomach like a stone in water. He’s loyal to the Order, he always has been. But you’d been so blinded by isolation, so convinced by your own delusions, that you’d assumed his loyalty to you would be stronger. But it’s not, and you can’t earnestly be angry with him for it.

You swallow what little saliva has accumulated around your tongue to give yourself something to do, then rise to your feet.

“It sounds like you should walk away.” You mutter regretfully. His eyes hold the same feelings, strikingly painful. He nods, almost imperceptibly, but before he can follow your orders, you continue.

“But will you forgive yourself if you do?”

You feel it, his swell of emotions. Every single one is unbridled, yearning, heartache, fondness, want; all of them unleashed from the man whose mind is usually a fortress. They’re washing over you like waves, invading your brain and turning your thoughts their colors. 

“No. I couldn’t,” He admits, “But-” and there’s always a but, “The Council would never forgive me if I didn’t.”

“They won’t know.” You insist, but it’s lost on him, “Obi-Wan, please make a decision. Who is more important, you or the Council?” Then in a more timid, soft voice, as his soft eyes bore into you and beg for mercy, you give him the opposite, “Who is more important… me or the Council?”

He kisses you. There is no warning, no shift in his Force signature, only his hands on your face and his lips on your own. There is strength in his touch, his hands firm where they pull your cheeks ever-so-slightly towards his face as if he’s trying to mash them into his own. His beard is rough and grating against your face, but it’s not unpleasant, especially when it brings with it his lips. His lips, which are much softer than you’d have imagined them, merely frame your own. The kiss is sweet but chaste, and the only indication you have that he wants more is the way that he holds you against him. Otherwise you’d mistake his courtesy for disinterest, and you tilt your head slightly sideways to encourage more enthusiasm from him.

When your lips reconnect he sighs, a breath from his nose that fans over your top lip. He’s letting you lead, letting you dictate whether you want to keep kissing him or whether you’ll suddenly switch positions; it’s like he’s afraid that you’ll rip off a mask and reveal yourself to be Master Windu, scolding him for his reckless passion. But of course you don’t, and you lick gently against the plush of his bottom lip instead.

He hums at the feeling of your tongue against his mouth, but he’s suddenly pushing against your cheeks instead of pulling.

“Are you absolutely sure,” He starts, but can’t seem to resist the temptation to steal another kiss from your spit-slicked lips, “That you- mm, that you want this? Because I cannot-” He breaks off with a weary, pleading, defeated look in his beautiful eyes, “I cannot turn back if we go further. If we proceed… I will not be able to forget what we do. If you’re not interested… please tell me now, so that I may save myself from loving you for an eternity that you do not wish to share with me.”

You scoff, moving in for another kiss at his lips. He doesn’t reciprocate, only pushing you back so that you can respond.

“I just spent five minutes,” You pant, desperate to reconnect your lips, “Bargaining with you to get you to forget about your nerves. And you don’t think I want this?”

You try surging forwards again but he holds you back, eyes still begging for your words.

“Please. I need to hear you say it.” He seems almost self-conscious, worried you’re not interested in him the same way he’s interested in you. But you have been since you can remember, and you’re more than willing to work around the unconventional aspects of your relationship if it means you can have him, even just for today.

“I want you,” You breathe, the exhale hitting his lips, “Please- Obi-Wan, I want you. I want you no matter what the Code says. No matter what the Council says; I want you.”

He looks like he could cry. He is devoted to the Order, far more than you have seen most Jedi, and to hear you choose him over the Code must mean a great deal. He pours passion into the kiss you share, chest filling with oxygen that he gulps just to be able to keep his mouth on yours for longer. He consumes you, fingers pulling at your cheeks and tugging you closer still, like he thinks you might fuse if he tries hard enough.

He groans into your mouth, his tongue more exploratory now that you’ve pledged your devotion to him. He’s not afraid of taking now, of getting his hopes up only to be thrown down, and he swipes the wet muscle in a hot stripe over your own tongue. He rolls it against your lower lip, so wonderful to kiss for someone with such lacking experience.

“No one is coming,” You breathe, exhaling against his mouth as your hands wander to his waistband, “No one- no one can see us.”

“I want you in your quarters.” He protests, grabbing your wrists when your hand sinks to his bulge and ghosts over it. He jolts at the unexpected contact, but holds you back, “I want to lay you down, Y/N, I want to indulge in every part of you. Worship you.”

“I will let you,” You moan, tilting your forehead against his and mouthing at his lips in a sloppy kiss, “You may have me any way you want, Obi-Wan. But here, I- I want to have you. I need to have you now,”

“Impatient,” He notes, sounding suspiciously close to lecturing you. But he lets your wrists go, and you sink to your knees instantly. He hears them hit the training mat, knows they must ache, but he can’t find any part of him available to worry about it, not now that your hands are prying greedily at the waistband of his trousers.

He’s a near stranger to physical pleasure, at least in recent years. He’s a grown man, he has urges, but he also has responsibilities, and the constant pressure of an ambitious (read: reckless) young Padawan under his supervision mixed with a quickly-rising rank within the Jedi Order leave him with little time nor interest to indulge in his barest desires. Your hand gently squeezing his clothed bulge as you wrestle with his pants nearly knocks him off of his feet, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle having your warm mouth envelop it.

Finally you tug loose the drawstring within his pants, and yank them down his thighs. They’re seldom bare, you see from the milky white tone of the skin there, but they are muscled and thick like he does not neglect them.

You can’t help yourself when you lean forwards, tongue already protruding from your mouth to lick a fat, wet stripe around one of his thighs. It’s sturdy beneath your tongue that dips into the crease between his skin and the parts of it that are covered by his briefs. His muscles tense like you’ve struck him with a fatal blow, and an open-mouthed groan escapes his lips.

His skin tastes of the sweat that’s currently moistening every inch of your bodies, salty and tantalizing. There’s no escaping it in the brutal heat, but it makes him all the more sexy, his skin glistening before you even get a chance to smear it in your saliva.

You’re guilty of impatience as he accuses, and you can’t resist mouthing at his covered bulge. He’s half-hard, but when your lips purse around the outline of his cock in his briefs he twitches, and you feel him stiffen against the restraints of his underwear on your tongue. 

His knees give out with no warning, and he barely has the foresight to grab desperately at a bench press behind him for stability. He falls quickly to its surface, perching on the edge of it while you desperately chase his cock. You fit your mouth again over his briefs and drool against the fabric, surely soaking it through with your saliva. His cock, though restrained, is heavy and thick on your tongue, making your mouth water and produce enough drool to soak through his entire ensemble. His hands clutch the bench beneath him with white knuckles, and he grits his teeth to stop himself from shouting as you suck at his clothed cock.

“Oh, Y/N,” He pants, voice strained as you get lost in your task and forget that you need to actually pull his briefs down. He reaches for your head, gently nudging you away with his knuckles against your temple.

“Darling, please, I can’t- I won’t last for very long. Please, have me properly.”

He grips at the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down hurriedly and letting his cock spring free. It’s of decent length, but slightly thicker than average, its base shrouded by a patch of curled hair at his groin. It’s a similar caramel color to the rest of his hair, and his sweat has accumulated particularly within its wiry constraints, leaving him musky. The smell might bother you if it were anyone else, if you were anywhere else, but here and now, on your knees for Obi-Wan in the training room, it’s the most disgustingly tantalizing thing you’ve ever smelled in your entire life.

That’s why you bury your face into it, the hair tickling at your skin. His hips jolt as you inhale deeply near the base of his cock, groaning and letting your tongue fall to drag against just the shaft of his erect dick. He’s painfully hard, embarrassingly seconds to orgasm, and your spit now glistening on his length doesn’t help. Or it helps too much; either way, he’s close to cumming and you haven’t even had a chance to put him in your mouth.

“Darling,” He begs, pushing at your forehead once more, speaking through an eternal shortage of breath, “Please, I- it all feels too good. I can’t take it. I won’t last long.”

“That’s okay,” You pant, your breath falling over his cock as it practically pulses with pleasure, “We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”

“Terrible,” He manages to chuckle weakly, but any further chiding he has planned for your cheekiness is cut short when he stops breathing. He actually forgets how when your wet mouth closes around the head of his cock, your tongue licking flat over its head and covering most of its surface area. It’s so much sensation so fast that Obi-Wan has to clench his hands around the bench not to cum right then and there, and he feels pinpricks of pain over his skin that he realizes are from his fingernails digging against his palms. When you draw your head back off of his cock with a slick sound, then move in again to take more of his length into your mouth, his lungs suddenly remember their function, and heave within his chest.

His groans are filthy and they only pool more slick wetness between your thighs as you kneel for him. You don’t care about the ache in your knees, nor the pain in your neck from the slightly awkward angle you’re indulging in him at. All that matters is his cock, heavy and thick on your tongue, sweat and precum alike flooding your taste buds. 

His restraint is put to the test. He’s a member of the Jedi Council, for Force’s sake, and he should have a little more control over himself than this. But it takes almost all of his energy not to buck his hips forwards and plunge the length of his cock down your throat, and it means that he’s not able to devote as much restraint to delaying his orgasm as he’d like.

He’s twitching in your mouth, and even with your faded Force abilities, mental muscles weakened by disuse, you can feel the tension coursing through his veins, hot and wild. You don’t need to look at his strained, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bench to know that he’s devoting all of his energy to restraining himself, and you take pride in being able to undo Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi with merely your mouth. You indulge in his painful hardness, tongue smoothly caressing the underside of his length as you bob your head back and forth around him. Each time you draw back you flick your tongue up and over the ruddy, leaking head of his cock, something that makes that fiery tension in his body glow even hotter.

“I’m going to-” He warns you, voice petering out weakly as he tries controlling himself, “I can’t- I can’t help it, I’m going to cum.”

“Cum,” You speak in unison, your word coming out muffled as you speak it against his cock. You smooth your hands up his thighs, feeling his muscles impossibly tight beneath your fingers. You stroke them soothingly, encouraging him to unclench his jaw that’s wired so tightly that you’re sure his teeth are on the verge of cracking, “Cum, Obi-Wan, please.”

Even if you hadn’t asked him so kindly, he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to withhold any longer. Not with your pretty eyes gazing up at him from between his legs, lashes latticing the tender emotions swirling in your gaze. Your fingers slide calmly, sweetly over the expanse of his thighs, and the mere thought of you digging your nails harshly into them and leaving marks is what elicits the final twitch of his dick on your tongue.

Evidently, you’re more in tune with his thoughts than he’d expected. You’d caught the quick image that had flashed through his mind, now completely unguarded to you, and you curl your fingers quicker than he can comprehend, carving searing marks into his thighs that will show up red for at least a week. Paired with the movement of your fingers, you suck hard at his cock, plunging your face forwards to nestle against the base once more. His tip hits the back of your throat with force and it makes you gag, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure what sensation is more overwhelming: the vivid burning at his thighs, the way the tip of his dick nestles so securely into the warm, wet sleeve of your throat, or the way that you’re breathing in his sweat-marred scent like it’s the purest oxygen you’ve ever had in your lungs. All he knows is that together, they’re his undoing, and he lets out a rugged cry; he can’t control himself any longer when pleasure roars through him with a fury he’s almost frightened of. 

He’s always calm, collected, in control. But now he’s grabbing your face with shaking hands as he pumps warm spurts of cum down your throat, holding your jaw steady so that you can’t back away, not that you want to. He holds you in place while his thighs begin to tremble, your tongue continuously smoothing over the underside of his cock while it twitches in your mouth. He keeps himself fully nestled into the back of your throat while he cums, and if he had energy to be embarrassed about cumming as much as he was, he’d be apologizing. But he can’t, not when you’re swallowing him so eagerly, throat convulsing around the head of his cock and only milking more out of him. There’s obscene groans coming from his mouth, the kind that bring heat to your own core, and you think you could get off to the sound a thousand times over if you recorded him now. They’re deep, throaty, and desperate as he holds your face around his cock, gagging you on his dick as his orgasm takes control of him.

A part of your training that hasn’t left you yet was your extensive disaster training, in which you were taught how to extend the time for which you could hold your breath. That comes in especially handy when Obi-Wan’s hands cradle your jaw, keeping you snugly choking around his dick. You have to fight not to draw back at the strange sensation of your throat being plugged while his cum splatters against the back of it,, and you use all of your strength to keep yourself from panicking at the lack of airflow. You’re only slightly ashamed to admit that you’d willingly die like this, a fucktoy for his cock.

Once his orgasm has worked its way through him he seems to remember you can’t breathe, all of the tension having leaked out of his muscles. He inhales with a start, pushing against your cheeks and tugging his cock out of your mouth, “Oh, Y/N, darling- Y/N, are you-?” 

At the sight of your spit-soaked lips, tongue desperately running over them to collect any of the sweat that had accumulated there from being pressed against his pelvis, he lunges forwards to meet his lips with your own. He can taste the slight savory hint of his own release, your tongues meshing wetly and messily. He’s hunching now, even though you’ve straightened up on your knees, and he feels you clumsily palm at his dick, tucking him back away into his briefs. It makes his lips go slack with a gasp even though he’s just finished, and he’s more than eager to take you by the wrists and help you to your feet. You toss his undershirt at him with careless speed, and he nearly gets lost in its beige expanse from the way that his arms shake as he pulls it over his head.

“My quarters,” Your voice is thick and ragged, still recovering from your prior lack of oxygen, “We can- it’s soundproof, no one will know.”

“Yes,” He breathes, legs shaking slightly as he gathers the rest of the clothes he’d shed while sparring with you, “Um- we can... Anakin still hasn’t gotten the air conditioning running.”

“Uh-uh,” You shake your head, feeling nothing from the vent to your left, “Hurry, let’s go before-”

“General,” The door slides open, and you both startle, much less in tune with the force presences of those around you than you’d like to admit. One of your troopers sticks his head through the door, “The kid needs a multitool.”

You blink once, registering a slight soreness at the back of your throat, “Get him a multitool, then.”

You’re sure he can see your haggard appearance, and all apart from the glossy look of your lips looks like you’ve been sparring. Which you have, technically. You just hope Obi-Wan’s trousers don’t look like they’ve only just been hitched up around his waist again, or his shirt barely pulled down over his chest.

“I lost mine, general,” The trooper admits sheepishly. There was an abundance of the supplies that were offered to you before you’d been shipped out to this battle station, and more had been stocked for a long time in one of the supply closets, but your troopers are bored more often than not, and you shudder to think of all of the times they’ve used them as target practice by standing them on the balcony and opening fire. Apparently, you need to request some more from the next inspection team, as well as impress upon your troops the difference between an abundance of resources and useless clutter begging for a blaster wound.

“I have one in my quarters,” You sigh wearily, “Let’s see to it that we don’t misuse our equipment anymore, soldier.”

“Yes, General,” He nods vigorously, stepping out of your way to offer you the open door.

“Obi-Wan,” You turn apologetically, “We’ll have to continue our sparring match after I retrieve the multitool for your padawan. You’re welcome to follow us, though I’m not sure it’s any cooler out there than it is in here.”

“I’d like to stash my clothes somewhere, if you don’t mind,” Obi-Wan holds up the outer garments he’d shed, “I think it gives you somewhat of an unfair advantage if I’m liable to trip over my own tunics.”

You grant him a good-natured laugh as you pass your trooper in the doorway, and all in all, you think that the two of you have done a fantastic job at pretending his dick wasn’t in your mouth only minutes ago.

Your trooper makes the wise decision to stand outside of your quarters when you enter them, although any initial disappointment you’d felt at his poorly-timed request has well worn off by now. That’s all he’s guilty of, anyways; you find their antics amusing despite their destructive nature. It’s not his fault that you’re canoodling with the Jedi master, so you forgive him his abhorrent timing. You beeline for a locker in your closet, punching in the numeric code and letting the squeaky hinges reveal your small weapons store. It’s a multipurpose space, blasters on a rack that’s affixed to the back, a mount for your saber, and a drawer of various other mechanical supplies down below. You throw it open, and Obi-Wan watches you dig for the multitool where he stands by your bed, his tunics laid on your bedspread.

You realize all too late that one of your other mechanical supplies is in full view of the Jedi master standing behind you, black in color for subtlety but unmistakable in shape. It’s phallic and has a second prong that shoots off of the base to vibrate against your clit, something you only use when you're absolutely certain no one can hear. Besides, the sound could very well be mistaken for one of your troopers shaving their scruff, so you have ample opportunity. You snatch the multitool out of the drawer and slam it shut, making your trooper’s shoulders twitch in a quickly concealed wince. You’re thankful that only Obi-Wan was a temporary witness to your lack of organizational skills.

“Here,” You rush to hand it off, forcefully locking the cabinet and thrusting the tool towards the trooper, “Take it- uh, keep it, I’ll put in a request for more supplies tonight.”

“Thanks, General,” He nods warily at you, and you pity the way he’s taken your context clues and misarranged them to view your behavior as standoffish and exasperated with him, “My apologies again.”

“No worries,” You try not to snap at him, unnerved by the abnormal lack of mental pressure from Obi-Wan behind you. He used to tease you abundantly in your youth, prying at your mental shields and slipping snide remarks through the cracks while you fought to keep a straight face, but now that he’s laid his eyes on possibly the most embarrassing item you own, he’s completely still, completely silent.

“Goodbye.” You shut the door with a hydraulic hiss, and stand facing it until Obi-Wan speaks, pretending to fuss with the control panel.

“It seems you overlooked another multitool in that drawer,” His voice finally reaches over the silence, carefully bundled so that the underlying mirth is something you can only guess at, “Now I wonder if your battalion is really the cause of your foul mouth.”

“Shut up!” You whirl on him with cheeks blazing on opposite sides of your face like Tatooine’s twin suns, “Don’t tease me-”

“I’m not teasing you!” He insists, voice sounding aghast, like it’s out of the question, like he’s offended by the accusation, taking your arms into his grip when you look like you might shove him. His face is split into a smile - not a grin, which is reassuring - but a warm smile, even if there is amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“Yes you are,” You scoff, and you have half a mind to pull away when one of his hands releases your arm and anchors itself against your face instead. It’s warm, rough from wear but impossibly gentle. You fight leaning into it for as long as you can, pride still bruised, but he leans in to press his lips against your forehead in a chaste kiss. 

Typical.

You’d gagged on his dick ten minutes ago, and he’s kissing your forehead.

“Darling,” He hums sympathetically, tucking your face against his chest so snugly that you think it was engineered for the curves and bumps of your skin. You relish the hug he traps you in, the tender hold even though you’re interested in something more carnal, feral, hungry. His voice is strong and soothing as he speaks, and the vibrations thrum through his chest and against your face “You had my cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago. I’m not going to make fun of you for having a toy.”

Oh. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten.

“Such a foul mouth,” You admonish him, tucking your grin away between the haphazardly-righted folds of his tabard. 

He pinches at your side, fingers greedily prying at the soft flesh of your belly through layers of clothing you wish weren’t between your skin and his, “Yes, well, it’s because I’ve had yours all over me.”

His hand, similarly bold to his mouth, flattens out along the curve of your side, tucking into the space above your hip bones. The other stays in place against your cheek, finger running idly across the underside of your jawline. You don’t know whether the shiver that shudders down your spine is due to the ticklish nature of his touch, or the sensual area he’s chosen, but he feels your spine thrum, and he presses further into you like it was an invitation.

“Darling,” He starts, back to that well-practiced hesitancy, “If you still want to…”

“I do,” You nod, feeling sweat drip down the back of your neck and soak into the fabric of your tank top, “Do you think we have time?”

“Anakin can occupy himself with scrap metal and multitools for hours,” Obi-Wan recollects with a smile on his face that isn’t committed to fondness or resignation. You’re sure he’s proud of his padawan’s abilities, but not of the havoc he wreaks with them.

“Hmm, that might be cutting it close,” You pretend to debate it, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, and he lets out a laugh as warm as the runoff heat from his saber with none of the bite of its blade.

“You’d occupy yourself with me for hours?” He teases, but when you nod, it’s earnest.

“I’d occupy myself with you for the rest of my life, Obi-Wan.”

The breath that he draws in when you begin speaking is the last one he draws for a while. Instead he holds it there, letting it burn and sear at his lungs while he wonders if any words he could produce with it would contain even a fraction of the yearning he feels roll over him in a nauseating wave. Very little has ever made him want the life of a civilian - his home is between the opulent walls of the Jedi temple, but any walls he shared with you would be infinitely more grandiose if only for your place within them.

“Had you said the word,” He elects to speak the truth, even if it isn’t even a chip away at the trove of feelings he keeps locked tightly away in his mind for you, “I would have left the Jedi Order.”

Would have.

You know why he won’t now, and you’re not upset with him for the reasons. You understand them, even if you don’t relate to them.

“But Anakin…”

“I know,” You nod against his chest, fingers taking hold of his undershirt’s fabric edge and fastening there, “You made a promise to your master. And to him. And he needs your help. I wouldn’t ask you to leave.”

“Would you have? When we were younger,” He idly strokes down the length of your spine, arm wrapping comfortably around your waist.

“Maybe…” You admit, “Maybe if I’d known your trip to Naboo would bring about such change. Maybe if I’d known I only had a few years left with you as we were. But I didn’t. So I never asked. And I never will.”

He doesn’t react verbally or physically after your confession, but the silence that ensues isn’t an awkward one. Instead, he maintains his hold on you, and you feel a gentle wave of affection flow from him through the Force. Affection, appreciation, love, which you feel so broadly through the Force, but rarely so devoted to you yourself rather than the galaxy in its entirety. You’re no stranger to the feeling, but it’s different channeled privately between two people than it is as a way of life.

“Let us pretend,” Obi-Wan finally musters, his voice thicker than usual, though if you were not so in tune with him you wouldn’t have perceived it, “For the next few fleeting moments, that we are still young. That we don’t have responsibilities other than those to ourselves, and to each other.”

Though your youth may have escaped you, your mind weary with resignation and Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened with the perpetual exhaustion of adulthood, his touch does not feel tired or incapable. It feels strong, firm, and mindful where it slips from your chin to your waist. His other hand sandwiches you between them, and you’re tilting your chin up to kiss him before he gives any indication that he’ll do the same. But he does, his boldness almost reset from the interruption you’d suffered. Like you need to coax him out of his shell again, like he’s worried you’ve somehow changed your mind.

You take the back of his neck in your hand, finding it slick and tacky with sour-smelling sweat, and pull him down so that his lips smash messily to your own. It’s a move he’s not expecting, and a startled groan escapes his lips as proof. You drink it, sucking it down your throat and pulling him towards the bed with the same backwards momentum. He’s nimble even if he’s unprepared, probably to do with his extensive agility training. You’re more than ready to fall back onto your bed when your calves butt against the frame but he lowers you down gently, with ease, drawing back from your kiss despite your fervent protests to watch you look up at him.

“Obi-Wan,” You beg, your voice weary, “Why are you hesitating?”

“I’m not hesitating,” He answers, and you feel it to be truthful, “I’m admiring you, darling. I’m not unsure, I’m more sure than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Prove it,” You plead, already pulling at the hem of your tank top. You peel its sweat-soaked binding off of your skin, showcasing the equally stained garment beneath it that keeps your chest closer to your neck than your stomach, “Please, Obi-Wan, take me like you want me. Not like you feel bad for having me.”

“I do not feel bad for having you,” He promises, mouth barely parting from yours to utter the words. His lips are pink-tinted, glistening with spit, probably a mixture of his and yours. He pants slightly, cheeks similarly ruddy, “Perhaps later I will. When I stand in front of the Council and tell them we conducted routine maintenance. When I lie, when I guard my memories of you from them. But I’m not occupied with that now, darling. Only with you, I swear it.”

“Oh, well, that’s good to know,” You hum, kissing an inch lower than his mouth, the apex of his chin that’s marred by the scruff of his beard. It’s prickly and rough beneath your lips, and when you draw back they glisten with transferred sweat, “I’m glad you’re not thinking of Master Yoda while dipping a knee between my thighs.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan ducks his head, advances on pause as he plants his forehead against your shoulder, “That’s awful. Really, truly vile.”

You laugh, and despite his disgusted bravado, so does he. His chest shakes against yours and you relish the sound, hand still planted firmly on the back of his neck. You briefly consider breaking out your rusty Yoda impression, ‘kiss me, you must’, but decide against it, instead choosing to press his head closer to your torso, letting his forehead lay flush and sweaty against your shoulder. It puts the scruff of his beard on the curve of your tits, and you feel it burn your skin as he kisses along it lightly. 

His mouth is soft, and his beard is its abrasive opposite. They trail in tandem along the slope of your breasts, first the soft lips and then the burn of the beard, until he’s lit a fiery trail across your skin to the padded edge of your bra. When his lips meet fabric instead of skin he noses beneath it, surely smelling a morning’s worth of sweat accumulated beneath the weight of your chest. You’re self conscious, for only a flash, then he takes a deep drag of air, inhaling until his chest seems fit to burst.

“I’m sorry,” You find yourself humming, regardless of his clear interest, “I wish a shower would help. Even the cold water doesn’t prevent sweating.”

“I don’t want you to shower,” He muses, pushing his face between your breasts to kiss at the skin between them. He mouths gently, tongue sliding over your skin with little form and too much spit that blends well with your sweat, “Sex is not sterile, darling. Soap and water defeat the purpose.”

You’re not sure whether it’s his insistence on the natural state of your body or the way that his knee gently prods against your center, but whatever it is, your fingers itch and you fling them up to cup the underside of your chest.

“Take it off,” You beg, and Obi-Wan shows no hesitation in complying, his hands sliding beneath your back, rough and weathered from work. They’re gentle as they slide over the clasp of your bra, and you push yourself up onto your elbows on the mattress so that he can maneuver the stretchy fabric easier.

“Does it hook or button?” He nudges his nose against yours to ask, and your stomach flops at the question. Both the fact that he doesn’t have enough experience to know, and the way that he feels comfortable enough admitting that to you by asking so earnestly only make you want him more, and you’re barely able to mumble ‘clasp’ before pressing your lips to his own once more.

“Three,” You add later, against his lips, when he unhooks one and still doesn’t have the garment undone, “There’s three.”

He takes your orders with unfailing patience, a trait you’d admired even in your youth. While you’d been more prone to hotheaded outbursts, he’d take you by the arm and speak for the both of you, usually resulting in far less severe of a punishment than you’d have gotten if you’d spoken your mind. Then the two of you would share sneaky, fleeting glances at each other while scrubbing the floors of the refectory, trying not to laugh loud enough for the Knight unwillingly supervising your punishment to hear.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when he finally unhooks the garment and slips it off of your shoulders, meaning you have to draw back from where you’d tucked your face over his shoulder, giving him a view of his work. As your faces pass each other he offers you the same grin he’d worn all those years ago, his pretty eyes alight with the love you feel seeping from his fingertips. You see a glimpse of the boy he was through the man he’s become, and both are equally endearing to you. The first, because you’d grown with him, like ferns tangled together in sticky, clinging tendrils. The second, because he wears his accomplishments on his face, crows feet at the corners of his eyes from laughing at his padawan’s wayward antics, and frown lines for scowling at the same incidences only moments prior. He’d laughed at you in your youth, and frowned just the same at your more uncouth ideas for adventure, and now those expressions are etched into his face, like layers of makeup no longer dissolvable with remover. He’ll wear them forever, and you want to see him display them even in his old age.

He watches the way that your body moves when he peels the sweat-soaked garment away from your chest. He watches your breasts succumb to gravity’s harsh pull, sloping sideways and downwards rather than maintaining their tight compress towards your chin. He watches them sag, watches them fall to their natural state and declares, “You’re beautiful, darling.”

He takes them in his hands, their mass in his palms as he rolls his thumb over the skin of your nipples. They’d usually pebble in the cold but now they’re pulling taut beneath his touch, and when he brushes his thumb over their peak you stifle a gasp.

“Beautiful,” He repeats, and leans down to meet one with his mouth. He gravitates towards the right one first, and the embrace of his hot mouth against your skin tempts your back to arch. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, then drags up its surface, and his lips kiss over the stripe of saliva he’d left behind.

His beard rubs against your skin and it’s not rawing, not yet, but you know it will be the more he mouths at your breast. He’s licking, sucking, pulling, but never biting, teeth merely grazing your flesh rather than indulging in it. His tongue does that instead, flattening out over your raised flesh and dragging hot, wet stripes over the bud of your perked nipple.

“Obi- Obi-Wan,” You gasp, dragging desperate, heaving breaths into your lungs as your hands fly to his lengthened hair. You’d ruffled it many times when it was short and spiked, but now you’re able to get purchase in the strawberry-blonde locks, curling your fingers around the soft, sweat-darkened strands and pulling. 

You don’t pull hard, but it’s unexpected, and you feel the momentary pinch of Obi-Wan’s teeth around your breast. It floods heat to your already-pulsing core more than you’d have thought possible, considering the sweltering temperatures you’ve been in the whole time, but the soft groan that then ripples through your skin from the depths of his throat only makes you more desperate. All of a sudden the long-suffering heat is tepid by comparison, and you yank at the material of his undershirt so hard you nearly rip the fabric.

“Off,” You pant, “Please, take it- get it off, Obi-Wan.”

In a fluid, crouched movement Obi-Wan tears his undershirt off with one hand at its hem, his muscles flexing as he swings the arm up and over his head. He discards the shirt carelessly beneath him and it droops to the floor, no longer covering the bare skin of his chest that you’d admired earlier.

You have half a mind to do to him what he’s been doing to you, to sink your teeth into the flesh of his chest and suckle on his sweat-soaked skin. But he dips his face back to mouth at your tit once more, so you settle for running your hands greedily, desperately over the layer of soft skin that blocks his muscled chest from view. When he was younger, what seems like an eternity but must only be five years, his build was more defined. You’d gotten plenty of eyefuls of his bare, heaving chest during a particularly intense sparring match, or down by one of the large pools that were definitely supposed to be used more for reflection and tranquility rather than the chaos you’d wreaked upon them. But years of planning someone else’s schedule before his own has meant that he’s softened out around the middle, muscles still prominent when you dig your fingers into his skin, just not starkly visible anymore.

Age does that to a person; pushes them harder than ever before to achieve a less-defined result than they’re used to, but you find that you want to grind down onto the thin layer of pudge he’s accumulated just as much as you’d have wanted to drag yourself over his defined abs. The thought of doing both, either, anything makes you dizzy with desire that you express by scratching your sharpened nails down his skin, feeling his muscles shudder beneath your fingers.

“Darling,” He groans, choking on the word like it’s gagged him, “I- I think we ought to- are you ready?”

You marvel at his sincerity, at the idea that he’s not aware of the throbbing, slick mess that your core has become. You’d been ready twenty minutes ago, sprawled out on the floor beneath him, and you’ve only gotten more eager since then. His concern makes you want him more, and you use your grip on his soft hair to tug him upwards to meet your lips in a kiss. 

“I’m ready,” You breathe, laying the words out in a hazy moan over his tongue, “I’m ready, Obi-Wan, please- please take me.”

A groan melts from his mouth like molten butter, dripping over your tongue and down your throat. He pants, lets you suck his tongue into your mouth in a long, eager drag, then mumbles clumsily, “I want you. I want- I want to have you, darling, I want to take you.” His hips roll experimentally against your own, the tight pressure of his clothed cock digging into your panties as he nearly loses the function in the muscles that are holding him up above you.

He lets out another moan as you drag your hips up to meet his premature thrusts, and this time it’s a weaker sound, more strangled and mottled. It’s satisfying, knowing that you’ve reduced the ever-stoic, prized Jedi negotiator Obi-Wan Kenobi to a heaving mass of sweat and desire. His undershorts are rucked up around his meaty thighs, but he hasn’t yanked them off to free his stiff cock yet, so for a moment, all you do is grind against each other. 

The layers of clothing between you, one covering you and two covering him, provide frustrating boundaries but much-needed friction, and the scrape of his rough undershorts dragging against your thin panties makes your fingers curl into his back once more. You suspect that when he wakes tomorrow, your marks will still be there, and you take pride in knowing that he’ll have a very hard time forgetting you.

“Obi-” You really do intend to say his full name, but your breath leaves your lungs too quickly for it, and you revert back to the nickname he’d loathed as a teenager. Too juvenile, he’d protested greatly at the clipped diminutive, but he leans into it now. He licks the word right off of your tongue, his own plunging past your lips and dragging over your teeth in a messy, imprecise fashion. You get the sense that this is not about sex to him, it’s not about mechanics or equations or the perfect formula. It’s about you, and him, and you and him together. He doesn’t kiss you like a storybook prince because he kisses you like Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan wants to lick the spit out of your mouth and suck on your tongue. Obi-Wan wants to feel, not think, for once in his life, so he does.

“Obi-” You falter again, hands traveling from his muscled back to his hips. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his undershorts, then his briefs where they lay against the same stretch of skin, “Off. Off, please- Obi-Wan, off, take ‘em- off.”

He grunts his approval into your mouth, obscene squelching sounds coming from where his spit pools between your teeth and your tongue. He reaches down with a blind, clumsy hand to tug at his waistband, but when it doesn’t provide immediate results, he finds himself getting frustrated. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, not the frustration itself but his inability to control it, and he feels his brow crease in irritation as he reluctantly parts from your mouth to focus on the task at hand. All he needs is a little extra leverage to slide his shorts off of his waist, briefs bunched together, and as soon as they’re out of his way he’s reaching for your own underwear.

You crane your neck downwards to watch him, and the glimmering mess of saliva in your mouth practically doubles in volume at the sight of his red-tipped, rock-hard cock. It’s curved slightly up towards his stomach in its desperation, and there’s precum oozing from its tip, foaming and all too appealing. You want to suck him off again, to really choke yourself on it this time and never draw back for air, but there’s no time when he tugs swiftly at the elastic band of your panties, tearing them easily away from you. They drag beneath your thighs but he merely pulls harder, until they spring free and bunch up around your knees.

“Up,” Obi-Wan taps at your left thigh, and you struggle to bend your knees amidst their relentless trembling. He helps you, strength having stuck with him even when composure has abandoned its post. You get your left thigh up first, exposing your glistening cunt, smeared sticky with your own slick. His breath catches, you feel it stutter to a stop in his chest that you’re groping, and his eyes glimmer in the warm lights above you.

“Darling,” He breathes, taken by the mess of your drooling cunt. He reaches out, touches it carefully, with only the pad of his pointer finger. He ghosts it along the side of your slit, and even the infuriatingly chaste touch is ultra erotic. At the way you writhe beneath a single one of his fingers he brings his thumb up to stroke down your slit, catching wetness on his thumb that his mouth opens to accommodate.

He sucks your release clean off of his thumb, you’re almost certain he scrapes his teeth along his skin just to get it all. 

He leans into his own thumb, chases after it like he’s not the one taking it out of his mouth. He hesitates no further in clamoring backwards on the mattress until his knees hit the floor below, and he thanks the Force that the beds you were given are low enough for him to lean over the edge and bury his face in your cunt.

“Obi-Wan, no!” You plead, fingers tangling in his pretty blonde hair, “You’ll- you said- don’t cum yet, please, I- I want it in me!”

“I will cum in you,” He pledges, voice deep and determined as he nudges his nose against your wet cunt, “My darling, I’ll do whatever you ask. But I need you here, now. Please,” He breathes, his exhale shaky and warm as it heats your cunt, “Please, Darling, I want you here.”

“Have me,” You whimper, squirming your hips from side to side to propel yourself down the mattress. Your cunt bumps messily against his face that he doesn’t bother moving, and you buck your hips once, twice against his nose, riding his face, “Please, have me, Obi-Wan, you can have me.”

Your consent is all it takes. His mouth is open and his tongue is out the second you say the word, licking wet, tantalizingly slow stripes up your slit. He doesn’t breach it, doesn’t delve his tongue into your entrance, he laps at the slick smeared on the outside, as well as the wetness that has thoroughly soaked your thighs. Your skin is tacky with it even when he’s replaced it with his spit, and your cunt throbs at the meticulous approach he’s taken to appreciating every drop you give him. 

It’s too meticulous. 

After another slow, careful, nearly chaste lave of his tongue over the crease between your thigh and your cunt, probably just as soaked with sweat as it is with slick, you retighten your now-loose grip in his hair. You’d let go of the strands when he’d given you what you wanted, but now you want more, and you lead him straight to your core where he’d been lapping at your thighs instead.

“Here,” You beg, pulling his face against your drooling cunt until you’re certain he’s unable to breathe. You feel his nose breach your slit, nudged into your cunt by your insistent tugging on his hair.

“I need you here, inside, please.” You beg, pussy aching with abandon. His slow, careful ministrations had driven you mad, and now you are teetering on the edge of insanity as you nearly howl, “Please!”

His response is white-hot and wet. His tongue prods gently from between his lips as his jaw widens, and he watches your reaction as he fills your cunt with his slick tongue. A gush of your own wetness greets him, and as insistent as he is at meeting your eyes, his own flutter shut at the taste.

“Force,” He breathes, and the exclamation is uncommon from him. The muffled, garbled word sends vibrations straight into your cunt, and after the initial shock of his tongue inside of you, you feel his beard.

It scrapes abrasively against the sensitive, licked-over skin of your inner thighs, and prickles deliciously at the base of your leaking cunt. You feel sharp hairs prod at the curve of your ass, and his mouth moves fluidly, tongue wriggling with surprising prowess through the mess of slick you’ve accumulated in your cunt. It slides wetly along your inner walls that have made way for his tongue, and that will stretch eagerly to accommodate his cock. 

His cock, oh, you’d forgotten the thick weight on your tongue, and your jaw aches with the ghost of it. Your cunt aches, too, and when his nose softly bumps your clit you gasp as your hips jolt upwards. He catches your thighs with Jedi agility, his muscles not straining at all to hold you to the mattress. The casual, easy display of strength makes your thighs quiver, and something inside of you tighten like a knot.

He licks you out like he’s drinking ambrosia, the glistening substance smeared over his face and starting up the bridge of his nose. The noises that he makes are hungry and wild as he licks more, sucks more, takes more. He’d moderated himself at first, lapped the sticky spillings of your wet cunt like he was rationing a meal. Now he feasts, tongue losing focus from inside your pussy and rapidly licking over your clit. His lips suction on and his beard burns tantalizingly at your sloppy cunt. You feel stimulation everywhere, the knot below your belly tightening ever-stronger until you feel the beginnings of a fray. It’s a step you take, an incline that you scramble up, and each pedestal you achieve gives way to a higher one. You let yourself climb, climb, climb, against every pulse of his suctioned lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you breach the clouds as Obi-Wan broadens his sucking mouth to half-latch to your clit, his tongue delving back into your drooling cunt. You leap for the final pedestal and a surge of pleasure hits you, soaking wet like a wave that you ride back down to the surface. 

You tremble, you whimper, you love. Your thighs shake, the muscles in your stomach stuttering as your hips jolt and jerk. Your mouth produces such feeble sounds, whines and moans and ‘Oh, please, yes’s, and ‘Obi-Wan- kriff!’s. Your fingers in his hair latch tight but cling gentle, holding him to you as you lose control of yourself in the Force. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the attachment, all of the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-un-Jedi-like things that you’re not supposed to feel surge through the Force and hit Obi-Wan like Coruscant’s train, knocking the wind out of him, though he never stops sucking at you.

Obi-Wan licks you through your orgasm, tongue pressing tight and hot and wet to the quiver of your cunt, letting it spasm against his mouth. He sucks up every last drop of slick that you’ll give him, greedily mouthing at your cunt long after it’s begun stinging from oversensitivity. You want his mouth off, and his cock in, although that first part sounds like a heinous thing to wish for. His tongue is perfection, slippery and knowing you well enough to hit just the right spots even though it’s never had you before. You only push his mouth away to beg for his cock, but you’re tempted to let him white out your vision and lick at you until he passes out.

“Obi-!” You gasp, pushing instead of pulling at his golden hair, “Obi-Wan, no- no more! Here, up- here, please, and I want you inside of me.”

He lets you unlatch him from your pulsing cunt, rife with the sting of stimulation. You need only a matter of seconds to come down from your high, but they’re seconds you can’t afford to spend on Obi-Wan’s tongue, or the clock won’t ever start. He licks at a smear of slick over your thigh that he’d missed earlier, and his brain seems to register your begging.

“Alright, darling,” He pants, out of breath from the way he’d spent it all in your cunt. His voice is ragged, drowned in slick and thick with want.

He clamors back onto the mattress, all humbly-forged muscles and greed. He hovers over you, and dips down to claim your mouth the way he had your cunt: with broad, sweeping swipes of his tongue. He licks your slick across your tongue, letting you taste yourself on him.

“I’m here,” He soothes, his voice a notch deeper than usual and his words malformed due to the open ring of his mouth. He licks against your tongue once more, sloppy and hot, as his hips grind down against your thigh. He knows you need time but he doesn’t have long, and he grinds against your hip until you’re ready. You feel his stiff cock digging into your flesh, and it sends pulses of energy to your recovering cunt that make it beg to be filled. He’s not composed the way that he normally is, but he’s managing to hold himself together through grunts and groans into your mouth. If you don’t act fast, he’s going to splatter your stomach with cum, which wouldn’t be distasteful by any means, but you’d rather him paint your insides with it.

“You are intoxicating,” Obi-Wan proclaims, speaking directly into your mouth, an addict that can’t wean off of his drug, “I don’t know how I am supposed to pretend like this never happened.”

“Don’t,” You beg breathlessly, “Don’t forget me. Keep quiet around others, and- and when you are alone,” You reach down to take his cock into your hands, heavy and thick and waiting, “When you lay in bed at night, when you touch yourself-” He lets out something teetering on the edge of a whimper as you stroke your hand along his flushed length, an angry red coloring the tip that exposes how much self-control he’s composing, “-touch yourself, and- and think of me. Think of my hands, of my mouth, of my cunt. Think of me, Obi-Wan.”

“I will,” He vows, his voice holding like a frayed rope with one thread remaining, strained and pulling and clinging together, “Please let me have you. Please,” He braces his forehead against yours, his cock throbbing in your palm, “Please darling, let me in. I want to be inside of you, I want to have you, please.”

You’ve never seen him babble before. Not when he’d been seven years old, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, caught with a stray tooka cat in his robes halfway back to the creche. Not when he’d been fifteen and a warrior, his side split open in a gory mess of blood and flesh and lymph and bone. Not at his old master’s funeral, the light from the pyre’s flames dancing upon his stoic features. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a master at composure, but he is breathless now, sacrificing it to the dewy-warm crease where your neck meets your shoulder, and sucking up your sweat-salty scent in return.

You place your free hand on his back, sticky and flushed beneath your touch, and use it to help guide him into you. Your other hand, still wrapped around his cock, lines it up with your entrance and he needs little coaxing from there. He pushes himself into you slowly, courteously, but loses himself to some deep, primal urge that he’s buried beneath layers of meditation and balance. 

He comes undone.

His muscles surge and his hips buck in what begins as a steady pace, but transforms into a wild rhythm that pins you against the mattress. He lets out a groan into the sweaty juncture of your neck, something that sounds like it could be from a beast and not a man. You feel the scrape of his beard against the seldom-touched skin there and you’re sure it’s growing raw, but you couldn’t care less. He’s not holding your hips up - his hands are plastered to your side and holding you there with a force carefully and pointedly short of bruising - but you angle your pelvis up anyway, allowing him to hit that much deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock never hurts where it connects briefly each thrust with your cervix, but you feel it intimately, every vein and ridge and curve that his body has to offer. 

You’re grateful for the sound-proof walls of the military compound because you realize after a moment that you’re making noise just the same as he is. It’s softer, quieter, but it’s there, the underlying harmony to his leading grunts and groans. 

All the while he is soft and gentle, because what he wants is not sex, it is you. Perhaps if he were a lesser man, he’d squeeze you, or bend you, or break you, all to take you the way he wants. But it is the soul inside of you that he’s after, and he takes great care with the vessel it’s enclosed in. He holds you, but he does not squeeze you. He kisses you, but he does not bite you. He moves with you, not against you. Your hips surge upwards to meet the thrusts of his cock and he latches his mouth to yours desperately, pleadingly. Your breathing is short and staccato through your nose, fanning against his top lip as he mashes it messily to your own, and you’re much easier to bring to a climax the second time around, sensitivity still roiling in your blood from your previous orgasm.

“Obi-Wan,” You beg, the words spilling languidly into his mouth, as you move in tandem, in, out, in, out, forwards, backwards, everything, nothing.

“Obi- I’m gonna- ooh, I’m gonna cum,” You cry, overwhelmed by the consistent drag of his cock against the walls of your soaked cunt. You’re slick again, gushing enough to replenish however much Obi-Wan had licked out of you. It squelches as he drives his dick into your pussy, foamy from the repetitive motions that are only creating it at faster intervals.

“Please- please do,” He moans, his dick twitching inside of you, “Force, I- ah, there’s nothing I want more than to feel that, darling. Please- please cum, please-”

“Kiss me,” You plead, even though he’s never stopped, if the way that his mouth moves against yours can still be considered a kiss. It’s far from any conventional peck on the lips, mostly tongue and drool that seeps down the side of your mouth and into your neck, mixing with the sweat already lingering there from your workout.

He tries kissing you more neatly, his lips tightening and suctioning around your own, but the closer you both get to your impending orgasms, the sloppier his thrusts are, and the more slack his mouth goes, smothering your own instead of truly kissing it while his tongue continues its dogged pursuit of your own. It’s no matter; his spit leaks uncontrollably into your mouth and you relish the taste. You don’t need perfection, you need him.

You can’t help your wandering hand from snaking down to his waist, curving just below his cock to cradle his balls against your palm. They’re heavy and warm as you take them into your hand, and doing so elicits a gasp from the man chasing his release inside of you, his hips stuttering in their pursuit of the wet warmth of your cunt. You squeeze them, not harshly, just a gentle compression, and Obi-Wan melts. A whimper escapes his lips, still slack and pressed to your own, and though his thrusts momentarily slow, they resume at double the pace. He’s rapidly bucking his hips now, barely containing himself enough to lift one hand off of your side and bring it to your chest. He fits his palm over one of your breasts, your stiff, sensitive nipple caving against his palm. You gasp at the prickling sensation and your fingernails momentarily dig into his back, but when his dick twitches once more inside of you, desperate, fit-to-burst, you drag them down his back in searing red lines.

If you hadn’t been able to feel Obi-Wan cum inside of you, you’d have known it was happening from the cry he releases alone. It’s abrupt, like his orgasm catches him off-guard even though he’s been pursuing it. But you can feel it, you can feel his warm cum ooze out of the head of his cock, momentarily stationary as it’s snug against your cervix. You feel it gush from his dick, filling any and all available space in your pulsating cunt before flooding outwards, dripping down your ass and thighs in an obscene display that soaks right into your bedsheets. Obi-Wan rides out his climax at a pace rapid enough to coax your second one out of you, and you welcome the now-familiar sensation of cumming around Obi-Wan. It’s mind-numbing, your ears ring for a faint moment, and your cunt rapidly clenches and unclenches around his cock that’s all too happy to continue occupying the space.

He grunts, moans, and groans as his sloppy thrusts finally slow, and your cunt appreciates the reduced pace. You’re well and truly spent, difficult to achieve for someone who’d gone through endurance training since childhood, and you’re not surprised that Obi-Wan, too, needs a break. He lowers himself to your chest with a slow, shaky exhale, eyes closed and face glistening with sweat just as your own does. 

His beard grates roughly against your skin, shifted with every ragged breath that he draws in. His hair spills over the breast that his mouth isn’t nestled beside, and you stare down at his face, marveling how beautiful his barely-fluttering lashes and heaving chest are.

Before he opens his eyes he angles it towards you, so that the first thing he sees is your flushed, sweaty, open-mouthed expression. He’s in the perfect position to kiss the side of your breast, and it tingles with the phantom sensation of his palm flat against your perked nipple barely minutes before. His beard scrapes your skin like it has since you first kissed him, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to live happily without the scratch of it against your cheeks, or thighs, for that matter. The skin between your legs is still raw, stinging with the friction of Obi-Wan’s coarse hair against your flesh..

“You look beautiful, darling,” He hums, his voice grated raw from fatigue. His breath fans hot over your chest, but he pushes himself up on his tired biceps to hover over you. His weight against you had been comforting, but his gaze is even more so, and you let him loom over you.

His chest, peppered with auburn curls so fine they glisten in the poor lighting of your quarters, rises and falls deeply in front of you. You have half a mind to bury your face in it; you might if his face wasn’t impossibly more captivating.

His eyes search yours, for what you’re not sure, but you realize that his breathing gets more shallow until his chest stills completely. He only releases his breath when you reach up to thumb gently at his sternum, loosening his lungs again.

“Do you regret it?”

You suppose you didn’t have to ruin the moment so harshly, but you want to know the truth. You want to know if this was worth it, or if you’re going on the list of regrets that Obi-Wan pours over obsessively.

He takes a moment to answer, but you suspect it’s because he’s been caught off guard by your question. He shakes his head, dipping his face down to kiss the swell of your cheek.

“No, I don’t.” He mumbles against the dewy skin of your face, hiding his words there in self-preservation. You kiss the fleeting scruff of his beard as he pulls away, and your eyes find the blue of his instantly.

“You needed convincing at first,” You recall warily, something sinking in your chest now that you’re not puppettered by lust, “Are you certain it was the right thing to do?”

“Not at all,” He admits, “In fact, I think it was wrong of me. But I’ve done it anyways, and I am happy for that.”

“Why wrong?” You ghost your knuckles against his cheek, and he leans into it like he used to do when you’d clean scrapes and cuts he’d acquire while sparring. 

“I am more attached to you now than ever,” He offers simply, but it doesn’t seem like it pains him to confess. He seems lighter now, less embroiled in his own anxiety.  “And I’m not certain I can keep my personal feelings- well, personal. I don’t know that I could think rationally about you. That’s not desirable to the Order, or to the war effort.”

You bite your tongue, teeth digging softly into its muscle.

“All the same,” He continues, “Jedi are not without attachments. Younglings form friendships in the creche, and their minders love them. Padawans love their Masters, and vice versa. Masters engage in relations,” He acknowledges, then his brows tick up and he considers, “Ki Adi Mundi has four wives. Perhaps I’m not the most blasphemous Jedi they’ve ever seen.”

A laugh comes tumbling from your lips before you can stop it, and Obi-Wan’s face softens into a grin of his own.

“Five,” You correct him, “He has five wives.”

“Force, he’s a heretic,” Obi-Wan exclaims, but it’s all for show; he holds no ill opinions of the council member.

“I’m happy for his wives,” You hum, the sound just short of a giggle, “But I prefer your beard over his.”

“Oh, but he’s got a better mustache than me,” Obi-Wan settles on his side facing you, a smile etched permanently into his features as he plays along with the banter you’ve started. He relishes its lighthearted nature compared to the hesitance of moments prior, “Maybe I should grow it out and curl it like his.”

Before you can offer him another round in exchange for a promise to never shape his facial hair around Master Mundi’s, the walls of your compound give a creaky grinding sound, then a rumble, and air whooshes through the vents you’ve come to loathe for their uselessness in the recent past.

“He did it!” You gawk, sitting up excitedly, nearly forgetting that you’re topless, “Oh Force, Anakin’s a wizard! He really is, he’s a mechanical wizard, and I’m going to buy him a speeder for this.”

“Do not,” Obi-Wan groans, sitting up beside you and tugging you easily to fit your back against his chest, “The last thing that boy needs is the ability to go faster.”

“He did it,” You sigh happily, leaning back and pressing your lips to Obi-Wan’s. He reciprocates easily now, unlike before when he’d run himself ragged with doubts.

“That means we’ll be off soon,” Obi-Wan reminds you gently, and you deflate slightly in his hold, “But I don’t think comming each other should be any issue.”

“Every night?” You suggest, kissing at the prickly cleft of his chin.

“That’s- ambitious.” He chuckles, but it’s not meant to tease, “Every night, darling.”

“You can send me dirty videos,” You gush, scrambling to free yourself from Obi-Wan’s hold when he tries locking his fingers onto your sides, nipping sharply at your shoulder.

“I will not!” He insists, voice firm but chest trembling with barely-withheld laughter, “Force, if I pressed the wrong button…”

“Perhaps Master Mundi could share it with one of his wives,” You laugh, scrambling back into your underclothes and heading for the fresher to clean yourself up, “Hurry up and get dressed, Obi-Wan, one of my troopers is probably on their way to tell us the good news!”

Your suspicions are confirmed only moments later, thankfully, after you’ve both had time to right your appearances. You look flushed and sweaty, if anything, but the cool air hasn’t managed to flood the entire compound yet, and you’ve been exercising, so it’s excusable. No one but you two needs to know that exercising didn’t mean sparring for longer than ten minutes.

“Anakin, you’re fantastic,” You call, rushing through the empty hangar where he’s standing near the ramp of the ship, “You’ve saved us all. I’m fairly certain my troops would have resorted to fratricide if we’d had to melt here for any longer.”

The padawan gives you a valiant effort at a polite chuckle, and you press on, “For the record, I told your master I’d get you a speeder for helping us today, but he said no.”

“Y/N,” Obi-Wan starts, exasperated, but catches himself on the use of your first name. Perhaps it feels different now, coming out of his mouth much more measured than it had only twenty minutes prior. He doesn’t speak further.

Anakin’s eyes briefly glint at the fantasy of his own speeder, but he controls himself quickly. He’s a credit to his master, who manages to look convincingly like he hadn’t just broken a very long streak of celibacy. Still, you appreciate that war hasn’t managed to suck the most basic of excitements out of the child, and you reach up to pat his cheek in a gesture distinctly un-Jedi like. 

“Take care of yourself, and don’t let Obi-Wan bore you with a million lectures on economics, or politics, or the two combined.”

Anakin nods, but bites his lower lip to refrain from smirking, saving himself a lecture on sass later on. You hear Obi-Wan exhale huffily behind you, and you turn your attention to him when Anakin retreats onto the ship.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t add to my apprentice’s willfulness,” He grouses, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in fondness for you both, “He’s got enough of that on his own.”

“Take care of yourself,” You ignore his teasing, your voice tender and sweet, slightly more than it had been for Anakin, “I know they don’t send you out much, because he’s only fourteen, but- but please take care of yourself, Obi-Wan.”

Perhaps if Anakin hadn’t been lingering on the ramp of the ship, perhaps if there weren’t five clone troopers stationed in the hangar, perhaps if you were the only two people in the world, like it had felt less than an hour ago, Obi-Wan would have kissed you. But he doesn’t, all he does is nod, 

“We will,” He vows, and you nod, satisfied.

“I mean it,” You continue, more threatening than your earlier sentiment, “Comm me.” And you think back to the request you’d made earlier, breathlessly, the words fanning out against his sweaty skin, “And… think of me.”

You know he’s recalling the same moment in time when his cheeks tinge pink.

“I will,” He promises, singular this time, confirming your suspicions that his mind is flashing with visions of your flushed skin beneath his hands, “And please take care of yourself, too, General.”

Something hard and aching tugs at the back of your throat at the honorific, such a far cry from the intimacy you’d shared. But now you are General Y/L/N, and he is Master Kenobi, and that is the way things must be in the presence of others.

“Master Kenobi,” You bow, bending at the waist and noting the soft tug of soreness there.

“General Y/L/N,” Obi-Wan mimics your gesture, hands folded neatly into the sleeves of his robes.

He turns. He pivots on his feet and strides up the ramp of the ship they’d taken, Anakin waiting until he’s passed through the doorway to follow behind him. The door hisses shut, concealing them both, and the mechanical whiz-kid has the engines powered up in no time. You watch their ship take flight and navigate the narrow entrance to your hangar with ease, waiting until they’ve passed each temperature-isolating layer of defense that enshroud your compound and disappear into the planet’s heat-hazy atmosphere to turn away.

“General,” One of your troopers lingers behind you, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” You put on a convincing show, smiling serenely, “I’d just forgotten how much of a challenge sparring with Master Kenobi is. I’m fatigued; I think I’ll retire to my quarters for some rest.”

“General,” He nods, stating your title like a vow of loyalty, standing at attention as the hangar doors finally shut you in. 

You walk the familiar path to your sparse quarters absentmindedly, feeling that same twinge of achiness each time you take a step. Only once your door hisses shut do you release the prim tension in your shoulders, slumping and slouching like you’d just escaped the throes of battle. 

There is a shirt on your bed.

It’s white, though it’s been worn thoroughly, so the color is muddied ever so slightly with the tan tinge of sweat. It’s rumpled, from a hasty removal. It’s laid over your poor excuse for a blanket, cream-colored against the starkly contrasting black fabric. It’s impossible to miss, which means it had to have been placed there deliberately; it wasn’t forgotten.

It’s Obi-Wan’s.

You overcome your momentary stun and pad towards the bed, reaching for the shirt with a hesitant hand. You take it, feel it ever-so-slightly damp with lingering perspiration, and your stomach flips.

It’s Obi-Wan’s; it’s yours.

The shirt winds up snug around your pillow, tucked beneath the Republic-issue linen. It’s invisible to the outside eye, but when your nose is pressed gauchely into the pillowcase you can smell Obi-Wan through it, a mix of natural and artificial scents.

The musk of cologne and the acrid smell of sweat. Composure and lust. What is right and what is wrong.

You and Obi-Wan.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[supernovasilence]

narnia au where their parents were with them at the train station during the beginning of Prince Caspian. To say goodbye to them. Their parents being a little bit clingy(ptsd and overprotectiveness) wanted to both see them off on the train. The parents accidentally end up in Narnia with them. Shenanigans abound. Just imagine these two proper British parents having to deal with the fact that a magical talking lion made their children Kings and Queens, and they were for 15 years in Narnia, Narnia in general, watching their children fight and command armies, Caspian, and the fact that their kids are not really children anymore. Also Mrs and Mr Pevensies having to rely on their children in this unfamiliar place.

ooh yes, there is definitely untapped potential in Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie ending up in Narnia. They would struggle so much with everything. Why are there talking animals and trees and water. Why won't our children listen to us. Who gave our tiny daughter a dagger. Why are her siblings acting like Lucy having a dagger is fine.

Also, if they tag along from the start of PC, they would quickly meet Trumpkin, and I'm laughing so hard at the thought. Because he's also a pretty skeptical person, but they'd have different ideas of what counts as reasonable.

Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie: a real dwarf? How is he here? How did we get here?

Lucy: oh, Aslan probably summoned us.

Trumpkin: the magical king lion? don't be ridiculous. everyone knows there haven't been talking lions in Narnia in centuries

Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie: but other animals talking is normal

Trumpkin: obviously

Also the battle at the end? There are very serious thoughts to be had about the parents seeing their children all grown up, and realizing how capable they are (and mourning a little at how much responsibility they've obviously had to shoulder so young. they sent their children to the countryside to give them as much childhood as they could, and instead war found them. war and greater burdens than they would have had back home), but I keep getting distracted trying to decide which would be funnier, the book or the movie version.

Movie:

Mr. and Mrs. P: Lucy's not riding into battle! None of you should, but especially her!

Peter: don't be ridiculous

Peter: she's riding alone into the forest to find a lion

Or there's the book version of events, where Peter, Edmund, and Caspian fight in the battle while Susan and Lucy are off riding around on a lion, and literal Bacchus shows up with Silenus and a bunch of maenads and they conjure grape vines and wine everywhere.

(askfjdl and then Edmund eats dirt. The dryads are eating dirt at the victory feast and Edmund eats some because it looks like chocolate and imagine his parents. They've just started accepting their children actually are grown up and capable and royalty--and then their youngest son eats dirt.)

Also, maybe Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie look at Caspian and go "oh, another child carrying way too much responsibility. oh, you're an orphan and your uncle tried to kill you? okay, we have five children now"

[fast-moon]

I'm 30 years late, but...

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine originally aired when I was 10 years old. I loved Next Generation when I was a kid, so I gave DS9 a try back then... and immediately grew bored of it. They weren't going to new planets or having space battles, they were just sitting around in one place discussing space politics, and there wasn't even anyone funny like Data to hold my attention. So, I stopped watching after a couple episodes.

But, since I keep hearing it ended up being the best Trek seres, I've decided to go ahead and give it a full watch-through. Maybe now that I'm 40 and have more life experience under my belt, I can appreciate it more.

Turns out I do! I've finished the first season, so I'll give a run-down of what I thought of the S1 episodes below the cut:

1-2. Emissary: All right, I actually understand the premise this time which completely went over my head as a kid. The Bajorans were under Cardassian occupation for decades, the Federation showed up and drove them out, now the Federation is in control of the Cardassian space station DS9 to help the Bajorans rebuild and return to self-governance. But wait! Turns out there's a wormhole that goes to the other side of the galaxy here and it's suddenly become prime space real-estate! And the wormhole is inhabited by... mysterious non-temporal entities that spit out a magic orbs from time to time and the Bajorans worship them as prophets.

3. Past Prologue: Garak is queer-coded like whoa and gives Bashir a taste of his own medicine about not respecting boundaries. Is also possibly like a quadruple-agent. And tailors a fine suit. Also, Kira got a haircut. There's rats on spaceships?! Oh, that's just Odo. Okay. Still, the fact that he considered that a convincing disguise means there's rats on spaceships?!

4. A Man Alone: A guy backstabs himself and blames Odo for it.

5. Babel: Poor overworked O'Brien gets so stressed out he starts speaking in tongues. Then it turns out it's contagious. And it turns out that it's because someone sabotaged the station decades ago with a dyslexia virus and then just kind of forgot about it.

6. Captive Pursuit: This actually touches on a moral question I'd been wondering about if we ever end up with sentient AI: If something is bred/programmed to like being oppressed, is it more moral to remove it from its oppression even if that makes it miserable, or to return it to its oppression if that's what makes it happy? This episode chose the latter.

7. Q-Less: A surprisingly boring Q-centric episode whose only shenanigans involved a space stingray Vash was trying to sell off. Q really does miss Picard.

8. Dax: Oh, another philosophical thought-experiment: If you committed a crime and then get reincarnated in a traceable manner and retain all the memories of your previous incarnation, can your current incarnation be held liable for your previous incarnation's actions? This episode decides it doesn't want to answer this because she's not guilty, anyway.

9. The Passenger: Bashir becomes even more insufferable and nobody notices.

10. Move Along Home: Samurai hippies come through the wormhole and demand everyone LARP with them whether they like it or not.

11. The Nagus: Quark falls victim to one of the classic blunders, the most famous of which is "Never get involved in a land war with Asia". But only slightly less well-known is this: "Never get involved with a Ferengi when profit is on the line".

12. Vortex: So... Odo just lets a guy get away with murder because he has a sob story and claimed he knew others of his kind? Just because he was wanted unjustly on his home planet does not change the fact that he murdered a guy for hire. Also, Odo can get knocked out by a rock?

13. Battle Lines: Remember that "Great Divide" episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender that everyone hated? No reason.

14. The Storyteller: O'Brien goes down to Bajor to fix the pipes, becomes God.

15. Progress: Kira has to go convince a Boomer to leave his land because they need the resources to rebuild the planet, but he's all "I got mine, screw them." She humors his sexist behavior all episode, then burns his house down.

16. If Wishes Were Horses: Bashir wishes for his own personal side-piece Dax, and real Dax is weirdly okay with this because "boys will be boys". The conflict in this episode is literally solved by thinking happy thoughts.

17. The Forsaken: Odo gets sexually harassed so reports it to HR who just laughs him off because they think it would be good for him to get laid. Then he gets stuck in an elevator with his stalker and it's revealed just how physically strenuous it is for him to maintain his human form all day, and yet he has never been afforded any accommodations beyond a bucket to sleep in. This poor space slime, no wonder he's always so grumpy. #JusticeForOdo

18. Dramatis Personae: TNG's "The Inner Light", but stupid. Once again Odo has to save the day because he's immune to the humanoid crazypox that seems to infect the station every half-dozen episodes, and yet they still just can't find it in their effects budget to adjust station operations enough to allow him the minimal comfort of not having to contort himself into human form every day until he collapses just to do his job.

19. Duet: I am a sucker for "Did the janitors on the Death Star deserve to die?" sorts of moral discussions, and this episode delivered that very well. Also, I'm in lesbians with Kira.

20. In the Hands of the Prophets: Lady who doesn't even have kids at the school nevertheless takes issue that the children aren't being taught in accordance to her religious beliefs. It's been 30 years since this came out and nothing changes.

All in all, a decent season 1. It does show its age in places, especially in its treatment of female characters, and being written before the internet and smartphones caused seismic cultural shifts that its vision of the future failed to take into account. But still, I'm liking it now that I actually understand what's going on. On to season 2!

[rairai-raven]

Theory Time Theory Time!

So with the newest trailer for Sonic X Shadow Generations, I feel like I can confidently say who all of the bosses will be.

To start, the base version of Sonic Generations had 7 boss battles, 3 big bosses (being the Death Egg Robot, Perfect Chaos, and the Egg Dragoon), 3 rival battles (being Classic Metal Sonic, Shadow, and Silver), and the final boss (the Time Eater). For the sake of this theory we're going to assume that Shadow Generations will follow this formula too.

Adding on, all of the bosses that will be presented in this theory will have some form of connection to Shadow, meaning that any bosses that Shadow has not interacted with, even if the boss is popular, will not appear.

And lastly, each of the bosses must have appeared within the game where the stage has originated. Here are all of the stages that have been confirmed as of the Doom Powers trailer.

Radical Highway (Sonic Adventure 2)

Final Chase/Rush (Sonic Adventure 2)

Bullet Station (Sonic Heroes)

Westopolis (Shadow the Hedgehog)

Kingdom Valley (Sonic 06)

Sunset Heights/Park Avenue/Ghost Town/Enemy Territory/City/idk pick a name (Sonic Forces)

Chaos Island (Sonic Frontiers)

Getting the obvious out of the way, we have our 2 confirmed bosses, being the Biolizard and Metal Overlord.

The connection between the Biolizard and Shadow is a no brainer so I won't talk about it, however Metal Overlord is interesting and may be deeper than what most people think.

Bullet Station being the featured stage of Sonic Heroes, and what happens in at the end of Bullet Station?

We find a Shadow Android (followed by Neo Metal Sonic copying Shadow's data). Seeing that Android leads to a currently amnesiac Shadow to question his identity and if he is a clone. And who pray tell was the first one to propagate the misinformation?

Neo Metal Sonic. Even if Eggman himself kept the charade going, Neo Metal Sonic (and by extension Metal Overlord) was the one who started the doubt. By fighting Metal Overlord, Shadow can confidently say that he was wrong about who Shadow is, and the only robotic copy around is the one in front of him.

Deciding who the last big boss has been a toughie, and while there is the obvious, I'll be saving that one for the end. Who do I believe is the best candidate then?

The Knight from Sonic Frontiers. Admittedly this one is more of a stretch, however with the given stages we are shown our pool of potential bosses is slim, but that doesn't mean there isn't a connection. In Sonic Frontiers, the Ancients have fled their home planet and landed on Earth with the Chaos Emeralds. With Shadow being both part alien and having chaos abilites, it's not so far fetched. But here's the kicker.

Gerald has visited Angel Island in the past, along with actually seeing the Master Emerald. And what are heavily connected to the Master Emerald that our Ancient friends have brought? Now everything's coming together. So why the Knight in particular? Mainly because it's on Chaos Island where the fight originally took place. But really any of Sonic Frontiers' main bosses would fit.

Now onto the rival battles! Starting with an easy pick, MEMPHIS TENNESSEE Mephilies.

Despite being erased from existence, Mephiles has played a huge role with helping Shadow assert his identity, choosing to forever protect the world even if it turns against him. And with the Time Eater's shenanigans bringing back Crisis City bringing back the erased God wouldn't be impossible.

Not to mention Kingdom Valley is actually where Shadow first met Mephiles in his campaign, the God using Shadow's shadow as a base for the we all know him as.

The second rival battle I believe will happen is everyone's favorite weakling, Infinite.

Given that Sonic Forces is being represented, the character whose whole identity and image have been shattered by the hedgehog makes sense showing up. Although this leads me to ask, why is Sunset Heights in particular the one that's being represented?

Well, that's where the Shadow Clone appears of course.

This is where we learn that Shadow wasn't a bad guy again and was merely being copied by the Phantom Ruby. Perhaps as an intro cutscene to the fight we could have Shadow see his clone doing bad things, with Black Doom taunting him about his inevitable fate of a creature of destruction, before revealing that it was one of Infinite's clones. Shadow would then fight the creator of the clones as an affirmation of who he is.

Now for the final rival battle, I have two options. The one that will most likely happen, and the one I want to happen. The first option is Emerl the Gizoid.

The Dark Beginnings prologue features Emerl, an ancient robot of destruction who Gerald later rediscovers and creates a soul for it based off of Maria. As the prologue shows, Shadow was there during Emerl's rehabilitation and fights him in Sonic Battle. If what shown in the prologue actually happened on the Ark and is not some sort of hallucination, then this rival battle will show the beginnings of Shadow's good hearted nature as he protects Gerald on behalf of Maria.

Despite there being no Sonic battle stages, the fight itself will most likely be apart of the Space Coloney Arc as shown in the prologue.

However, there is one rival battle I really want to happen. Sonic The Hedgehog.

In Sonic Generations we fought Shadow, so how about we fight Sonic in Shadow Generations? However this time it won't be on the Ark, nonono. Instead, it will be on Prison Island.

Faker rematch time! Bonus points if they redub the beginning cutscene to that fight. Plus, with Shadow Generations taking advantage of the fact the fights can take place in a 3D place (as shown in the Biolizard fight), we could be fighting Sonic in an arena instead of the race in Sonic Generations. Now why do I want the Prison Island fight in particular?

Prison Island is where Shadow does his first truly good thing after reawakening from status. Saving Rouge. While claiming it's for the emeralds, deep down he's a good person at heart, he's just so blinded by rage at this point.

With all the possible bosses listened, there's an interesting theme going on, that being Shadow's identity. With Emerl, Shadow wants to save those he cares for. With Sonic, Shadow proves that he is a good person suffering through grief. With the Biolizard, Shadow recognizes what Maria's wish truly was and defies his creator to see it through. With Metal Overlord, Shadow has seeds planted in his mind wondering if he's an Android. With Mephiles, Shadow asserts that he will always fight even if others don't believe in him. With Infinite, Shadow sees that his future self will never turn to villainy again. With the Knight, Shadow will learn more about his origins.

All of these bosses are connected to Shadow's identity, and who pray tell wants to mess with's Shadow's identity the most?

THE DEVIL FROM THE BIBLE

Black Doom.

All throughout Shadow the Hedgehog he's been gaslighting Shadow into joining his side for his own gain, manipulating the hedgehog with promises of showing him his past that he cannot remember, trying to make Shadow something he's not.

It is my firm belief that we will not be fighting the Time Eater as the final boss, Sonic's got that covered. Instead the final boss will be Devil Doom.

It's the final boss of the hit game Shadow the Hedgehog TM, how can you NOT including him as the final boss of essentially Shadow the Hedgehog 2?

After so long since defeating Black Doom, Shadow has grown and reaffirmed who he, and he's not gonna let dear old dad dictate his life again.

Well that got a bit fanficy at the end! Jokes aside, I hope you enjoy my speculation on who the bosses are and what the potential story could be!

[bleach-your-panties]

Hello again 😊 I wanted to make a separate alphabet request for I,M,N,&U for Bakugo and iida? (Why am I giggling like a child at my ask letters?? 😂)

Because you knew what the hell you were doing when you put those letters together 😂

dividers by @/hitobaby. pro-hero characters.

❥Katsuki Bakugou:

❥⋱I - I Love You: When did he first say ‘I love you?’

It was during your third year at UA, let's say a month before graduation. The two of you had dated off and on since your first year. Katsuki had had a hard time deciphering his feelings for you; he knew he loved you aa a friend and wanted to protect you, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling of wanting more.

His pride often held him back from expressing himself - not wanting to be seen as 'weak' or allowing anyone to have anything to hold over his head or tease him about.

It's a wonder what time will do though, because as the year drew to a close, Katsuki saw himself fighting a losing battle with his heart. His heart wanted you. You and him together.

"Y/N."

You stop as the buffed-up blonde calls out your name as you leave the training grounds after practice.

He strolls up to you and grabs hold of your waist, pulling your plush body flush against his hard, muscled one. His large arms are on display in a black muscle tank and his UA training pants sag below his waistline, revealing a sinful little peek of his V-line.

"I love you." He said simply, those devil-red eyes scouring your face for any hint of disapproval.

In turn, your eyes crinkle and you laugh at him.

"I know, Katsuki."

"HAHH?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW?!" Bakugou booms out a retort, about to fly into a mini rampage when you bring your hands up to rest on his biceps.

"You make it so painfully obvious with your actions, but it's okay. I know you suck at expressing yourself. I love you, too."

His cheeks flush red - whether from frustration or embarassment, who knows - but they only darken further when you lean up to press a sweet kiss to his nose.

❥⋱M - Marry: How does he feel about marriage?

Bakugou absolutely wants to get married. This man grew up in a two-parent household and got a front row seat to how a man is supposed to treat his wife (Although his mama might be a lil cray cray. Papa Bakugou, blink twice if you need help.)

The entire hero and civillian worlds are going to know when he proposes, because it’s going to be broadcast on every major news station, at his request. 

This man is possessive; he wants all those Extras out there to know that you’re his woman and that they have no chance in hell at getting you to look their way.

Especially when he slips that big ass ruby ring on your finger.

He’ll grab your hand and wave it in the camera saying,

“You see this?! Try to fuck with her now and see don’t I blow your damn heads off!”

I know his PR team be stressed the hell out dealing with his shenanigans.

❥⋱N - Naughty: One thing he’d like to try in the bedroom.

He’s another one that has likely tried just about everything in the bedroom, but yet he still somehow manages to come up with some shit you’ve never heard of for the two of you to try.

“Katsuki, what the hell is Katoptronophilia??"

You looked over the screen of his phone that he'd shoved in your face and up into his vermillion-colored eyes.

"Sex in front of the mirror, baby. I think that's one that we really haven't explored to its fullest potential yet."

And by fullest potential, he means he hasn't fucked you with you staring up at the mirror above your bed yet.

"Fuck, princess, that looks so fucking good, doesn't it? Look at how my cock just stretches your tiny hole open so well. You can't look away, can you?"

He's jackhammering you from below while holding you underneath your armpits in a firm grip. Your smaller body bounces on top of his, tits swaying, and you're so embarrassed at the completely fucked-out look on your face.

He removes one arm and reaches down to circle a finger over your clit.

"Neither can I."

❥⋱U - Underwear: Does what you have under your clothes turn him on?

Bakugou is a connoisseur of sexy underwear and lingerie. He always buys you the prettiest sets and they’re usually in one of these three colors - black, green, or orange. If they ever put out a lingerie collection based on Pro Heroes, he would opt to design the Dynamight set himself LMAO. With you serving as his model and inspiration of course. 

❥Tenya Iida:

❥⋱I - I Love You: When did he first say ‘I love you?’

It likely came at a time when he was questioning if he was really cut out to become a hero or not.

Despite his outward displays of leadership and confidence, he has his moments of insecurity just like anyone else.

"Why do you think that you won't make a great hero, Tenya? You exude all of the qualities that are desirable in a hero: intelligence, courage, and selflessness. You're an amazing man and you will become an amazing hero!"

His dark eyes widened behind his glasses and a rosy tint stretched across the bridge of his nose.

The two of you have been dating for about six months now, just enjoying being together and letting things happen naturally.

Taking your tiny hand into his, he entwines your fingers together and presses his forehead to your cheek. His soft, dark hair falls across your skin, making you let out a hum of pleasure.

"Thank you, Y/N. I-I love you. I won't hold back my true feelings any longer. I love you and I need you to stay by my side."

❥⋱M - Marry: How does he feel about marriage?

Iida would want to get married as well. He too came from a close knit family and after dealing with his brother’s hospitalization, he definitely wants to grow and cultivate his own legacy one day to continue to pass down the family’s hero heritage. Tenya is not the type of man to play games or wait around, either, leaving you guessing about where your relationship is headed.

He is going to propose and do it properly. He will ask for your parent's blessing before going out to buy you the biggest rock he can find and afford.

He’s less…outgoing than Bakugou and would rather settle to make the big announcement over a private dinner with only his family and close friends in attendance.

❥⋱N - Naughty: One thing he’d like to try in the bedroom.

For Iida, he's pretty vanilla when it comes to sex. He's not the type to try any super wild or outlandish kinks in the bedroom, but that doesn't mean he's a boring lover.

Positions vary, but his favorites are the ones where he can hold you close and stare down into your face. He loves to encage you with his much larger body, so he definitely has a size kink.

Iida is apprehensive about bringing this up to you, but he'd really like to do some dom/sub roleplay in the bedroom. He knows that his natural personality can be a bit overbearing, thus making this dynamic seem undesirable, but he can't help the blush that forms on his cheeks when he thinks of you kneeling in front of him or bent over with your ass presented for him to spank with his belt.

❥⋱U - Underwear: Does what you have under your clothes turn him on?

Iida is more of a simple, traditional man when it comes to underclothes/bedroom wear. He likes it when you wear those floor-length, silk nightgowns to bed. The ones with the high slits that reveal your soft, smooth thighs and the waistband of your panties.

Not very picky is he; he likes just about anything that you wear to bed, but those are absolutely his favorite. He likes the feeling of the soft material on his hands as he caresses you before undressing you while you lay beneath him.

----

valentine a-z ©bleach-your-panties 2024. do not steal, repost, or upload my shit to tiktok! comments appreciated. reblogs always welcome.

[boasamishipper]

LARROQUETTE POLL ROUND ONE RECAP

our original pool of sixteen sexy larroquette characters has been winnowed down to an elite eight. if your faves won the fight, congratulations! pat yourselves on the back for a vote well cast and a propaganda campaign well run. if your faves sadly did not emerge victorious, don't worry: the round one losers will have a bracket of their own after this tournament is over, so they'll all have one more shot at the crown.

let's meet our elite eight!

Billy Ace (Choose Me)

though David Bedford (Blind Date) fought the good fight, Billy Ace (of tall dark and handsome, leather jacket, and motorcycle riding fame) emerged victorious with 18 votes to 12. hopefully David will find consolation in his gigantic pile of teddy bears.

Carl Sack (Boston Legal)

his bitchiness, stoic demeanor and steadfast refusal to take part in the Shenanigans™️ around him have bewitched larroquette nation body and soul: Crane, Poole, and Schmidt senior partner Carl Sack beats serial killer-turned-attorney Joey Heric (The Practice) 33 votes to 9. 'no hard feelings,' says Joey amiably while sharpening his knives. sleep with one eye open, Carl.

Jenkins (The Librarians)

this race saw the highest voter turnout, and while things were close in the beginning, TWW's Lionel Tribbey's faithful cricket bat was no match for Jenkins's sword, or his crossbow, or his lightsaber, or his bow ties, or his clubbing outfit. with 36 votes to 24, our beloved caretaker moves onto the next round, and Lionel Tribbey can take a much needed vacation someplace warm, with as many drinks with little umbrellas in them as his heart desires <3

John Hemingway (The John Larroquette Show)

hemingway during the final hours of the race:

it was close, but our favorite well-read bus depot manager John Hemingway emerged victorious over ex cop turned lawyer curmudgeon with a heart of gold Mike McBride. congratulations john! see you next time, mcbride!

Bob Anderson (Baa Baa Black Sheep)

our good baby-faced second lieutenant took the lead early on and maintained it all the way to the end. rip Captain Stillman. back to commanding officer duty at an alaskan weather station you go.

Mark Bannister (Madhouse)

in a race that led many (my dear friend emily @footnoteinhistory) to ask Why Are You Doing This To Me, sexy yuppie driven to madness Mark Bannister (Madhouse) beats nice handsome single father Don Moore (Summer Rental) 26 votes to 9. Mark may be going onto the next round, but does he have a boat? No? Didn't think so.

Roan Montgomery (Chuck)

another nailbiter of a race, but much like rock beats scissors, legend suave debonair secret agent man (Roan Montgomery) beats cigar-smoking businessman with a predilection for child murder (Lawrence Van Dough) every time. off you go to your next assignment, Agent Montgomery. Mr. Van Dough, back to court-mandated community service on the sprawling lawns of the Rich mansion with you.

Dan Fielding (Night Court)

he couldn't beat a dead man, he couldn't beat a spunky blonde, but by god, our favorite ADA absolutely trounced paranormal detective Wilbur Willis (Second Sight) in a battle of sexiness. good work as always, mr. prosecutor - let's see if you've got what it takes to go all the way!

Round 2 will begin at 12pm CT on 9/16.

[blackbat05]

Know you better

Adam Warlock x Reader

Plot: It’s moving day and you meet a handsome stranger due to unexpected circumstances. Shenanigans occur that ultimately get the two of you closer.

Genre: PG-13 (Neighbor, Modern Day AU)

A/N: I did not write this till 2am😂 Might as well capitalize on these influx of ideas while I can right? I intended for this to be a meet cute kind of thing, so hopefully it looks that way to you readers?😅 Reblogs and feedback always appreciated!💜

Shamelessly tagging my partner in crime for Adam🤡: @tom-whore-dleston

Finally.

You had your very own living space. Amidst skyrocketing rentals and weird landlords, you managed to get a decent space beside the train station. That will earn you a few minutes of extra sleep in your battle of commuting to work. You set the last of your box in the room.

Making sure that everything was accounted for, you went back down to settle the bill with the moving company.

Heading back up, you see a shadow at the entrance of your door. You shouldn’t have cursed your luck. You spot the communal potted plant beside the lift and decide that would have to settle as your weapon of choice.

As you control your breathing, you take tiny steps forward, hoping to get a glimpse of which idiot was dumb enough to commit a house burglary at two in the afternoon. The shadow starts to move and you prepare for the worst…

“Excuse me?” Someone pipes up from behind, nearly sending you into cardiac arrest. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” You turn around to see a male with curly brown hair, listening to a cassette tape. “I was wondering if you saw a friend of mine? He’s about 6’3, golden hair and eyes if you stare hard enough.” The male chuckles at his own description.

“Quill?” The supposed burglar steps out of your house, looking at the two of you in confusion.

“Adam, what the hell? You can’t just enter a stranger’s house?” The male frowns, rushing to pull his friend out of your residence. “I’m so sorry, I think he must have gotten the numbers mixed up. We’re having a party today for one of our friends.” He extends a hand. “The name’s Peter Quill.”

You can’t help but to feel relieved, any easy smile etched on your face. “Thank goodness. For a minute there I thought I would have to call the cops. It’s nice to see you neighbor.” You move towards the other man, extending your hand for a shake. “Sorry for wanting to throw a plant on you.” You apologized sheepishly. “Nice to meet you, Adam..?”

“Adam. Adam Warlock.”

***

Six months later,

Each day was the same, familiar routine. Work, home or the resident gym that you probably frequented the most out of all the residents. Except for Peter who would occasionally engage with you in small talk. Then one day, you stopped seeing Peter.

You don’t blame the guy. Gym routines are notoriously hard to keep up with while trying to survive in this bustling city. It was a Friday evening and you were glad to be able to leave the office on time. Walking to the gym, you see that the lights are on. Curious, you push the doors open to see who else has decided to work out a sweat along with you.

You see a familiar muscular back lifting weights at the corner, oblivious to your entrance. He breathes out once more, earning a well deserved water break.

“Adam?”

The man turns around, initially alarmed but happy when he finds out who it is.

“Evening. Working out?” He sets the weights neatly back to their original position. Grabbing his bottle, Adam walks over to you, taking big gulps. You find yourself looking at how his sleeveless shirt had accentuated his arms. Focus. You harshly reprimanded yourself.

“Yeah. Was cramped up in office all day. Thought it’ll be good to sweat it out.” Your tone was a little higher than usual. “Hey, do you where Peter is? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“He’s moved out. Found a place nearer to his grandfather. Peter didn’t want to sell this place to just anyone and I needed a place.” Adam tells you. You couldn’t deny but a part of you was delighted at the news.

“So… we’re neighbors now?”

“Neighbors.” He confirms with a boyish smile. “Oh, if you don’t mind, I think I should return back to my weights. Shouldn’t rest for too long.”

“Of course. I should get going too.” You make your way to the treadmill, not before giving one last quick glance at his shaped rear as he started to perform a series of squats.

***

“That hot guy you tried to take out with a plant?” Your best friend and colleague in crime squeals. “Girl, you have to tell me more!”

You sighed. “I wish I could Liz, but I barely see him except when he’s in the gym! Not that I’m complaining though, you should see him at pull ups.” Your brain goes into overdrive, thinking about last Friday’s gym session.

As usual, it was only the two of you. It was kind of an unspoken agreement, going around quietly to get the endorphins going. Instead of the boring treadmill, you opted for the dynamic rower machine, having a first hand view of Adam’s behind in full glory. It certainly did not help that the gym was surrounded by mirrors, giving you a sneak preview of his toned stomach.

“I need the photos.” Your friend insists. “All this talk and I would think you’re talking about a Greek god!”

You open your mouth only to close it shut. She did have a point. If you knew better, Adam was probably sculpted in the museum before being gifted to mankind. Room suddenly feeling much warmer, you decide to move out to the small balcony, still holding up the phone in front of you.

“He is! Too bad I can’t say anything else but ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ because I almost took him out with a plant! I know he thinks I must be crazy.” You groaned. “I guess I can still continue to dream about my unattainable, utterly sexy, Greek god right?”

You notice that Liz has went silent on the other end, eyes widened. You whip around to find that Adam was also at his balcony, reading a novel that was now abandoned at the side as he stares at you curiously.

Oh. My. God.

Your new and very hot neighbor had just overheard your entire conversation with Liz. About him.

Kill me now. Your brain freezes and time has paused. Instead of walking back like a dignified woman your mother always trained you to be, you scramble back in, knocking over your plastic yellow IKEA stool in the process.

Locking the sliding door, you draw the curtains before landing flat on the sofa, shocked into silence. Liz breaks the silence first, as she burst out into raucous laughter.

“Girl! You did not just did what I think you did!” She’s out of breath and you can almost see the tears threatening to spill from the corner of her eyes.

“Is there anyway to be wiped from Earth? At least until he forgets.” You whined, resulting in a cackle from your friend. How wonderful. Within a span of six months, you’ve managed to colossally embarrass yourself twice.

“It ain’t too bad.” You frown at Liz’s attempt to be serious. “Personally, I would be flattered. Maybe a little creeped out but flattered nonetheless.” She gives a mischievous grin. “Especially when you tried to bonk him with a pot on your first meeting.”

“Liz! Not helping!”

***

Thankfully, the next couple of days weren’t as bad as you expected. You didn’t run into Adam in the hallway or the lift while going to work, and you found yourself staying in the office to complete last minute tasks.

Friday came around and you took longer than usual to change into your gym gear. As much as you prayed for Adam to magically not be there, you were sure that a guy like Adam would not skip his regime unless he had a very good reason. Rounding the corner, you see the lights on, confirming his presence.

Here goes nothing.

The gush of cool air greets you as the door opens and you thank your lucky stars. Adam is on the treadmill this time, and with wired headphones plugged into an iPod. You were remotely amazed that people still had such an old device. Then again, you weren’t too surprised seeing that Peter had a cassette on your first meeting.

You decide that trying to avoid him wasn’t going to help you. Instead, you chose to play it cool. Catching his sight from the reflection, you give a small wave that he returned, indicating that you were going to start your workout.

Pressing the play button on your phone, you started your own routine, pushing out the thoughts of your embarrassing encounters with Adam to get the most out of your exercise.

The continuous feminist anthems that you prepared for times like these worked its magic, as you were engrossed in completing your abdominal exercises on the reclining bench. Finishing your final set, you slowly lie back down, hoping to catch your breath before taking a quick break.

You certainly did not expect yourself to be upside down, facing Adam’s crotch in close proximity. Giving a loud gasp, you fall on to the mat, landing ungracefully.

Why did the universe conspire against you? You see Adam’s mouth moving, a concerned look on his face and you realized you’re still wearing your headphones . “Hi!” You squeak, once you removed them.

“That’s fine. Are you alright?” Adam asks. “Sorry I scared you. That was a pretty hard fall there.”

“Yes, I’m fine! Do you want to use this? I’m sorry I took so long.” You rattled off, not giving him a chance to speak. You stumble from standing up a little too quickly. Adam rushes forward to help you but you reassure him while dusting yourself off. You don’t need another accident today.

“Go ahead! It’s all yours.” You bend down and fumbled for your things, deciding that maybe you had enough exercise for today and that it was time to retreat when Adam holds you by the wrist, hesitant to start. “Have I offended you in anyway?”

You blink at the sudden question. “No. Of course not.”

“Then why do I feel like you’re avoiding me?”

You wince at the sharp question, hearing your heart crack a little at the sight of Adam looking like a puppy who had just been disciplined. That’s the thing, he didn’t do anything wrong.

How do you tell him without revealing your growing crush on him and not look any more weirder than you made yourself out to be?

“Well…” You start, suddenly finding your trainers to be very interesting. “I thought you would have been freaked out by what I said the other time.” Adam cocks his head slightly in confusion and you mentally kick yourself. “You know, about how you look like a Greek god.” You mumble the last couple of words.

“I’m sorry?”

Was that deliberate? You could feel your face turning redder than they already were from your workout. You gathered your courage to stare at him straight in the eye, desperately trying to ignore the faint freckles across his cheeks.

“I said, you would have been weirded out by your neighbor lusting over you because of your stupid good looks!” You raised your voice, not realizing the damage you just caused yourself until the words had spilled out of your mouth.

It was Adam’s turn to digest what you had just said. That did not stop him from breaking out into a dopey grin that only caused your heart to beat faster.

“Thank god for that. I was starting to think otherwise.”

What did he mean by that?

Adam appears to have read your mind and chuckles, the deep vibration creating butterflies in your stomach. He scratches the back of his head and if you weren’t mistaken, he was… nervous?

“I was hoping I could get to know you better, outside of this gym that is. You see, I couldn’t forget about you since our first meeting.” He laughs sheepishly at the thought of almost being charged for breaking and entering. “I never seen someone look absolutely threatening yet adorable while holding a plant as a weapon.”

You can’t tell if he’s being serious but you let him continue. “I wanted to talk to you, but I figured after that first meeting it probably wasn’t wise to suddenly appear at your doorstep without any reason. So when Peter was going to move out, I jumped at the opportunity.”

At Adam’s revelation, you can’t help but to smile. He takes this as a sign of encouragement and goes on. “I was waiting for the right time to ask you out and I must admit, I had cold feet on certain days. So when I heard that conversation with your friend, I was… glad.”

If Liz saw you now, she would have been gleaming with pride at her accurate assessment of Adam’s reaction to your feelings towards him.

“Maybe, we both got on the wrong foot. A shaky start. How about we try again? My name’s Adam.” He offers a hand and you giggle at the familiar scene. You extend yours to meet his. “My name’s Y/N. It’s very nice to meet you.”

You can’t believe how fast the night changes, how lucky you got with the move six months ago. You swore that he held onto your hand for a few more seconds before letting go. Adam grins.

“It’s nice to meet you too. Would you like to join me for dinner tonight? Say, to get to know each other better.”

“I would love that.”

[invisible-storyteller]

Grandma

Derek & Melissa (~2300 words, gen, on AO3) Written for @teenwolfrarepairevents May Character of the Month: Melissa McCall

The day has been more than chaotic so far, and no supernatural shenanigan has been even needed to have Melissa feel like she’s draining her last resort by the middle of her shift. Ever since the pack went off to college (and Chris settled a treaty with the local hunters), Beacon Hills has been relatively peaceful regarding life-threatening situations, but years of fighting instilled a modus operandi in Melissa that has her on high alert as soon as he spots Derek Hale across the hospital’s nursing station. She runs out from behind the desk (ready to battle whatever batshit craziness that damn tree dragged into their town this time) and pauses in her haste when the full picture finally dawns on her.

There's no way to sugarcoat it: Derek Hale looks awful. It's not just the incredibly lost eyes that wander around the hospital aimlessly as if in search of something he himself doesn't know about, but the equally disorganized appearance of his untripped beard and the huge duffel bag he tries to keep on one shoulder, too, while his jacket has already fallen halfway off the other one to make the stain on his shirt all the more visible. His wide eyes are nothing short of desperate when they catch sight of Melissa, and he almost drops the crying baby in his arms (bless werewolf reflexes) as he nudges his way past two other patients with the huge bag still balanced on one side.

“Derek,” Melissa greets with more than just a hint of curiosity in her voice, “Can I help you with... anything?”

From up close, there seem to be dark bags under the man’s fearful green eyes and sweat glistening in the dark locks of hair that unflatteringly stick to his worry-creased forehead. The kid isn’t fairing better with tears steadily flowing down their chubby cheeks, body wrapped in what appears to be one of Derek’s own shirts, and Melissa can only guess that this child is also of the supernatural variety with how inhumanly loud they are screaming their discomfort.

“I’m here for his shots?” Derek asks more than states, looking unsurely at the baby, which Melissa realizes is not a found-at-the-side-of-the-road orphan. He is probably Derek’s, somehow, even if Melissa cannot fathom the how, and she sighs as her heart clenches in sympathy for Derek, who (in her eyes) is still just as much of a kid.

Without hesitation, she leads them to a separate room where no one else will bother them (in case the kid wolfs out or something, she doesn’t know how it all works), and the kid gets the shots Melissa infers he needs from Derek's vague responses. She cautions Derek of the possible effects (like prolonged sleep) and gives explanations of the next round of RV, Hib and PCV vaccines the child ought to receive, all the while Derek looks dazed and inundated and probably a lot more scared than when he first arrived. Melissa's parental instinct immediately kicks in, and she's offering Derek her number before she could think twice about it. (That, at least, relaxes the man's shoulders still carrying all the supplies he could gather for a full-night hospital visit, which, okay, he probably didn't need to visit the hospital that often as a child, but his reaction is still excessive and pretty disconcerting.)

“Thank you." Derek begins to leave with the kid once again gathered in his arms and occupied for now (and silent, thank God!) with randomly pulling at his father's unruly beard.

“Of course," Melissa replies, and before the man can leave the room, she reaches out to tentatively touch his arm. “How about you come over tomorrow? I think I still have some books on parenting. Maybe we can look them over together."

Derek nods - visibly relieved that Melissa is offering help without asking questions - and exits the room with somewhat lighter steps in his walk.

***

“They say he’s violent,” Derek casts his eyes down, and Melissa suddenly realizes why he's been avoiding eye contact ever since he turned up at her workplace, “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

She hums thoughtfully over a bite of her lunch - one that Derek himself brought her as he always did on Thursdays - and waits for the man to elaborate with a supportive hand on his arm. He has been more receptive to tactile comfort lately.

“I’m not...” Derek presses his lips together, struggling, “I’m trying to hold it back. If anything, I want him to grow up normal-“

“You’re normal, too.”

“You know what I mean.”

Melissa understands probably better than anyone. She wished for something similar at some point, right after she figured out what her son had become, but looking back now, that drastic change in his life brought the best out of her son, or maybe Scott brought out the best of that situation and the possibilities that came with it. Either way, her son is the man that he is today because of the supernatural shaping experience, and all the best people Melissa knows somehow exceed ordinary anyway, so she poses the question:

“What is wrong with being different?”

Derek gives her a withering look in exchange.

“Eli used to be violent when he played with others, so now others won't play with him,” Derek lists dejectedly as if he’s counting his own personal failures, “He also gets angry when his toys get taken away or when he has to sit down and draw-”

“Kids can be violent sometimes.”

Derek sighs, and something helpless descends upon his face. “I’m not sure this is for me.”

Melissa knows this kind of thinking all too well.

“Parenting?” She guesses, to which Derek gives her a nearly imperceptible nod. She quickly abandons her lunch and takes hold of his hands, making sure to only speak up once his eyes trail up to her self-consciously. “Listen to me. Take it from a mother who had to raise her son mostly on her own: We all doubt ourselves, okay? No parent is perfect, and how could they be? There isn’t a manual to this. We’re all just trying our best. And we fail sometimes.”

“It seems I fail more than others...”

Melissa squeezes his hands, hoping that it transfers some of her strength and faith into him. Because Melissa didn’t have anyone to encourage her when she stepped onto this road, and she wants to be that person for Derek. “You’re a good parent. You know how I know that? Because you love Eli, and you’re trying to raise him to the best of your abilities. Everything else will sort itself out, and if not, you know that I'm here for you.”

Derek looks down at their hands, a bit ashamed and a bit reinvigorated. “It still doesn’t solve the issue...”

“You said Eli hasn’t started talking yet,” Melissa recalls as she takes her hand back, "Just a few words here and there, right?"

“Another concern. Just what I needed.”

“Don’t get sassy with me, sir.”

Derek ducks his head reflexively, but there’s a smile at the corners of his mouth, and Melissa wonders when the last time was that the man received a parental scolding. Everyone starts to appreciate parents' overbearing guidance when they no longer have it, but if it's up to Melissa, Derek won't have to weather the storm alone ever again.

“You know, a lot of kids express their negative emotions through aggressive actions when they can’t communicate their problems well yet,” Melissa tells him and is glad to see a shimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Really?”

“I used to read a lot of bedtime stories to Scott,” Melissa comments with a shrug as she takes her fork back into hand, “Maybe that will help.”

“That solves one issue,” Derek retorts pessimistically, but his features seem more relaxed than at the start of their conversation.

Melissa gives him a patient smile and softly reassures: “We only have to solve one issue at a time.”

***

“He doesn’t want to be a werewolf.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“I’m trying but he won’t hear me out!”

Melissa thanks Derek when he pulls out the chair for her so she can deposit her sports bag and chocolate chip muffin in peace, and waits for him to take the seat opposite her before answering. She feels quite happy with herself - usual for their weekly visit to the small bakery near where the Zumba lessons are held - and Derek also seems more inclined to share his problems beside a cup of tea to soothe his nerves.

“Maybe he’s denying it because you’re denying your true self as well,” Melissa points out with a tinge of disapproval, “When was the last time you transformed in front of him?”

After thirteen years of friendship, Derek’s silence is easily comprehendible for her. Melissa's eyes grow a bit more scathing.

“I just... I believed for so long that the bite was a gift,” Derek says quietly over the table as he steals a few crumbs from her plate, “But it ruined so many people’s lives.”

Melissa rolls her eyes at the familiar (and, in her opinion, over-discussed) topic. “He can’t change who he is. Neither can you, neither can my son. That is a lesson we all have to learn at some point, I’m afraid. We can’t run from ourselves forever.”

Derek smooths his hand over his beard - a self-soothing gesture Melissa has picked up on over the years.

“And if it makes his life worse?”

“And if it makes it better?” She counters, and receives an infamous bitch face in return.

Not today, though, she decides. She’s not letting him off the hook that easily.

“Up! You’re driving us to your place,” She declares as he gathers her stuff along with the remains of her muffin.

“You can’t eat that in my car.”

“Can’t I?”

Derek’s lips pull into a thin line but he cleverly shuts his mouth. Once at the werewolf's house, Melissa busies herself with making dinner - You can really let me cook for you this one time. Or are you implying my cooking is bad? - until she hears the sound of Eli’s drumsticks hitting together to the tune of a popular rock song outside and she abruptly turns to a work-immersed Derek at the table (he has started editing at Melissa's suggestion, and it turned out to be something that Derek enjoyed more than the unengaging mechanic job he still occasionally returned to).

“Wolf. Now.”

His eyebrows sink into a frown, and Melissa groans as she has to spell everything out to him:

“Exposure therapy for your son. Starting now. Shift!”

Derek argues and hesitates for all the twenty seconds it takes for Eli to enter the house, and then he trudges off into the bathroom with a petulant pout on his lips. Melissa only smiles in self-satisfaction, especially when Eli’s eyes light up both at the sight of her in the kitchen and at the smell of dinner on the stove.

“Whoa! Grandma! You’re eating with us?”

“Yeah, I have my night off.”

“Cool,” Eli says as he drops his bag at the entrance (she'll tell him off later for that) and comes up to accept her welcoming kiss on his forehead.

“Um, by any chance, did you get me a dog, too?”

Melissa follows his line of sight over her shoulder to the enormous black wolf emerging from the bathroom, and she shakes her head proudly as Eli's eyes widen with something similar to trepidation.

“Nope.”

“Is that..." Eli swallows hard, hands fumbling with the end of his flannel sleeve, "...Dad?”

Melissa doesn’t speak, merely steps back when the black wolf inches forward with its ears cautiously flattened to its head and posture curling slightly in on itself to make his whole body seem smaller. Eli drops to his knees in shock, but his hands come up experimentally to smooth down the fur on the wolf’s back, although Melissa can detect a light shake to his touch.

“Woah,” Eli exhales harshly, and before Melissa feels the need to maybe intervene (in case Eli really isn't ready for such an encounter yet), the kid's lips stretch into an excited and very much teasing grin as he asks: “So can we play fetch now?”

Melissa bursts into laughter alongside Eli at Derek’s threatening growl, but despite the man’s initial rejection of the idea, Eli eventually convinces Derek to practice lacrosse in the backyard with the wolf as a hard-to-trick canine goalie while Eli perfects his aim. Between shots, while the sun slowly dips behind the silhouette of trees, Derek‘s lupine eyes seek out Melissa on the porch and give her a meaningful bow that even her human mind can interpret.

She shrugs, but her smile is fond and her eyes are a bit misty when she states: “We’re family.”

Derek hears, of course, even from the distance, and flashes his blue eyes back at her right as a ball flies past his head and lands neatly in the net behind him.

“Yesyesyesyes!” Eli fistbumps the air, overjoyed, and he still doesn’t show any signs of fear as Derek starts to chase him around the yard and then the entire property exclusively in his wolf form.

Melissa rolls her eyes at her boys, all the while she feels her heart expand with love and pride for the two. They've come a long way, and Melissa simply can't wait to see what's still in store for them (and her, of course, she's here for the whole ride, after all).

[jodjuya]

Animorphs #36 - The Mutation

Jesus fuck, what a rambling pointless fever dream. This book was a Doctor Who episode wearing the flayed skin of an Animorphs book as a mask.

Animorphs versus Atlantis. 🙄

Inbred mutant human fish-people 🙄🙄

who use radioactive minerals as lightbulbs 🙄🙄🙄

and run internal combustion engines in their airtight enclosed underwater city. 🙄🙄🙄🙄

Can speak at least 5 human languages flawlessly, and presumably more. 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

Dissection and taxidermy of drowned human sailors, posed in a museum of life-size dioramas in order to study the ways of "The Surface-Dwellers" 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

Dissection and taxidermy of Hork-Bajir Controllers, posed in a life-size diorama onboard the yeerks battle submarine 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

And this Hork-Bajir diorama is in spite the fish-people's stated-outright goal of repairing the submarine's damage and using it to wage war against "The Surface-Dwellers" (how tf you are going to do any of that shit with a bunch of Hork-Bajir corpses at every station of the submarine's bridge is utterly beyond me) 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

Visser Three morphing into Magmar from Pokémon 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

The fish-people mutants are so catastrophically inbred that they're literally going extinct because their fertility has irrevocably crashed and burned. Their solution to this is abducting "Surface-Dwellers" as fresh breeding stock to inject some amount of genetic diversity into their population. 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

and/or they "process" the internal organs of drowned sailors to extract their DNA, which they then magically splice into their own genome somehow 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

The Animorphs discover this thanks to being detained in the fish-people's library, which has hundreds of years worth of METICULOUSLY documented genealogies 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

Which Ax can somehow magically read, comprehend, and analyse after a few minutes of flipping through some of the library's tomes (thank god there's an Autism Alien on the team or they never would have figured out this completely dumbassed plot thread) 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

The fish-people can successfully interbreed with "The Surface-Dwellers" (or otherwise somehow do their DNA-splicing shenanigans) but the resultant demi-fish-people aren't a solution to their population crash, as interbreeding causes the fish-people to lose their species' specialised adaptations for living underwater: webbed fingers and toes, drastically oversized eyes, and motherfucking goddamn GILLS somehow 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

So because this didn't fix their problem, plan B of the fish people is to take the yeerks combat submarine (which can also fly 🙄, turn invisible 🙄🙄, and cause its echolocation/sonar profile to appear as though it was a very large humpback whale rather than an alien spaceship 🙄🙄🙄), and use this to wage a war of conquest against "The Surface-Dwellers", backed up by their highly limited arsenal of human weapons looted from sunken human ships and submarines (including, Marco presumes, the nukes from at least one Russian submarine) 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

(how and why the fish-people think a war of conquest would fix any of their shit in any way whatsoever is not explained)

The fish-people are fully amphibious and don't cope well with being out of the water, yet on the other hand they have built their little city on 'land' (in the air bubble of their underwater cave kingdom) and are happily living their little lives out of water to some degree or another 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

The Animorphs discover the creepy museum of human-taxidermy dioramas, morph into owls to scope out the fish-people city, get captured by the fish-people the instant they demorph, and are then invited to a banquet hosted by the queen of the fish-people so that she can monologue exposition at them 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

Also, the Yeerk submarine can fire its Dracon beam weapons underwater, despite it being previously established that the weapon technology they stole from the Andalites (Shredder beam) was originally designed to be fired in the vacuum of space, and that firing in atmosphere can cause a catastrophic blowback effect proportional to the atmosphere's density. Presumably they've successfully developed adaptations to mitigate that blowback effect for usage in atmosphere, but under water?! 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

The ghostwriting squad really fumbled the shit out of this one. Disaster of a book (derogatory)

[daddy-ul]

oh to invade one's personal space

There is OnE sTiRrInG wHeEl

It's not their fault, c'mon!

[neojayink]

Bonus sketch dump for side order hype. Pls excuse the roughness lol

2 new wpn classes

Juggernaut - water jug hammer

Turf board - hover board / surf board with water jets

Double sided Markatana - jotter class lightweight fusion. Attacks faster and swings twice but does half the damage of the original.

(Markatana 2.0 reworked incoming since we now know how swords work in Splat)

Bubble bands - working concept for “gloves” / dauber wpns. Unconfirmed wpn as of now.

Pallet board - sub wpn concept for reflecting enemy projectiles. Unconfirmed.

Expired Octolings. Another look at the “zombie” theme for potential hero mode shenanigans. They would use bones and ink to create monstrous anomalies. Idea was too similar to the dlc enemies so it’s scrapped for now. Using this energy on “exolings” check other posts.

Light saber inspired hero markatana.

I don’t believe this is the first stage I’ve shown but sharing this concept because we might actually see something like it in the real game. I’ve scrapped my idea for an airport stage bc I thought it wasn’t splatoon appropriate but there’s yet another idea I liked that I can actually say I’m happy to see.

But back to this stage. This train station is huge and underground. Idk how safe battling would be here but for safety reasons let’s just imagine that when trains are arriving there’s a clear shield wall around the rails. When trains are gone you can still fall out of bounds though.

For its turf war gimmick I could see the trains leaving and all the turf you’ve accumulated on top of (or inside) the train will be like a reserved area of ink that leaves the stage and acts as turf that’s permanently claimed. Imagine the trains as surface area that leaves mid match like a reverse of Mahi, where the change adds turf. In this case the change will hold on to turf as points that cannot be overwritten and a surprise after the match when the train returns to the station for calculating points. Just concepts for now tho. Might not even keep this gimmick idea.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

Whumptober* Day 14: “I’ll be right behind you”

*I tried. I really did. I just hit “The Powers That Were Trying His Nerves” and couldn’t take myself seriously anymore.

@blaiddraws, someday I’ll write something for one of your AUs that’s not ridiculous fluff, but alas, today is for Worm Shenanigans.

---

There were certain inevitabilities in life.

The commuter who only just made his train to Humilau every morning, the annual Nimbasa blackout as Elesa’s ambition tripped the power grid, the departure and return of Casteliacones-- all of these events were guaranteed to happen, though the time frames varied between them.

Another constant was this: Ingo picked a direction and Emmet followed him.

It sounded odd, imbalanced even, but it really wasn’t. Ingo was too fair-minded to chart an inequitable path, and Emmet had no compunctions about raising an objection if need be. If anything, it was a game of give and take, of compromises. It was a substantial part of how they had ended up running the Battle Subway.

There was exactly one place Ingo had ventured where Emmet had been unable to join him, but, as always, he’d split the difference. While Emmet still wished he’d been able to accompany his brother on the unplanned commute to Hisui, the fact that it had been a round trip lessened the sting.

It was a strange homecoming, but not a bad one. There was a lot that had to change to accommodate their new lives, and a lot to adjust to or reacquaint oneself with; that was just the nature of things when you or a loved one was reincarnated as a soul-powered train. For every weird or uncomfortable new quirk, there were ways to alleviate that burden or find the fun in it, and there were plenty of perks mixed in. It was life-- just a new spin on it.

From the day he’d figured out who, precisely, was haunting the subway tunnels, Emmet had set his course.

As always, he followed his twin’s lead. It just took a little longer this time.

That was a nice way of saying that, when he passed, he turned right back around and demanded to become a second Frightrail. He knew the drawbacks; he’d been right there to witness them for years on end. While he might not relish the idea of drawing sustenance from others’ life force, he’d come to terms with that reality. Having a completely different body type would be a learning experience, but was it so much worse than moving on without his brother? No.

When it came down to it, that was the answer to every tricky question. He could endure it. They could endure it as a--

...could they be a two car train if they were both trains? Did one’s existence as a literal train preclude their ability to be a metaphorical car?

The Powers That Were Trying His Nerves stared for a long moment, processing, and then decided to wash Its hooves of him. Or at least, he assumed that was what happened. Something had to have occurred, because he blinked and then everything looked wrong.

Well, maybe not wrong, but weird. Even before reaching up to scrub at the rounded snout changing his field of vision, Emmet understood why that was-- again, he’d put years of thought into this, even if he’d made his decision all but immediately-- it was just… a lot at once. At least he had the luxury of knowing what he’d been getting himself into. Having an older sibling was convenient like that.

Speaking of.

He stopped pawing at his steel-smooth nose and looked around. Seemed Arceus had seen fit to plonk him in the park across from the station. Truthfully, Emmet hadn’t expected anything in particular, so this destination made as much sense as anything else. While it would have lived up the classic image of a ghost to rise where he’d died, he really didn’t need that kind of drama in his afterlife; he’d passed at home, and, logically, that space belonged to someone else now.

...he should go haunt the tunnels, just to see how Ingo liked playing worm wrangler.

Emmet made to push himself upright, but only made it so far as the first set of arms, lacking any of the tertiary pairs that studded each segment of plating. Right, they stayed dormant by default, didn’t they? He knew the sections of his body could slide apart to bring them out, but how exactly did one go about doing that…?

Maybe he should have asked some more pointed questions when he’d had the opportunity.

Eventually, he gave up on the ghost limbs, but with some trial and error, managed to wriggle himself into the air, and that would do for now. He stayed lower to the ground than strictly necessary for a host of reasons, ranging from ‘less noticeable’ to ‘not as far to fall’ to ‘feels more train-like’.

He was well aware that there wouldn’t be anyone at Gear Station so early in the morning-- not since Jackie had retired-- but it was home station for a reason, perhaps now more than ever. Even if he couldn’t make the staff understand what he wanted, all he had to do was wait around and he’d get it.

It wound up somewhat easier than he’d expected; even with the late hour, the station master’s office was occupied.

Blatantly ignoring the yellowed sign asking that patrons ‘not tap the glass, because the station master was sleeping’, he nosed it open and barged right in. Then Emmet did something that, were he alive, would have gone against the very fabric of his moral code: he deliberately caused a collision of trains.

With a sleepy hiss, his victim cracked an eye open, then chuffed a yawn.

“How long has it been?” He asked, nudging insistently at his brother’s face, “Do not tell me you were asleep all this time.”

“’All this time’? I can make assumptions, too, you realize. You’ve been here… hm… seven minutes, and you’re already jumping to conclusions.” Ingo rumbled, amused. His voice was raspy with disuse, and he didn’t even bother opening his other eye. Combined, it told Emmet that yes, he’d been asleep for awhile.

Magnanimously, he decided to ignore the comment, “You taunted me for days, before. And this time you decided to take a nap?”

His twin finally resigned himself to consciousness and ducked under Emmet’s head, giving himself room to stretch the first set of arms. “I’ve told you, the circumstances were nerve-wracking; it only turned into a game because that was the track you chose.”

Emmet grumbled his malcontent, and, to his surprise, it echoed in his throat. Before he had the chance to fully process that fact, Ingo raised his head, bumping against his.

“I assisted for a time, but it wasn’t fun in your absence. This seemed the easiest solution.”

Oh, it was a matter of fun was it? He could work with that. Eyes darting this way and that, he picked a quarry and escape route. When Ingo seemed distracted untangling himself, Emmet lunged forward and gave the tip of his tail a yank before scurrying off toward platform 3.

There was a bark of outrage that quickly condensed into:

“Your form is terrible!”

A delighted whistle escaped him and, without turning back, he called:

“Then you had better come correct me!”

The air displaced behind him, a secondary presence emerging from the slipstream he’d carved. There was a tug on his tail just before Ingo pulled up to his side.

“Honestly,” He huffed, nudging at Emmet’s spectral arm, “You studied aerodynamics; you should be aware of how inefficient this is.”

The plating slid shut at the contact and, unbalanced by his arms’ sudden exit, Emmet wobbled in the air. As he sped up, Ingo pressed their sides together, steadying him until he was the one leading, purposefully cutting a path through the air for Emmet to follow.

Well that just proved it: two cars to a train, irregardless of the number of sub-trains within.

Some things simply did not change.

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

White blossoms - Chapter 7

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

If you like this fic, please remember to reblog so that others may also see it!

Pairing: Melot x OFC (Tamsyn)

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: Angst, some more angst. Shenanigans. Historical inaccuracies, probably.

@deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @peaches1958 @peyton-warren @summersong69 @mayloma @livisss @geralts-yenn @sillyrabbit81

The many long nights spent on the cold, hard ground were beginning to take their toll on your body as well as your spirit, the only solace to be found in the knowledge that it was the same for everyone else, save for the ones who had already fallen, and would never return to the warmth of a bed. Those of you who were still alive, though be it a little worn from weeks of war, had reluctantly accepted the blessing of their blankets and furs. Sadly, the warmth they provided was a pittance in the battle against the icy cold that always seemed to creep right through whatever it was you were lying on, and seeped right into your bones every night. 

The lion’s share of your remaining hope now came from the fact that there was ample reason to believe this war would be over soon, and you would return home in a matter of weeks, possibly days. That evening, as you all were gathered around the fire, you listened quietly to the roaring confidence of your brothers, wishing they would quiet down at least a little. To drown in despair would predict your demise on the battlefield almost as certainly as to imagine oneself invincible. You joined Gerant and Lowen, who were sitting to the side, quietly staring into the flames, not sharing in the ostentatious comradery of the others. 

“Bad night?” Gerant asked you as he offered you a bottle - its contents unknown to you - and a place to sit.

“Never a worse one,” you replied as you sat down and took a sip. Whatever it was, it contained copious amounts of alcohol, and that was precisely what this moment called for. 

“You miss your woman,” Gerant said plainly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. You looked at him and sighed deeply. He was right. 

“I should have been married by now,” you said as you let your head hang between your knees. 

“You’re a lucky bastard,” Lowen snapped at you suddenly, making you look at him, one eyebrow raised both in surprise and contempt. The look in Lowen’s eyes mellowed slightly as he sighed and drank from the mug he was holding. “Morwenna’s father turned me away when I asked him for her hand in marriage. Apparently I am not a respectable enough match since I hold the same station as their son, her brother.” 

“Perhaps I am a lucky bastard, then,” you said, a sardonic chuckle creeping into your voice despite your efforts to stifle it, “I’m sorry to hear that, brother.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” he answered. It was - at that moment, at least - a painful reminder that no matter how much you did consider him your friend, your brother, he would never be quite the same as you. 

“Enough with that, you bleeding sods, it’s easy for both of you. Have you any idea what I would give right now to be like you? To never have known the touch of a woman, or what it feels like to wake up next to one? Never before in my life have I longed so violently for the presence of another person.” Gerant buried his head in his hands, possibly in hopes that neither of you would see the tears that so unconcernedly spilled from his eyes, with no regard for his composure. 

You put a hand firmly on his shoulder and looked ahead of you, into the last remaining flames of the dying fire. “All we have to do is make it home.” 

When Beryan arrived at your house to tell you the news, you were ecstatic, throwing on the first gown you could find to make yourself presentable, and following Beryan immediately to her quarters so that she could loan you something fit for court. Elowen and Morwenna were both already there, though God only knew how they had made it there before you, and you got dressed so quickly that no one would ever believe it should you ever decide to disclose that information to them. Then, you had the tremendous pleasure of waiting, impatiently wandering around the courtyard until finally someone notified you of the return of the men to the city. You longingly awaited the return of your ‘handsome warrior prince’, as Morwenna had once put it - though you stood by what you had said then: he wasn’t a prince.

A shrill contrast to your enthusiastic anticipation was it, then, that before you stood Aedan, Tristan and Lowen with concern on their faces. 

“Where is he?” you asked carefully, well aware that you had no right to his time or attention, thus demanding to see him would be impertinent at best. 

"Tamsyn…" Lowen spoke softly, in a tone you didn't like whatsoever. 

"Where is he?" you asked again, finishing the sentence just in time before your throat tensed and your vision went blurry from the welling of tears in your eyes. 

It was Morwenna who first took hold of your arm. Then, when she was finished welcoming Gerant home, Elowen followed. Beryan, who you knew to stand behind you, did nothing. 

"Is he alive?" she finally asked in the smallest voice you had ever heard, the sound drowning in hurt and despair. For a moment, jealousy coursed through your body as she revealed in that instant just how deeply she cared for your beloved. It was a brief moment, however, as Pyran made his way into the courtyard. Morwenna hugged her brother, unable to keep her eyes of Lowen. There was no doubt in your mind that she longed to be locked in his embrace, instead.

“He has been taken to his sleeping quarters,” he informed you. You gazed at Pyran suspiciously before tentatively drawing your conclusion. 

“That means he’s alive, correct?” you asked, the trembling of your voice immediately obvious to all. The men nodded quietly, exchanging looks that made you feel unwell. Several times, Tristan looked at you as though he wanted to say something, deciding against doing so every time until you were fed up with his sighing.

“Oh, for the love of God!” you exclaimed, scaring yourself with your newfound courage, and gaining some disapproving looks from others in the courtyard. “You, Tristan, either tell me what’s wrong with him, or take me to him. Now!” Behind you, you heard an approving chuckle from Beryan. It ended in a sob.

The door was ajar, so despite the hushed tone in which Tristan argued with Melot’s – and his – mother, you understood most of their conversation perfectly. The gist of their talk was that under no circumstances would you – and any and all other unwed maidens – be allowed in Melot’s quarters, let alone unchaperoned, and no, as always, unwed young men did not qualify as chaperones. Not that the latter mattered, because she made it abundantly clear that neither you, nor Beryan, were getting into that room in any kind of proper manner. The argument that you were his betrothed seemed to hold no value to the lady Rhian. Miserable and defeated, you dropped to your knees in the hallway outside the door, unable to hold back your tears for so much as a second longer. It wasn’t long before Beryan joined you.

In the end, it took Tristan, Aedan and Pyran to peel you and Beryan off the floor and escort you to the Great Hall, where king Marke seemed to take more pity on you than Melot’s mother had.

“Lady Tamsyn,” he said, “I am so very sorry. This must be very difficult for you.”

“I thank you for your kind words, my king,” you replied timidly, through exhaustion and grief now thoroughly bereft of the fire you possessed before. Morwenna took your hand in hers and guided you to a bench, where you sat down. Your friends surrounded you, all sharing the same expression, filled with sorrow and sympathy for your situation. With all your might you attempted to will yourself to force the thought of Melot’s demise from your head, but your efforts were ultimately unsuccessful. It wasn’t until you saw a rather familiar ring on an equally as familiar, wrinkled hand that reached for you.

“Yselle,” you said as you looked up at her friendly face. Lady Yselle was the old crone who had lived on the edge of the forest for as long as you could remember. As a healer, she had been one of your mother’s most frequent customers for cheesecloth and linen – the materials she used to strain her concoctions. Your dear mother had truly given it her best efforts to teach you the art of weaving, however it had soon become obvious that you were not suited for that particular craft. The lady Ysella had then offered to instead teach you hers – a proposal you had gladly accepted.

“You know, I could really use some help, dear child,” lady Yselle said as she smiled kindly down at you.

It was her friendly smile that rekindled the embers inside of you. Without thinking, you took her outstretched hand in yours and rose from your seat, happy to be given something to do. Something to take your mind off Melot. “Where do I begin?”

“I was told the king’s nephew finds himself in quite the dire state,” Yselle spoke, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that you would recognize from miles away. “Clean and dress his wounds. Meet me here when you have done all you can for him.”

Armed with a small leather bag containing supplies, you rushed back to Melot’s chamber. After a short knock on the door, his mother called you into the room. Upon seeing you, however, she immediately ordered you to leave.

“I believe I told Tristan that you and Beryan were under all circumstances forbidden from visiting Melot in his current state,” she snapped as you set foot in the room.

“Lady Rhian, I am not here in that capacity, I-” She did not allow you to finish your sentence. Instead, she interrupted you with a tirade regarding propriety and decorum that you heard scarcely a word of. One look at Melot, who was lying on his bed, told you how dismal his predicament truly was. He was covered with blankets only until his middle, while a sheen of sweat covered the rest. A horribly deep gash was clearly visible on his shoulder and chest – no longer bleeding, but that was about the only upside to his situation.

“My lady, I am terribly sorry to interrupt you,” you said sternly – more so than you had ever thought yourself capable of, “but Melot needs help, or he will die.” To swallow the lump in your throat created by speaking those words was a horrendous task, but you eventually managed. Behind you, your friends seemed to have followed you to Melot’s quarters, and judging from the sounds they made, were impressed with your fierceness.

You rushed to Melot’s side to inspect his injury, carefully laying a hand on his as you did so, hoping his mother wouldn’t see – or at least wouldn’t complain. His skin was hot, and damp with sweat, the injury on his chest red and swollen. The bag you had been given only held about half of the supplies you were going to need.

“I need clean water, Pyran,” you snapped as you rose from the ground and strode across the room towards the table, where you unpacked the contents of your bag. “Morwenna! Meadowsweet, yarrow and chamomile.” While Morwenna sped off immediately, Pyran stood in the door, frozen.

“Pyran, bring me what I asked for, or so help me God, I will give you a lashing so brutal your future children will feel it, still!” Several sets of eyes stared at you from the doorway in absolute incredulity.

“Tam-” Pyran started his protest, but he wasn’t allowed to finish, for lady Rhian rose from her stool in the corner and put her hands on her hips.

“Do as you’re told, Pyran. Tristan, go with him. Quickly, before I make good on that threat of hers!” The boys didn’t even wait for her to finish her sentence. Lady Rhian then turned to you: “He has another wound on his upper leg.”

You walked over to him again, kneeling nearer his feet this time, and carefully lifted the blanket that covered your beloved. Underneath it, he was naked – a fact that both startled and excited you. Though the latter was, of course, wholly inappropriate given the circumstances, you couldn’t help yourself. Resolutely, you pushed the thought from your mind and focused on the wound in front of you: Another appalling gash, no doubt caused by a sword or knife, at least as deep as the one on his chest, and equally as swollen and warm to the touch. What worried you most is that Melot barely made a sound as you examined the wound, despite your having to touch it numerous times, the pain of which just had to be excruciating. Yet he uttered not a single word, nor a cry.

When Pyran and Tristan returned with your water, Morwenna had already brought you the herbs you asked for.

“What took you so long?” you snapped at the men as they handed you what you needed. Without waiting for their answers or excuses, you went back to work, preparing poultices to treat Melot’s injuries. While you waited for the water to come to a boil in the kettle over the brazier in the room, you handed lady Rhian a jar of dried willow bark and gave her the instructions necessary to make it into a tea that would hopefully improve her son’s condition.

“Twice daily, if at all possible,” you added.

You kneeled by his side once more, applying compresses to both wounds as gently as was possible. When you were done with that, you dipped a piece of linen in cold water and wiped his forehead with it, repeating the motion over and over again, just to take your mind off the state in which your intended found himself. You sat with him until the poultices needed to be removed, and you cleaned and dressed his wounds.

“I have done all I can for now,” you spoke softly to his mother, “I will come back to check on him tomorrow.”

“Dear child,” lady Rhian replied, “you may sit with him a while longer, if you wish.” From her eyes spoke gratitude, from her voice humility. “Lady Rhian, as grateful as I am to hear these words, I promised the lady Ysella to help her when I was done here.” You curtseyed briefly before leaving the room and made your way to the grand hall, where Ysella had her hands full with numerous other wounded soldiers.

[basedkikuenjoyer]

Backup Drummer

Right off the bat, we follow up a note from last time. Kuma's upping the ante on being an unreliable narrator. Now we're doing it a second time. A nested flashback. Fun! I love this, same with the idea it's a pointless exercise. Tragic though it may be, the idea these letters never find Bonney is such a great narrative nugget. Type of thing where...well, I was gonna say you see a flash of static that was there intentionally to cover a key detail but we did that one didn't we?

Seeing this flashback start to fray and break down is interesting. We keep seeing it and now I definitely think we'll have shenanigans upon our return. That's not the only bit of narrative peculiarity though. There's another beat that caught my eye even more:

We've done the "static" effect. Covering up a detail with sound effect Kanji. This one feels more like...listening to the radio at the edge of the station's rage. When it starts to intermingle with another station on the same frequency. This is such a weird little blip. "A smart hawk hides its claws" is a great idiom for all this then we shift to a brief moment with Stussy going oddly philosophical. She went too quiet during the time between the cutaway and this flashback, don't forget her. If there's another "Rashomon" break from the main story she might be a good one. Especially with this weird little adjacent element of a potential relative for Kalifa. It is odd how we get Lucci, Kaku, and a replacement girl. Not to mention the three brothers. Sabo was in Vivi's story, Luffy Bonney's, and the OG Stussy has already been around Marco so Ace fitting in isn't that much of a stretch. Still think Rashomon & Riddles is one of my better ones.

Don't forget she gets tied up in the Tamataebako thread too. Bonney is sorta inherently tied up with Urashima Taro by default with that power while we're at it. Likewise with Vegapunk, but that'll be a little secret for later. Which means now we have to get to Bonney's grand escape. That was our deal. Bonney's really horning in as someone who can fill this open role we've identified. What does our story have to say here?

Distortion. Who does "becoming Nika" remind you of? Club, white hair, doggy form, tboy swag...it smacks of Yamato's Oden fixation. Credit where credit's due, I can argue Kiku threads the needle of these Egghead characters, but Bonney's a good mix of Carrot/Kiku/Yamato as well. Still, this plus the narration feel a certain way to me. Like they're really, really reasserting Bonney as a rival. Her own captain. Someone who could have taken Luffy's place if he wasn't here. Fair is fair, our main narrator being unreliable has happened too. With the redacted announcement of the Luffy v Kaido battle. But this makes me wonder how much we'll even focus on Bonney if this flashback continues. Remember she's the third Supernova this arc set up to end her saga.

We'll get to Luffy & Kuma tomorrow, but I have a last thought on Bonney. With all the Thriller Bark elements floating around, did she lose her crew to the buzzsaw of the New World? As in, end up like Moria? Interesting parallel on the table at least. I always thought Yamato was intriguing from the vantage point of like, being perfect if Luffy did blunder into the New World too early and meet the same fate. Yams is a great person to bail you out and start a new crew. Not like anyone wanted that outcome but you can't forget Moria's shadow hanging around. Potentially even literally given the Blackbeard ship could be stolen.