#wars wind and time shenanigans

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

as promised... just over 1k of wind and mask mocking warriors's ass. I wrote it all in the middle of the night so apologies if it's a little... eh.

@bllaaaaarrgh @flustered-flux

ao3 link here (i recommend clicking on it even if it’s just to see the title)

"Hmm." The sailor said from behind Link.

"No." He said, not bothering to turn around. "Whatever you're planning, no. Absolutely not."

"We aren't planning anything!" The sailor protested.

"I don't believe you."

"It's true this time." Mask said, jogging up to walk at his side. "The sailor merely noticed something interesting."

"Uh-huh." He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is it where Ravio hid his fire rod?"

"You don't have an ass!" The sailor called.

Link choked, whirling around to face him. "What."

"You don't. Have. An ass." The sailor repeated slowly, a wide grin on his face.

"Nothing there." Mask said sadly. "Truly, a tragedy."

"What the hell, Sailor." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stop making comments about my ass."

"So you don't deny that it's flat?" He asked.

"My ass is not flat. Stop talking about it." He quickened his pace, leaving them behind.

"Sounds like something someone guilty of having a flat ass would say." He heard the sailor say to Mask.

It is wrong to punch children. He reminded himself. Even the really annoying ones.

"Do you need a pillow?" The sailor said, popping up at Link's side from seemingly nowhere.

He shifted away from him warily. "Why would I need a pillow?"

"That chair just looks so uncomfortable." He said in a sympathetic tone. "Surely, since your ass is so flat and provides no cushioning–"

Link stood up, grabbing the sailor by the back of his shirt and dragging him out of the tent.

"My apologies." He said, brushing nonexistent dirt off his clothes and sitting back down at the table. "The sailor is an idiot."

Midna hid a smile behind her hand. "It's no trouble at all, Captain."

Link smiled at Kree, holding his hands over the table. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to see you rece–"

His door flew open, slamming against the wall and probably putting a hole in it, and the sailor and Mask raced into his house, their boots skidding against the floor with a screech that made him wince.

"What are you doing here." He said flatly.

"Oh, this is your house?" The sailor said.

"Yes. Get out."

"Hey, Captain, is that your boyfriend?"

His eye twitched. "Yes. Leave."

"Hey, uh–" The sailor leaned forward on the table.

"Kree." He supplied.

"Sailor, don't you dare." He warned.

"Kree, how do you feel about Captain Link's flat ass?"

"His… flat ass?" Kree asked, watching as Mask retrieved a frog from under his hat and put it in Link's flower vase.

"Yes." He confirmed. "It's really fuckin' flat."

"Concave, even." Mask added.

Din, Farore, Nayru. He prayed. Please give me the strength not to murder these stupid kids.

"Why is there a frog in my flowers?" He finally said, confident he would not commit any acts of violence against children today.

"Mr. Bubbles is an important member of our family." Mask said with a deadpan expression. "Your flowers are not."

"Get out of my house." He said, suddenly very tired. "Go bother Midna or something."

"No." He said cheerfully.

"...Wait, why do you smell like smoke?"

The sailor slammed his hands on the table, fished Mr. Bubbles out of the vase, and opened the door. "Nice to meet you, Kree! Sorry his ass is flat!"

Kree waved after him, an amused look on his face.

"What did you burn down?" Link yelled after them.

The sailor turned, jogging backwards, and gave him a thumbs up. "They were dicks!" He assured him.

(Link was not reassured.)

"Where is it?" Link asked tiredly. He was really not in the mood to chase after the sailor today.

"That's what he said!" The sailor cackled, leaping over a bed and racing out of the tent.

(Unfortunately, it seemed, the gods had other plans for him.)

"My ass is not flat!" He yelled after him, voice cracking.

A few of the other soldiers gave him strange looks, but he ignored them, willing the healer to work faster so he could leave, find his fucking scarf, and take a goddamn nap.

"Friends, family, and frog." The sailor intoned solemnly. "We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Captain Link's ass."

Midna sniffled, pretending to brush away a tear with one hand. She held a confused frog in the other.

(Mr. Bubbles did not seem to be pleased to be there.)

"It may not have actually existed, but that does not mean that our loss is any less tragic." He continued, face twitching minutely in laughter.

Mask stared mournfully down at the two crossed twigs they had shoved into the ground, clutching his hat in his hands tightly in a clear attempt not to laugh.

"What in the name of Hylia are you doing?" Link asked, watching their mock funeral in confusion.

"Holding a funeral for your ass, Captain." Midna said. "I may not have been acquainted with it very well, but it has met with quite a terrible fate."

Mask winced and shoved his hat over the sailor's eyes. "Captain, please. Can't you see we're grieving?"

"You are holding a funeral for my ass."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's so flat it's nonexistent, and we needed to properly express our sadness." He said matter-of-factly.

"I can't believe you're encouraging them." Link said to Midna.

She shrugged, and placed the frog on Mask's head. "I suppose they remind me of my own idiot."

"Are you calling us idiots?" The sailor demanded.

"Of course not. I'm just saying you are a lot like my idiot." She glanced at Link as if to say that she was, in fact, calling them idiots.

(He couldn't help but agree with her.)

"Oh. Cool." The sailor said, turning back to Link's ass's gravestone.

Link sighed, resting his face in his hands. Nayru help him.

Link was not having a good day. First he had been pulled through a portal, landing in a pond, and now he was face to face with a weirdly familiar man who looked very familiar with his own sword.

The man looked him up and down. "Hello, Captain." A smile slowly spread across his face. "I see nothing has changed."

Link stared up at him, trying to remember where the hell they had met, before the words and familiar shit eating grin clicked into place.

"You little fucking brat." He said slowly, hands twitching as he resisted the urge to reach up and strangle Mask. "My ass is not flat!"

[nell0-0]

Is WW/PH link at any point going to look at Twili wolf Link, remember an instance of LU before going "wait a damn minute"

It's a bit of a leap in logic. Having said that... pretty sure he would start wondering if the wolf Midna had around was a transformed twili, since Twilight is using twili magic to turn into Wolfie. He's not wrong, but, you know-

[fallingintheforest]

Linked Universe Ski Patrol AU - Part 2

Only energy for two boys tonight..

Legend:

Ski Patrol Member

Skier - Speciality: Moguls & Backcountry

Former National Team member

He has been frequenting the mountain since he was a little kid. Once he started competing he very quickly dominated the scene. 

Currently, he is on a break from competition after feeling quite burnt out at the end of last season. 

As much as he loves the thrill and technical aspect of moguls he longs for days spent in the backcountry exploring with no civilization in sight and the calm stillness of the forest. 

Hyrule and Legend are backcountry skiing partners. 

Whenever there is a need for something, the patrol knows to radio Legend. They have yet to ask for something that Legend isn’t able to produce from his bag: trail mix, extra socks, flashlight, swiss army knife, hot packs, lip chap, tape, tweezers, sunscreen, gel packets, medicine... Man is a walking Pharmasave. 

Enjoys teaching pre-teen age groups the most as they tend to pick up new skills quickly and are comedic balls of happy energy. (They are also past the age of having to be carried off to the bathroom every 15 minutes).

Rents a townhouse with Hyrule and Wild. Their house is a constant disaster and Legend is 95% sure Wild has been stealing his favourite smartwool socks.

Wind:

Junior National Team Member (& VERY jealous he is not old enough to join Ski Patrol)

Skier — Seriously thinking about transitioning to snowboarding as a primary.

Billets with Time and Malon.

Got stuck headfirst in a tree well last season while skiing off piste and sent the entire patrol into a frantic frenzy trying to find him. Wars and Time simultaneously received their first grey hairs that day. Wind maintains he was cool as a cucumber, but boy was stressing.

He was introduced to skiing by his older cousin (Wars) on a family trip. Aryll didn’t take to it as much as Wind did. Eventually Wind stumbled upon old racing clips of Time and was completely enamoured. After that he threw himself into the sport and landed himself a spot on the Junior National Team. 

Time is Wind’s primary coach. 

Wars use to help out more with coaching Wind however, Wind has hit that prickly age which means he is less likely to be receptive of advice given by family. Lately, their interactions during practice tend to devolve into eye rolls and arguing when Wind gets frustrated. 

Has pilfered a spare key to the patrol office and raids the fridge on a daily basis (“Someone ate part of your sandwich Wars? Oh, what a shame...”)

[eldritchazure]

i have a surak-era oc who i’m gonna ramble about here from time to time.

he’s from t’paal because i’m Fascinated by that region for some reason. i really wish there was more info on it but alas. i’ll have to make shit up as i go. he was born in one of the enclaves but i’m thinking he was raised in a temple of akraana there.

(people don’t know what the goddess akraana presided over, only that she was the wife(?) of the war god khosarr, so i’m gonna make things up. i’m thinking she was some kind of goddess of magic, prophecy, and art because it’s convenient and also cool. also since one of the enclaves where her disciples lived is now an artists’ enclave so it works. her worshippers were kinda like a mystery cult, similar to the cult of despoina, hence why people don’t know what her deal was today. sorry for the info dump, i find this kind of thing REALLY interesting so i think about it A Lot.)

so this guy was a disciple of akraana and raised in one of her temples. the reason why he was sent there as a child was because he had these “visions” of the past and the future. the actual reason for the “visions” was that his mind was frequently temporally displaced. not permanently or constantly like spock’s was in disco, but it kind of came and went? like he’d be going about his day and then all of a sudden BAM there’s gonna be a horrible famine here At Some Point in the Near Future. or BAM someone was murdered horrifically at this spot A Very Long Time Ago. or someone was born at this spot and a lot of people were full of joy about it A Very Long Time Ago. he couldn’t tell when exactly things happened/would happen, only vague impressions. this is why he was dropped off at the temple by his parents. they didn’t know how to deal with the visions and figured the temple people might. is this logical or at all responsible parenting? definitely not. but i’m thinking the visions put great mental strain on him and by extension his parents through the familial bonds so maybe sending him to live with the people who specialized in that kind of thing would be able to take care of him better. whether or not that’s true remains to be seen.

i have no idea how the temporal displacement happened, or why it isn’t like how spock’s was. at this point it’s plot convenience. idk maybe it’s some weirdo space entity?? idk idk. anywho he mistook the weirdo space entity for akraana (or maybe it was akraana. who knows. ANYWAY.)

so yeah he gets these visions. maybe they slowly drive him a little mad? i don’t know!! i’ll figure it out, or maybe i won’t. but yeah he gets visions and then writes them down in a bunch of notebooks over his life. he doesn’t know what most modern things are so they’re written through a kind of fantastical/mythological lens. he predicts different wars with aliens but he doesn’t know they’re aliens so he calls them like, demons or spirits or whatever. even technology that could be found at that time he probably didn’t know about, because i’m imagining that the temple/area he was raised in was one of the ones that was generally against technology. so if he were to predict the radiation from the nuclear weapons being used at the time, people wouldn’t know what he meant until it was happening.

eventually the notebooks are found and now they’re in a museum somewhere displaying the history of the region. most historians dismiss his prophecies as the ramblings of a madman but those who look closely enough do admit it is somewhat eerie how they seem to mirror a lot of big historical events.

for example, a ship full of vengeful demons wearing the faces of vulcans emerging from a portal, who will consume t’khasi from the inside out.

anywho. at the moment his name is tova. this is subject to change. his story is pretty barebones at the moment and is little more than a concept that i’ve written out here in a very long winded post. i’ll probably flesh it out some more, add some much needed Drama and probably a healthy serving of Angst, as you do.

[seawitchkaraoke]

Honestly whenever I make a jokey exaggerated post on here talking about some fandom or other and then people take it seriously and actually argue with me and quote canon and do actual analysis I feel like I’m back in 10th grade where I was bored in german class so when we had to analyze poems in groups I went hard and over the top and convinced my entire group of ridiculous interpretations totally making sense.

I think my teacher eventually caught on to the fact that I knew exactly that I was overanalyzing this poem and that a line about hats flying off people’s heads because of the wind being about pre WWI germans revealing their willingness for war did not actually make sense. But I had everyone else convinced

[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!

[demonoflight]

Fun facts and tidbits from Deep Cut’s stage dialogue:

While Shiver and Frye have favorite weapon classes they swear by (stringers for Shiver and splatanas for Frye), Big Man is the kind of guy who uses different weapons for different stages. Some of the weapons he uses are brushes (at Inkblot Art Academy), blasters (at Humpback Pump Track) and sloshers (at Eeltail Alley).

Frye likes coming up with attack names for Specials used in highly specific ways and charging in with a war cry in turf battles. She is not stealthy.

Deep Cut sells their treasure from the Crater at a high price to a guy running a shady stall in Hagglefish Market.

Shiver’s need for speed is not limited to riding Master Mega into battle. She has openly contemplated taking the cars at Mincemeat Metalworks and the Manta Maria itself for joyrides, and her parents were worried about her riding a bicycle because she’s a danger and a menace to everybody and WILL run you over.

Some stage dialogue basically confirms Deep Cut are housemates (oh my god they were roommates) - the three of them even go shopping for groceries at MakoMart together (Shiver recommends buying in bulk on Tuesdays for great savings!). Frye keeps trying to sneak unapproved snacks into their cart, but Shiver and Big Man are on to her shenanigans.

Big Man has been teaching the girls how to cook ever since they started living together! In Japanese, Shiver straight up admits to struggling with cooking when she moved out of her parents’ house since she’s never really had to cook before, and Frye says before Big Man taught them the basics she mostly ate junk she got from the supermarket. Either way, Big Man points out Frye has a bad habit of putting a ton of sugar into EVERYTHING. She’s... she’s working on it.

None of the Deep Cut trio have ever lived in a housing complex with apartments like Flounder Heights. Frye is very open to the idea, but Shiver isn’t since she thinks she wouldn’t get along well with neighbors.

Deep Cut’s go-to venue for birthday parties is Big Man’s house. It is unclear if it’s because it’s the biggest and nicest of the clan houses, or if it’s because Big Man (and his family by proxy) are the most easygoing and willing to hold parties there.

Both Big Man and Frye have a past with Undertow Spillway - Big Man got lost there once as a child while chasing butterflies, while a young Frye used to skip dance lessons and take her little brother with her to explore and look for treasure.

Frye used to skip school a LOT.

Deep Cut has filmed music videos at Mincemeat Metalworks and Hammerhead Bridge, but the latter was never released because Big Man was knocked over by a strong wind.

Some time ago, Deep Cut were extras for a movie filmed at Scorch Gorge. They were only in the film for two seconds.

Deep Cut are completely weirded out by the NILS Statue, are further weirded out by the fact no one really talks about anymore, and think it’s stupid that there are still tour boats sailing right by the statue. See, they CAN be sensible every once in a while.

Big Man likes to imagine the big cranes at Sturgeon Shipyard combining into a giant robot. Big Man is a nerd.

One of the Mahi-Mahi Resort dialogues has Shiver complaining about how hot it is at the poolside. In English, Big Man suggests taking a dip in the pool, and immediately realizes his friendly advice could be misconstrued because what works for him does NOT work for an inkfish. Compare and contrast Marie telling Callie to take a dip in said pool back in the first game’s NOA translation... they’ve definitely gotten better about this, Big Man really just comes off as a well-meaning goofball here. Meanwhile, in Japanese, Shiver’s complaint brings him to a realization: “so THAT’S why you keep standing in my shadow when we’re here...”

Frye is the kind of person who goes into turf battle with a weapon in one hand and a snack in the other (the only person, Shiver insists). This has made her the target for seagulls enough times that she has issued a public service warning about the little snack thieves.

Once, Frye used Zipcaster to enter one of the high cages at Scorch Gorge... and could not figure out how to get out. There were tears. She insists she didn’t cry and does not want to talk about it.

[majorproblems77]

Linked maze updated which means I'm back! :D

Hello Linked Maze fans! :D

Linked Maze returns with scent pt10, which means I am back to ramble about the small details in the comic because I enjoy it!

If you dont know what Linked Maze is, It's a links meet comic. About the links in a maze.... Self-explanatory really, but trust me it's amazing and I love it. It's great! But also for more mature audiences, so do take care and heed the creator's warnings before going in!

Importantly - Linked Maze and all the art belongs to @linked-maze and its artist @frulleboi, this chapter also had a guest artist, so the second page's art is done by @marenwithanm. And thanks again for the permission to do this! I really enjoy making them!

With that out of the way, My timer is set, grab some snacks and a drink of your choice! And lets get started! :D

We begin with the small bean

He looks so happy, okay, I love him

Aww four, just wanted his sword back. Also here to straight up appreciate the detail with the little ticktacktoe on the scabbard of his sword i love him dearly.

Wolfie looks both Done and worried at the same time.

Also, them discovering Sky's sailcloth! I'm so excited about this okay I want these two groups to find each other so bad.

Also, I was interested cause I dont think we've seen the sailcloth in the story yet. So it's fascinating that it's here. I blame Angel, she has shenanigans that I think work for this. Like imagine when we see Sky and he's like the fuck why do you have my sailcloth I've not seen it since I got here, type thing.

Wind taking charge as he should be.

There's a bunch to unpack here, so just give me a moment.

That's not Sky's sword.

That's Twilight's sword.

The wrappings on the blade and the markings we see on it later match Twilight's sword. (From the character reference sheets.)

Do you have any idea how excited I was when I saw this? Then saw Wolfie's face like

Why the fuck is that there?

I think this tells us two things.

Twilight/wolfie is now able to be armed. So he's got the capability to fight without the wolf form now. So he might transform soon!

Angel/ djævel are using the hero items to bring the groups together for some reason.

But now im considering the implications of having these specific items here. Like, Thats an item from a character from some of the major groups that we know off right now.

Twilight's sword(Twilight, wind) / Sky's sailcloth (Sky,wild,Time) / Four's sword (four, warrior)

Was the idea for them to find it, or for just one of the groups to find it so that they could find the others.

Something to think about.

Moving on!

Me too four... me too

Yes it does. He's sat about five feet from you

Look at his guilty face, he know's but he can't say and he's sad about it.

Warrior looks worried, you think he's thinking of war stuff right now?

A sword planted into the ground with an important item beside it... a sword who they dont know its owner. Its owner who to them could be dead?

Twilight is the only one who know's his sword after all.

Good call Mr. Captain Warrior sir!

Again with the sad wolfie ears, they give me life okay I love him.

Good on Wind for being the one to lead the charge, we need a good vibe like Wind to get us through the shenanigans that I'm sure are going to ensue.

Again Twilight is looking towards his sword. When you think he would be looking towards Wind at this point. But his eyes appear to be looking towards the markings on the sword.

I love his shocked face. He's like

I can't track myself...

Totally not me going to be using this reaction when someone asks me to do something.

Wolfie is the real MVP of this chapter let me tell you right now.

I love this lot they are wonderful

Yes, you look to your sword and think about what you've done.

Sniff sniff out the cinnamon roll wolfie, find him!

Oh man, this update was fun, I got so unbelievably excited about the sword like it's great to basically have a confirmation about something that's been rotating around in my brain since we saw it before.

Thanks again for listening to me ramble my way through another comic update! :D

And thank you again @linked-maze for letting me do this, i will be continuing them (as long as you let me:) ) cause this was so much fun!

Thats me done for this update tho, so I'll be headed out!

Have a great night! :D

[lunarobyn22]

Here's the fic for those of you who want to read it on Tumblr instead of AO3! (I'm tired so this is my peace offering in place of today's Faebruary post 🙃) Check out @cloudninetonine 's "A Player's Aid" au, it'll give context for this!

Legend Gets What (He Thought) He Wanted

tags/warnings:

Threats of Violence, no y/n, Reader-Insert, Mention of making murder look like suicide, no one actually wants to die so don't worry, The others are there briefly, reader gender not specified, Kinda death threats but not exactly, Legend Needs a Hug, Reader Also Needs a Hug, They both get one tho don't worry, Resolved ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: Legend is convinced that modern!reader is a traitor and a danger to the chain. He wants to get rid of the threat...Reader just really wanted to use the bathroom, but they somehow end up at sword point.

You all sat by the campfire after yet another long day of long walks punctuated by not long breaks and long fights. You were exhausted, from both the physical toll taken by the day as well as from dealing with Legend’s near constant attempts to make everyone hate you. Heck, you were almost starting to hate yourself because of him. You had to forcibly remind yourself that he’s likely only lashing out because your knowledge of everyone’s adventures probably made him feel vulnerable. You yawned and turned your focus to other things.

Your mind relaxed as you looked around. Your head was leaned to the right on Wild’s shoulder, and Hyrule sat curled up in front of you with his head in your lap. Wind had finally tired of regaling the chain with yet another tall tale, and thus had retired to intently watching Sky as he worked on a new carving. Twilight, Time, and Warriors were conversing in a relaxed manner, laughing at stories of Time’s shenanigans in the War of Eras as “Mask.” They told some embarrassing stories, and Time held a near perpetual blush in his ears and a fake annoyed expression thinly veiling his amusement. Four was quietly polishing his various weapons, making sure they were well-maintained for any future skirmishes. And finally, there was the chain’s resident salt shaker, the Veteran. Legend sat a few feet to your left, not-so-subtly eyeing you with jealousy and what you might label “loathing,” probably because Hyrule had chosen you as his pillow instead of his predecessor. He pretended to sort through his myriad of magical jewelry, but you knew better. You also knew better than to call him out at the moment.

Everyone (mostly) was at peace, full from a good supper provided by Wild, happy from the stories Wind had told, and now content to do as they pleased until it was time for the first watch to start. By your guess, each of the three watches lasted three hours, 9 PM - 12 AM, 12 AM - 3 AM, and 3AM - 6 AM, or just after sunrise, depending on the season. It was about 8:30, and your eyes had been drooping for an hour already. You let your mind wander as you stared into the fire, pondering where the tips of the flames disappeared to as they peaked and vanished, dipping back to the firewood just to jump up once more a second later.

All too soon Wild was nudging you and Rulie back to your own bedrolls as Sky set up for his watch period. You hazily recalled meaning to clean the mud and blood off your shoes as you took them off, but decided to just do it in the morning before you all set off again. It’s not like the stains were going anywhere while you slept. You were out almost as soon as you pulled up your blanket to your chin. You didn’t even hear Wild’s small chuckle as he tucked you in before he walked away to his own sleeping spot.

Your faint dreams of red eyes haunting the dark corners of endless mazes were interrupted by a twig snapping by your face. You inhaled sharply as your eyes flew open to assess the situation, but relaxed once you saw that it was just Sky going to wake Legend up for his shift on watch. He glanced down to you and offered a sleepy smile of apology, which you returned in kind, before nuzzling deeper into your pillow (which was unfortunately rather thin and small, but you figured that even if you had brought a full-size memory foam pillow from home, it wouldn’t stand a chance of fitting into your bag, no matter how enhanced it might be).

You faintly heard the Vet bemoan his fate as second watchman before his blanket rustled and he walked to the fire. You’re pretty sure he intentionally stepped on the same twig as Sky had when he passed by you, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch. Through half-lidded eyes you could vaguely see the grouch circle the camp before sitting on a log before the fire and facing the woods that surrounded your camp. He was even more grumpy tonight, because not only was he designated for the worst shift ever, but he didn’t even have a choice as Time forced it upon him due to a particularly scathing remark he’d made towards you earlier in the day.

You tried not to focus on his insults and apparent hatred, you really did, but recently it was getting harder to ignore. His questioning of Hyrule’s sudden loyalty to you turned to questioning everyone’s desire to not kick you out or abandon you to the next monster camp they found. He seemed convinced you were either an evil witch who forced Hyrule and Wild to love you, a monster disguised to destroy them, or even a direct agent of Dark Link (who you’d not-so-affectionately dubbed “Dink”) and planned to betray them all any day now. You, in turn, had stopped vehemently insisting you were harmless, and eventually resigned yourself to simply not rise to the bait of his stinging statements of distrust. You knew he’d been through a lot of pain and loss through his many journeys, but that didn’t excuse his treatment of you. Only your mother’s advice kept you somewhat sane — “bullies only prosper when you give them a reaction. If you don’t react, they have less reason to target you.” And yet, Legend’s berating only continued.

You silently huffed a sigh and turned around to lay on your other side, facing away from the fire. You didn’t really love the idea of turning your back to the one person who very clearly wanted you to cease existing, but you knew he had enough sense not to literally stab you in the back when you were both surrounded by witnesses who would decidedly not appreciate such a thing. Plus, the fire was too bright for your sleepy eyes anyway. You started a breathing exercise, prayed you’d assumed correctly about not getting murdered by your upset comrade tonight, and closed your eyes again.

——

An hour or so later you quietly groaned and sat up. Not only could you not fall asleep, but your bladder was beginning to rebel against the idea of waiting until morning to relieve yourself. The chain had made camp just a ways off from a wide yet shallow creek, and you decided that since you were already awake, you might as well go ahead and rinse your shoes off, too. That way they’d be dry in the morning and you wouldn’t have to worry about walking around in shoes that made your socks cold and wet. You shuddered at the thought and slowly stood, stretching your arms above your head and popping your back, then bending down to pick up your shoes and a bar of soap you’d bought in the town you all just passed through.

Legend spared you a calculating glance from his seat, saying nothing. You simply waved with your free hand and then signed “toilet” before walking away to take care of business. You didn’t have to look over your shoulder to know that he was staring holes into the back of your head; you could practically feel him doing so anyway. You sighed, choosing to instead focus on the foliage you passed on your walk, faintly illuminated by the fire back at camp and the dim glow from a bracelet Wild had given you. He said he’d used a brightbloom seed to make it, and you had been sure to express your gratitude. It was much easier than having to carry a torch, which was not only difficult if your hands were full, but was also very bright to your still-asleep eyes. That, and you’d almost started a forest fire last time you’d been entrusted to carry a torch when you weren’t yet fully awake (once the crisis had been averted, Legend of course claimed that you had done it on purpose, but you were so tired that you just gave him a deadpan stare with a raised eyebrow and plopped back onto your bedroll to resume sleeping).

After answering nature’s call and washing your hands, you sat criss-cross by the creek, took off your dirtied shoes, and started splashing them in the frigid water. It was colder than you’d expected, but everything barring your hands was still warm enough, and it helped shock you to be more awake and aware. You used some more of your soap to aid your struggle against the grossness crusted onto your shoes, thankful that they were made from something like leather, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to clean once you actually got started. As you washed, you listened to the sounds of the world around you, now returned since you were no longer disrupting their peace.

A sound like cricket chirps mixed with owl coos set the backdrop for the soundscape, while the occasional breeze played with leaves and stuck them in your hair. If you listened closely enough and stopped your washing, you swore you could almost hear the life within the flowers and greenery by your feet, the very soul of the land of Hyrule, its perseverance, growth, progress and patience, all poured with a parent’s care into each and every living thing it supported, down to the smallest weed by the creek bed where you sat.

The water before you seemed to whisper, not in the way the Sheikah technology would, but more like it was a living feeling, as if it wanted to impart to you the knowledge it had picked up on its journey to this place. You had heard a story, once, that water could hold memories; that every molecule of water in the world has existed since creation, for it cannot be created or destroyed by those who need it to survive. Every single drop had a story to tell, an event it had witnessed, a place it had once called home. Perhaps some of the water burbling and giggling before you was the same way — some of it might have seen the rise and fall of entire civilizations, the existence of every single hero, princess, and villain up to that very moment — and it would continue to amass these secrets, both big and small, every detail it would pass by, and no one would ever fully decipher its stories, its warnings, its wisdom and playfulness. And even so, it would continue to exist and endure, trickling on through the ages and epochs.

You were somewhat prone to these random philosophical trains of thought, and had thus been unknowingly sitting, unmoving, almost unblinking, in the same place for the past twenty minutes. If anyone were with you, they might have thought you to be having a memory episode akin to the ones Wild sometimes had. Indeed, you were so lost in the wanderings and ramblings of your own mind that you had no idea you were being watched. You had no clue until a sound was made that caused you to spring to your feet with a gasp and reach for the dagger you’d sheathed at your hip.

Legend stood at the tree line a few feet away, posture tense and, dare you say, predatory, unsettling stare boring into your own wide, surprised eyes. “What are you waiting for? Or should I say, who are you waiting for?” You blinked away the black spots at the edges of your vision from standing up too quickly, and relaxed the hand that held your knife as your brain worked to understand the situation.

“What?” you tried to be quiet, still recovering from being shaken out of your reverie. “Why would I be waiting for someone? They’re all asleep last I checked. Ooh shoot, did I wake someone up? I’m so sor-”

“Cut the crap, [Name],” he stood up even straighter, the line of his shoulders taught with anger. “I know you’re waiting for someone to give all your collected information to. Don’t pretend you’re all so goody-goody. I’ve seen the way you ask too many questions, always looking for more details to collect, more ways you can betray us, betray them. I knew you were a snitch, and I don’t know how you bewitched them all to trust you, but they’re all too blind to see it. But I’m not. I see right through you, I have from the start.”

He had stalked closer during his speech, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper you had only ever heard in movies. His approach had caused you to back up until your still bare feet felt the water’s lapping edge. You had dropped your boots, you weren’t exactly sure where, but that was only a vague thought in the very back of your mind. Your eyebrows scrunched together as your mouth opened and closed, trying and failing to come up with a good enough response. You weren’t spying, you were trying to find answers! You came from a completely different world, of course you had questions! He of all people should understand that, and yet he still accuses you? This finally snapped your patience, and you decided to just spell it out him:

“Look, I know you hate me, but this is too far, Legend. I am not some evil being to be defeated like in your adventures, I am not planning to cause trouble for you all, and I sure as anything would never betray you guys, especially not after the trust that has been extended to me by some of you. This group took me in, saved my life, helped me learn to defend myself, protected me time and time again, and I’ve only ever tried to help you, or at the very least not get in your way. I get that I’m not some ‘chosen hero’ with crazy butt-kicking skills, I know that I’m only okay-ish at fighting, not nearly as good as any of you, and I understand that my extensive knowledge of your adventures puts you on edge, but I swear on everything that I’m not a traitor, and the main thing that I just really don’t know is why you despise me when I’ve never even given you a single reason to do so!”

Your voice had steadily increased in volume, not quite to the point of shouting, but certainly not whispering any more. He seemed a bit surprised by your willingness to defend yourself, but he hid it quickly with a scowl and what sounded almost like a growl. You noticed dully that the forest had fallen tensely quiet.

“Oh drop the act, turncoat ,” he spat, “you have never been one of us, and the only reason I didn’t drop you off a bridge yet is because Hyrule would have my hide and Wild would poison my food. But don’t mistake my inaction for acceptance or ignorance. You’re no better than any of the enemies we fight on a daily basis. You’re actually worse, because you’ve wormed your way into my group, my allies, my brothers. You think you’re something special just because you got some of them to trust you?? You’re a parasite, a threat, and tonight is all the proof I need. I knew I should’ve spoken up more from the moment you oh-so-conveniently happened to stumble into our lives. You’re going to regret ever messing with us, and Dark Link will soon know without a doubt that he cannot ever send his agents into my family without dire consequences.”

His expression twisted to a hateful snarl, showing some of his teeth in an almost animalistic display of animosity. Your face, on the other hand, was flickering through countless expressions too quickly for even you to comprehend. You knew some of what you felt, pain, sadness, anger, guilt (even though you had no reason for that one), confusion, denial, and eventually a sort of raging, spiraling emptiness that screamed inside your chest. Your breathing quickened to an almost hyperventilating speed, and your eyes grew blurry with tears you’d been suppressing for weeks. Your hurt, misty eyes locked with a pair of violet, violent, volatile ones, and you realized that he was waiting for your response. His next actions could depend solely upon your response; your very life could depend upon whatever words next left your mouth.

You had tried so hard to be friendly to the group of Links, to not aggravate Legend too awful much. You had tried to help out wherever you could, to not be a burden, to not slow them down. You tried to let the pain of rejection roll off of you like water, to not let it get under your skin. You had tried so, so hard to be one of them; but you weren’t. It was at this point you realized what he’d said without actually saying it — he was afraid . Afraid of losing the only family he had left. He’d already lost his uncle, Marin, the whole island of Koholint, and almost all the people of his Hyrule viewed him with disdain at best and outright hatred at worst. He’d had to leave Ravio and Fable back in his Hyrule, and he never knew when (if) he’d ever see them again. You realized on an even deeper level the true message behind his words — ‘you are a threat to those I love. You are dangerous. You bring pain and that is all you’ll ever do. You are not worthy of any trust, comfort, protection, or love from anyone, least of all my brothers. You would be better off never having met us, having never existed.

You would be

better off

dead.’

You had tried so hard, and yet… You had never actually brought anything to the group but problems. You thought through your interactions with them all, but all you could see is the many ways you’d caused them worry, stress, or even anger. You were another mouth to feed, another bed to pay for at inns, another liability in fights, another person to slow down for as they walked. You were a burden. No, worse: you were a danger. What if they were so busy looking out for you that they didn’t see an enemy until too late? What if you slowed them down to the point where they couldn’t get where they were going in time? What if you drained their food or rupee supplies too fast? What if you got hurt again and caused stress and tension to rise, causing fights and even divisions to break out. You were a problem. Not a traitor, no, and not intentionally endangering, but they couldn’t afford to have you around any longer. And you couldn’t just leave, you’d die within a day if Dink didn’t find and torture you, but Legend wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew for a fact that you were out of their way. Permanently. He didn’t just want you to disappear; he wanted you gone. And finally, with a sinking heart, you realized just how right he was.

 At this final revelation, a tear finally did slip past your lashes down to meet your quivering chin. You felt your thoughts scatter like startled deer, your heart thundering in its cage, pounding in your ears, scaring away the life in the forest around you. And you decided. You were a danger. You had no power here.

“I - I’m so sorry , I - I never meant to drive you apart, I -” you paused to hiccup and take a breath. You knew you were breaking, your composure deteriorating, but it was too late to stop. “Legen- Link. If you truly see me as a threat, if you truly believe that I will bring nothing but harm to you, to my-your friends, if…if you think that - that I should - I should never have met you, that I should never have…existed, I…I know I can’t force you to change what you so deeply believe, I -” You gasped a little shuddering inhale, and you made your final decision, the choice that you knew would be your last. You steeled yourself, and spoke. “If you honestly believe that you would all be better off - be safer - if I was gone, if you believe I’m a threat, that I would hurt you, that I - harbor ill intent, then…” you swallowed, still taking short, stuttering breaths. Then you turned around, held your hands palm-outward and arms open to the sides, and bowed your head; you left your entire back and neck, your spine, completely exposed to the man who wanted you dead. You leveled your voice, and accepted your fate. After all, he was an experienced hero, while you were just an inexperienced nobody. He would know what he’s talking about, what would be safest and best; you wouldn’t. He was not prone to emotional decisions; you were. If that was the case, then he was right. You were a threat to your friends.

“If you truly think that I should die for the good of the group, for their safety and happiness, then…then I… I trust you to do what’s right for your family. I would never willingly hurt any of them, I never wished any of you ill but…maybe I do just bring bad luck. Maybe I truly am a curse, a threat, a liability. If that’s the case, maybe - I know I can’t just leave, since Dink is after me and I know too much so - maybe I really am better off dead.”

There was a moment of silence, and then you heard him unsheathe his sword. The back of your neck prickled with danger, but you didn’t dare look over your shoulder. You counted the seconds as they passed, and you realized you had made it to thirty and nothing had happened yet. Why the hesitation? You assumed you’d be dying by now. Perhaps…perhaps Legend feared taking the blame for your death? Causing more division within the chain? Well, you shouldn’t let that stop him if your friends’ lives and safety were at stake. You would do anything to protect them, no matter what. Legend was right, and this had to happen. He had to do this. So why hadn’t he yet? You decided to offer some support, try to speed it along. You were never one for fearing the future but you really wanted this to be over, since you could feel the dread clawing up your throat, numbing your words and preventing any cohesive thought, forcing you to stand still and hear your blood thundering through your ears.

“You could, uh, you could make it look accidental, if you want?” You suggested. “Maybe - maybe I slipped, hit my head on a rock in the creek, maybe I drowned after I fainted or something, maybe I was playing with my knife and - and accidentally hit an artery.” At this point you started to hyperventilate again, desperate, but unsure as to why. “Maybe I was surprised by an enemy, a - a stalfos! - and I was too slow,” you continued, “or - or maybe I was kidnapped, maybe I was gutted by an enemy, maybe I - I just hit my head on something, maybe I had a - a - a hidden injury,” you were nearing hysterics now, “maybe, maybe I just — maybe I did it myself? Maybe I just couldn’t go on? Maybe, maybe I, I just - what if - I,” you lost your sense of words for a moment, “I can’t, I - what about if I just - just - You don’t have to take the blame, you know? You - you could cover it up! Maybe you just were doing your final rounds at the end of your watch and just found me - m-my body, maybe -”

“[Name] are you serious?” He cut through your rambling and you guessed he thought you sounded rather impertinent. You were trying to tell him how to do his job, and you’d kept on repeating what he likely had already worked through in his own mind.

Your mouth clicked closed so quickly your teeth almost clipped your tongue. Perhaps he wanted you to die quietly. You realize you were panicking and might’ve been too loud. Oh no, what if you woke someone up? Then Legend would get caught, and you would be the cause for even more trouble for everyone, and things would get even more tense, and if they were more distracted then they’d be in more danger, then…

…

…

…

You were still alive for some reason, although if you hadn’t been breathing so heavily you would have heard someone else’s suspiciously loud breathing behind you. As it was, you continued to hold still, arms sore from being held out, but you didn’t dare move. Even you knew better than to rob a predator of his prey, especially when he is so close to the killing blow. You were no fool, you knew he’d likely planned this for a while, and you knew better than to irritate him further. You just wanted to say one more thing, one final reassurance.

“I only want what’s best for them…best for you. I don’t hate you, contrary to what you probably think. I’m so sorry for any pain I’ve caused you, I truly am…I - I only ask that you make it quick, not for my sake, but if I was too loud a second ago and it woke anyone up and they found you kil-” your breath hitched, “killing me, it — it might make things worse for you all, and the last thing I wanna do is make things harder for all of you guys, I love you all and I—”

“Just SHUT UP!” Legend’s voice crashed through your pleading, and you stopped. And through the suddenly deafening silence, you realized something. Had his voice cracked? You listened more intently. He was breathing unevenly, almost gasping, almost…no, no your soon-to-be-killer couldn’t possibly…

He inhaled deeply and hoarsely whispered, “ Why? How, how could you just, just…” And in his struggle for words you heard something you would never have considered possible.

You had offered to die, just like he wanted, and

Legend —

Link —

was crying .

The man who wanted you dead, who planned to watch the light leave your eyes, was crying.

Perhaps he was just so happy you’d stopped resisting? Or perhaps he simply disliked the idea of causing someone pain? Yes, that was likely the reason; you were still a person, after all, and you knew that the Veteran, despite his callousness, did in fact have a heart (however guarded it might be).

“…It’s ok, Link,” you whispered reassuringly, “I’ll probably hardly even feel it, and if you’re right, and I’m sure you are, then…I deserve it anyway, and…I trust you to do what’s right, because…well, you’re a hero. You’re Link. I’m just… I’m nobody , nothing, so…It’s okay…” You stopped there, you knew he didn’t want you to talk, but darn it you always had a weak spot for people who cried, and you just had to try to reassure them, even if this particular person was planning to send you to meet your Maker a bit earlier than you’d thought you would.

But…there was still no sudden pain, no sword through your chest or severing your head, no sudden hit to the skull, nor were there hands forcing your face into the water until the bubbles stopped, nor any cutting, no slitting your throat, just…quiet sobbing?

Your mind froze for a second, and you held your breath to see whether the crying was actually from you. And it wasn’t. So, you waited. What else could make Legend wait? He was a hero, right? Maybe he just needed to psych himself up? It couldn’t be easy, you figured, literally stabbing someone in the back —

OH! Maybe that was actually the problem? Maybe he wanted to be at least a little more honorable and kill you face-to-face? After all, back-stabbing has a rather negative connotation attached to it. Facing forward and watching your killer do the job wasn’t really what you’d prefer, but it’s not like you had much choice in the matter. After all, he was the one with the sword.

In order to solve this newfound problem you slowly turned around and faced your whole body towards him, eyes closed, arms still out in a sign of surrender, tense muscles still ready for whatever method he would choose to end you. Maybe it would be kind? Likely not, seeing as you were a threat to his family. 

Tentatively you opened your mouth and quietly reassured him, “If you want to do it head-on and not with my back to you, that’s…cool too? I-”

“Oh goddesses,” he practically choked on the words, “you…you actually are serious…?” His voice was rough with…emotion? Confusion? But why? You were giving him what he wanted, right? You were keeping your frien- his family safe…right?

Right?

And then you cautiously cracked open your eyes a little bit, and then opened them all the way, and you lifted your gaze and actually looked at him, rather than just listening.

And you saw that he was an absolute wreck.

Rarely seen tears now freely flowed from his violet eyes, and he had to sniff to keep his nose from running too much. His chin quivered slightly and his adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to find words without openly sobbing. He dropped his sword as his posture went slack, a hand raising to cover his mouth, his watering eyes wide with disbelief and something remarkably akin to grief. Your confusion turned to concern for the man before you. Why was he crying? Was he hurt somewhere? Surely that was the case, for no one could change their mind as abruptly as he seemed to, right? 

He finally whispered hoarsely, “You…do you really…you’re actually willing to just…let me kill you?” He seemed shocked at your actions, but you didn’t know why. Unless…oh gosh, had you misread the situation?? You weren’t sure how you could have, but what if you did? What if you were the one to make him cry? How awful of a person could you be?

“I — I’m sorry, I — yeah, I meant it, really. I mean, I still do, but — I-I’m sorry if I misunderstood, I really am, I just wanted what was right, and I — I just figured you’d know better than me, that you’re right, but I didn’t mean to upset you, I swear, I’m sorry for making you cry, I never wanted that, I just wanted to keep them — keep you all — safe, but if I—”

“Just…stop… please .”

And you froze. Because Legend…he’d said please . He had never said please in the entire time you’d known him, and certainly not while addressing you of all people. So, you stopped. Your arms were in pain, however, and you risked slowly lowering them so they could lose their pins and needles. He didn’t react. He just brought his fist to his eyes in an attempt to get rid of the tears. He was no longer actively crying, so you counted that as a win. You continued to look at him, confused, but not trying to talk any more. You figured he would decide what to do in a minute. Maybe, you thought, he was crying with relief that he could finally stop fighting you.

And then he finally spoke again, in a very small, very subdued, almost unbelieving voice. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” He seemed to hardly believe it.

No, you denied the small spark of hope trying to take root in the void of your chest. There’s no way. It’s too late. He’s going to kill me. He can’t have been wrong. I’m supposed to die, right?

He raised his eyes to meet yours once more, and it was all you could do to nod in agreement. After all, you had never tried to deceive any of them. You’d only ever endeavored to tell the truth, and you weren’t going to stop now of all times.

“You’re not…a witch?” He seemed to almost be thinking aloud, not actually talking to you anymore, but you nodded along anyway, just in case. “You’re not actually a traitor, are you?” He murmured, “You’re…goddesses, you’re not even evil, are you? An enemy would never turn their back to me, Dark Link would never surrender, but…that means you…you’re just a person…just…” Then, in an even smaller voice and with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, “You’re…just you? Was I about to — to kill — an innocent?”

And at that moment you recognized his emotion: horror.

Link was mortified, absolutely horrified that he, a hero of courage, one of Hylia’s chosen, a bearer of the triforce, savior of realms and countries, Link, was about to kill you, a person who had never actually harmed him or his brothers, someone he’d been so set on not trusting that he’d tried to twist you into something that you’d never been. You had tried so hard to protect them where you could, to ease their burdens, to not cause problems, to bond with them, to ignore his acidic hatred, and you’d been through so much pain and loss, and been targeted by Dark himself, and he still had tried to make everyone reject you. You were traumatized, hunted, injured, afraid, and he still hadn’t held back. Your questions had never been any sort of interrogation, but simply confusion. The trust you gained from the others was simply friendship, not any sort of witchcraft or manipulation.

And, with mounting terror, he finally, deeply, truly realized that he had somehow even convinced you — sweet, innocent, confused, traumatized, eager-to-help, optimistic [Name] — that you actually were the problem, that you should — 

Oh goddesses, he’d convinced you that you were better off dead, that you should want to die — that you should just let him kill you. And for some heartbreaking reason, you had not only agreed, but then you’d exposed your most vulnerable points, without any sort of armor or protection, dropped your weapon, lowered your guard, closed your eyes, and told him to do what he believed was right…

You thought he was going to kill the person he should have been protecting this entire time. And you endorsed it only because of ignorant trust in someone who was supposed to be a hero.

And when he panicked, you’d tried to help him kill you .

He looked at you and saw your pain, your sadness, your survival, your resignation, your scars, your desperation to help others, he saw YOU, and not a trace of what he’d so firmly believed you to be. He was planning your death, and you’d tried to comfort him.

And Legend broke.

He did something neither of you expected; Legend, the one who had tried so hard to hate you, vaulted over the small distance between you, wrapped his arms around you, and held on so tightly he thought he might never let go. You had stiffened at first, halfway expecting a knife in your back, but when that didn’t happen you relaxed, almost dizzy with relief and swirling emotions, and you hugged him back just as fiercely. His face was on your shoulder, head bowed so that the fabric of your shirt muffled his increasingly panicked sobs and hiccups. And through those noises you could hear him apologizing relentlessly,

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, goddesses I’m so sorry, [Name] I — I’m so — so sorry, I’m sorry, I was so blind , I’m sorry, I was wrong, I was so, so, so — wrong, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and so he continued.

You finally breathed for what felt like the first time since he’d snuck up behind you. Your heart was pounding and, now that you held Legend in your arms, you could feel his heart thundering just as quickly as your own. You gently lowered the two of you to the ground, trying to comfort him even as you worked through your own dissolving panic. You held him as if he were a child, gently rocking back and forth as you tried to imbue him with a sense of safe-secure-trust-okay.

“Shhh sh sh shh,” you whispered, “it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’m okay, shh shh shhh, it’s okay, I…

I forgive you, Link.”

At this statement he began to sob even more heavily, and your own tears soaked his tunic as surely as his did your own.

“NO! No, you shouldn’t! You — you — I almost killed you!!” He pulled back and looked at you without letting go. “I would have killed you, [Name]! You — you can’t just forgive me! I — I’m so sorry, I can’t ever explain, I — I was so sure you weren’t trustworthy, I didn’t even give you a chance, I — gosh I basically just tried to freaking kill you, and you just…you can’t just — just —” he fell into hysteric hiccups once again, allowing you to interrupt.

“Well then, it’s a good thing you don’t decide what I can and can’t do, isn’t it?” You released your hug to hold his face in both hands, using a thumb to brush his tear-stained cheeks. “I’ll admit…I was, for a moment, scared, but,” you cut off his heartbroken and shattered gasp, “I get it. I don’t excuse what you’ve done, but I do somewhat understand and I forgive you, Legend. I choose to forgive you, Link.”

…

His world stopped in that moment. He stared into your eyes, so open, brimming with tears that he had caused. You shouldn’t forgive him. He was going to murder you, literally stab you in the back, in cold blood, right outside the safety of camp where his own brothers, who trusted both him and you, slept peacefully, placing full faith in him to keep the monsters at bay. And yet here he was, more of a monster than any of their Ganons or Ganondorfs could have ever hoped to be. He was despicable.

And then you even went so far as to offer him a watery smile that tugged gently on the Sheikah scars adorning your face, the scars of what you’d endured and survived. Oh goddesses, you were trying to comfort him — him — instead of yourself. You opened your arms and offered him another hug, and he was suddenly so thankful you were alive, that you were there with him, and that he hadn’t killed you. And he finally, fully, completely collapsed, releasing the pain he’d hidden away for so long from so much betrayal, distrust, and loss, burying his face into your shoulder once more. His stuttering breaths and hiccups prevented him from speaking, from begging you to hate him back, from telling you to strike him down then and there as surely as he planned to do to you, from screaming until his voice gave out simply because of his pure loathing toward himself, toward this monster he had let himself become.

You gently nudged him back toward camp, all the while holding him and tracing pointless patterns along his back, caressing his hair and whispering forgiveness in his ears. You fell asleep trying to keep watch for him by the fire, both of you tangled up in the other’s embrace, resting in the safety of someone you loved.

You both slept soundly and without nightmares for the first time in weeks.

….

And as the two of you sat there after crying your souls out to each other, having realized how much you actually cared for one another, the sounds of the forest slowly filtered back, joining with your sobs in a beautiful melody of mourning and life, shame and forgiveness. Your rivers of tears mingled together and joined the small creek, the whispers of your pain, relief, salvation, and reconciliation joining the water’s ever-increasing library of whispered memories and silent emotions. And it would never tell a soul, for no one could know what it knew; and you would never, ever know just how happy it was to gain your streams of tears and joy instead of the rivers of your life-blood. 

And if the third watchman woke to find the two most bitter of enemies curled up together asleep by the fire, tear tracks on their red-splotched faces, hair unkempt and, in your case, feet bare, and if he simply draped a blanket over you both and almost cried himself, well…who needs to know?

[dragonfly0808]

How Daphne Haunts the Narrative

I love the concept of a character haunting the narrative. Just… ugh I can’t even explain it.

My favorite examples of this are Sejannus and Lucy Gray in the Hunger Games.

I always found the concept of Daphne to be a very interesting one in the OG, this girl who was a Nymph and an amazing fairy sacrificing it all for her sister and winding up a ghost in a lake.

But I felt like that concept was never used to it’s full potential.

So… I tried to do just that.

In my rewrite, Daphne is almost this larger-than-life entity. She wasn’t just Bloom’s sister. 

She was an amazing fairy in her own right, she was a Nymph and the best Guardian of the Dragon Flame that’d been seen in centuries. On top of all of that, she was a dedicated Princess.

That’s part of what makes her tragic, she was the best, and she was still taken down.

Now, Daphne’s situation isn’t what I would call a proper haunting of the narrative, but she’s definetly very present in the way that, in some way or another, almost everything leads back to her.

Bloom is haunted by the idea of having to live up to Daphne, the more she learns about her sister the more she feels like she won’t be able to do just that. 

Bloom’s haunted by the memory everyone has of her sister, everyone who remembers Daphne has an insane level of respect for her and misses her dearly. That’s something that can intimidate Bloom from time to time and even make her jealous.

Then, there’s the fact that, if Domino hadn’t fallen and Daphne hadn’t been cursed, then Bloom wouldn’t even be a fairy in the first place.

Daphne gave up, not just the Flame but also a big part of her own power in order to keep Bloom safe and give her the power she would need to be the Guardian of the Flame.

Due to this, Bloom is haunted by guilt and resentment. Guilt due to the fact that pretty much everything she has could technically be seen as something that was ‘taken’ from Daphne. There comes the guilt, which then meets… resentment. Guilty resentment towards Daphne for giving her the Flame and being the action that drops the dominoes towards arguably every bad thing in Bloom’s life.

So, Bloom’s view and relationship of/with Daphne, is complicated to say the least.

This is something I love, since it allows for Bloom’s complex feelings to turn into something that I feel a lot of little sisters can relate to, just the confusion of loving and adoring your sister but also feeling jealousy and resentment and just, not being sure whether you should be like them and trying to be your own person when you have the same teachers… I think it’s kinda relatable in a way. If you take away all the magical shenanigans of course.

This is how Daphne haunts Bloom specifically, but this is named after the narrative, so how does Daphne haunt the very narrative of Veiled Wings?

That, is a very interesting question that has a bit of a complicated answer.

There are two ways in which Daphne haunts the narrative.

The first is ala Star Wars; the story ‘rhyming’. I don’t know if you’ve watched this very old interview with George Lucas but he said something along the lines of “the story rhymes”, what this means is that the same beats occur in the story, in opposite or contrasting ways. They ‘rhyme’.

This is what happens with Daphne and Bloom, in a sense, their stories rhyme.

Both grow up a bit lonely, both find their heart and soul in Alfea. Both make life-long friends there. Bloom finds her connections with fellow fairies while Daphne preffered witches and warlocks and Palladins.

They meet Tabitha and Stella, both with similar personalities but opposite powers. Avalon and Timmy, with the same habit of diving head first into research about anything they’re passionate about and being just a little (unapologetically) weird.

Then there’s their romances. Both Daphne and Bloom have tragedies as romances. Daphne and Valtor started off great, it was their ending that was oh so tragic. While, for Bloom and Sky, it’s Valtor that turns them into a tragedy in the middle of their relationship.

Politea and Selina, both dear friends lost to inner darkness.

Bloom’s story parallels a lot of Daphne’s. (Even if a lot of it is stuff that I just made up that hasn’t really been mentioned or explained).

The second way in which Daphne haunts the narrative, is that, like I mentioned before, almost everything leads back to Daphne in some way or another.

A lot of the villains or people we encounter have ties to her or are situations that she began/participated in in some kind of way.

Darkar was created in part due to Daphne. Darkar attacks Daphne, in turn, Valtor curses him and he becomes the red skeleton we know and love. Daphne is his origin story.

Before Bloom fought Icy, Daphne fought Icy’s cousin and her coven, who was the first to awaken the Ancestral Witches spirit. That is one parallel that I really like just, adding to the fight even if neither Icy nor Bloom are fully aware of the history of previous family also fighting.

Teachers we know (Griselda, Tabitha and Avalon most of all though Codatorta and Palladium also fall here) were once friends with Daphne.

Valtor’s entire reason for fighting is avenging and trying to bring back Daphne. And of course, the Ancestral Witches are locked away in time back in Domino as Daphne’s final act as a warrior. 

The end of Daphne’s story sets up the world the Winx start off in.

In a sense, all roads lead back to her.

The narrative can’t escape Daphne’s past actions, her choices, her story rhymes with Bloom’s and a lot of what happens in the story happens due to Daphne’s past and things that she once did.

I always felt like she was never fully utilized in the OG show and I really wanted to have her be a nearly constant presence, I wanted her to be perhaps even more than a ghost.

And thus, the idea of her haunting the narrative and Bloom.

[sagesolsticewrites]

Brady's Smash Wagon

Your boyfriend (Captain John Brady) takes you (his Red Cross girlfriend) to see his Flying Fortress. Shenanigans ensue 👀

a/n: in light of my recent induction into the Ladies Who Brady™️ club, I present... this <3 enjoy, y'all!

Warnings: mature content (oral (f receiving), fingering, semi-public sex (sorta?? like they’re outside but there’s literally no one else around), praise kink if you squint), an addition to the fandom’s John-Brady-says-grace-before-giving-head universe, definitely a few historical & military inaccuracies 

Word count: 2k

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Masterlist

For all the awful things the war had brought you, being a Red Cross girl wasn’t all that bad. Handing out coffee and doughnuts to the men, giving them a friendly face before they went up, giving them a taste of home or simply someone to talk to about missing wives and girlfriends and families back home— it all brought you a sense of happiness, helping the boys in your small way. 

It also helped that you got a chance to have some fun yourself.

Take tonight, for instance. Your friends had dragged you to one of the parties the 100th Bomb Group officers were throwing and you were having the time of your life twirling around the dance floor with your girls.

Rosie Rosenthal even took you for a spin on the floor, twirling and dancing circles around you effortlessly, the fast-paced songs he preferred leaving you breathless and dizzy and overwhelmingly happy.

Your eyes couldn’t help being drawn towards the band as the night continued, however. A certain saxophone player had had his eyes on you all night, and a little thrill ran up your spine every time you met his gaze, a flirtatious smile playing on your lips as you saw something flash in his pretty blue eyes.

Rosie stepped off to the side as the band started up a slower tune. Suddenly the saxophonist was gone, instrument left neatly in its case next to his chair, and John Brady was standing in front of you, smiling.

“Well, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?”

You shrug, attempting to hide the smile that longs to stretch across your face, “Waiting for a certain someone to ask me to dance, I suppose.”

He hums, eyebrow arching.

“In that case, may I have this dance until he shows up?”

You break, giggling as you allow your boyfriend to sweep you into his arms and onto the dance floor.

“You look gorgeous, honey,” John says softly, eyes raking over your figure.

“What, this old thing?” You laugh, deeply aware that he’d seen you in this simple blue dress a thousand times before, softening as you see the sincerity in his gaze, “Thank you, John.”

He simply pulls you in for a sweet kiss, thumb gently stroking your cheek as he pulls away.

“Can I show you something?” He murmurs, quickly assuring you, “We don’t have to go right now, we’ll stay for as many dances as you want, sweetheart, but… there’s something I want you to see.”

The earnest look in his eyes has you eagerly nodding, “I’d love that. And to be honest, I’m a little worn out from Rosie and the girls,” you add with a laugh, “So if you want to head out now, that’s fine by me.”

He agrees happily, arm winding tighter around your waist to pull you close, his nose brushing yours as the song comes to a close.

“Come on,” he whispers, his eyes lighting up as he guides you out of the club towards the hardstands.

“What— John, where are we going?” You hiss, though you can’t help a grin at how excited he seems.

“I’m gonna show you the other love of my life,” he says simply, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as he tugs you along.

John’s jacket draped over your shoulders, you approach the hardstands. It’s strange, seeing the forts without the bustling ground crew and flight crews surrounding them, but Brady looks perfectly at ease as he guides you towards one fort in particular.

“Skipper,” you say, squinting to read the name painted on the side.

“That’s the name she came with,” he says from his place beside you, looking up at the fort with what you can only describe as pride, “But the boys have taken to calling her, uh… ‘Brady’s Crash Wagon’.”

In the dim moonlight, you can barely make out a faint dusting of pink working its way up to his ears.

“I feel like there’s a story there,” you grin.

“Several, actually,” he says, and launches into the story of the crash landing over the mountains of Wyoming during a training mission that led to the new fort they received being given the new name. 

“And then— I think pretty much everyone’s heard this one—” he laughs sheepishly, “on our way in from Greenland our landing gear froze and we ended up having to belly in. She was in pretty bad shape after that,” he nods to the fort, “the fellas and I took a train to get here while she was getting fixed up.”

“I can see why they went with that instead of Skipper, in that case,” you grin, leaning against him, “It suits her.”

He knocks subtly on the side of the plane, the metal ringing softly into the night.

“She says thank you.”

Your giggles are smothered by his lips landing on yours, pulling you close as he smiles into the kiss. Your arms wind around his neck as the kiss quickly becomes heated, sighing into his mouth as he turns to press you gently up against his fort.

“J-John,” you gasp, feeling the cool metal at your back, “Are you sure—?”

“Who’s gonna see us, honey?” He murmurs against you as his lips migrate down your neck, leaving a delicious trail of heat over your skin.

That was true, you were under the cover of darkness, not to mention none of the ground crews were arou—

Your logical list of reasons why this wouldn’t be the most awful thing to do is quickly interrupted by the more primal part of your brain that utterly melts at the thought of him taking you up against the 60-thousand-something pound fort— his fort.

This, you can admit to yourself, is likely due to his lips migrating further south, the warmth of his mouth proving a stark contrast to the cool metal at your back. His teeth graze delicately against the hollow of your throat, making you shiver in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the cool night air as his hands firmly grip your waist, holding you still.

Your hands fly to grip his hair, desperate for something to ground you. He keeps going, though, and you can’t help but let out a soft gasp as you feel his lips move further down, dragging over your clothes.

The two of you have done this a fair few times, but you swear nothing on Earth will ever prepare you for the sight of Captain John Brady sinking to his knees in front of you, hair mussed from the way your fingers raked through it, pupils blown wide.

“John,” you moan softly as his lips drag down to the hem of your skirt, wasting no time in hitching it up your hips, his pretty fingers tracing along the waistband of your underwear.

“Saw you staring at me at the party, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your skin, “You couldn’t take your eyes off me, could you?”

You shake your head, a soft whimper all you can manage in reply.

You feel him smirk against your thigh, knowing exactly what kept your eyes on him while the band was playing.

“So which did you want first, honey? My mouth or my fingers?”

You clamp down on your lip to hold back a moan as said fingers drag gently over the quickly dampening fabric covering your core. He knew how enraptured you were watching his fingers fly over the keys of his instrument, and he knew how to put those skills to use in… other ways.

“If you don’t choose, I’m gonna have to choose for you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tracing gentle circles over your underwear.

“Don’t— don’t care,” you manage to gasp through the fog in your brain, “Just want you, Johnny, please—”

“Alright, honey, I gotcha,” he softly assures you, brushing soft kisses along your thigh as he pulls your underwear to the side, dragging his fingers through your damp folds.

Blazing blue eyes meet yours as he slowly, slowly inserts a finger, your bottom lip clamped desperately between your teeth in an attempt to stifle your moans.

In what seems like no time at all, he’s slipping in a second finger, then a third, crooking his fingers just so to hit that spot that he knows has you seeing stars every time he touches it.

Your muffled moans grow louder and louder, his fingers moving faster and faster as you reach your peak.

“C’mon, sweetheart, let go for me,” he murmurs between kisses as he works his way up your thigh, “It’s just us, just me, you can let go, honey—”

Suddenly his mouth clamps over your clit, and you’re tumbling over the edge with a muffled cry of his name, your knees going weak as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave.

You think you can feel him… whispering something against your skin? as you come down from your high, and when you open your eyes you’re greeted with a sight that has heat pooling in your core all over again: John’s fingers in his mouth, a groan escaping him as he cleans them of your release.

“Fuck,” he groans, meeting your eyes once more as he brushes a series of kisses to the inside of your thigh, slowly but surely working his way back up to your core, “Think you can give me one more, pretty girl?”

You’ve only just gotten your breath back by the time he’s reached the spot where your leg meets your hip, but your frantic nodding is a more than satisfactory answer for him, even as a soft whimper of “please, Johnny” escapes you.

He wastes no time in licking a stripe through your folds, your hands flying to grip his hair as he buries his tongue inside you.

You throw your head back with a gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumb comes up to circle your clit.

“Johnny—”

“Look at me, honey—” he murmurs against you, the vibrations making you tighten your grip on his pretty brown locks as your knees go weak once more, “fuck— keep those pretty eyes open, look at me— good girl.”

He knows what the growl of those last two words will do to you, never mind the sight of his darkened blue eyes looking up at you from between your legs, and you find yourself tumbling over the edge once more as your gazes lock.

Your legs tremble as he mumbles praises against you, effortlessly guiding you through your orgasm and eagerly lapping up your release.

“Oh my— Johnny,” is all you can manage as you come back to yourself, leaning fully on his fort to take some of the weight off your shaky legs.

He grins, standing to kiss his way back up your neck and pulling you in for a tender kiss. You moan, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Was that alright, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your lips, pulling away momentarily to scan your face carefully.

“It was perfect, honey.” You grin, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “But what about you?”

The pink tinge returns to his cheeks, spreading up to his ears as he mumbles, “I, uh… I got carried away, sweetheart. I’m alright.”

It takes you a moment, but then: “Oh. Oh.” You giggle, winding your arms around his neck as you pull him flush against you for a kiss.

“Next time, then.” You murmur against his lips, noses brushing as you break apart.

“Next time,” John breathes, grinning, “But until then, can I walk you back to the barracks?”

“I’d love that.”

You scoop up his jacket from where it had fallen from your shoulders during your little escapade and dust it off, John helping you look somewhat presentable as you attempt to brush the wrinkles out of your skirt and fix your hair. Eventually, the two of you are strolling over to the little huts where the Red Cross girls are housed, his arm and his jacket draped over your shoulders, looking for all the world like a respectable Army couple. 

He bids you goodnight with a sweet kiss, and you slip back into your hut on slightly wobbly legs, with a grin that refuses to fade even as you climb into your bunk to join your roommates in sleep.

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

it is time for... pajama-napped, aka the fic where wind is in his pajamas (<<< ao3 link for actual formatting and also because comments and kudos are nice)

@thecatcameback @sparkyfaith

The newly dubbed Wind was… very annoyed.

This wasn't the first time he'd been portalnapped, and he couldn't be particularly mad since he was able to see the captain and Mask again.

But… did it really have to be when he was in his sleeping clothes?

Whatever had brought them all together had given him his sword and items, but not his clothes, and maybe it was Wind's fault for being asleep in the middle of night (fuck whatever had done this), but this was embarrassing!

Thankfully, nobody seemed to be able to tell, due to the vastly different fashion styles of their times.

He was sure they would be back to his era soon.

They were not, in fact, back to his era soon. Rather, they seemed to visit every other era but his, including Legend's ancestor's (who bore a remarkable resemblance to Time).

His sleeping clothes were just old, worn clothes, so while it was inconvenient to wear and harder to hide his knives in, he could. But the worst part…

The worst part was the impressions they left. Everyone (well, not Warriors and Time) thought he was still a little kid!

If the portal had come when he was sailing instead of when he was home, this wouldn't have happened! He had driven fear into the hearts of scarier things with his regular clothes, which clearly told everyone he was a pirate and could fuck your shit up, but these? He gave off so much young innocent child energy he couldn't scare a chuchu.

Twilight had nearly had a heart attack every time he said fuck, though, so maybe it was a good thing his tattoo and knives weren't on full display. His brain would probably melt out his ears.

Wind glared at Twilight’s back. Ruffling his hair? Calling him kid? He was fourteen, not seven! He carried more knives on him than Twilight had years!

"He's barely older than me!" He fumed, jabbing a finger accusingly. "If we'd met when I was with Tetra, he wouldn't even think of it!" Probably because they would steal his stuff and ask questions later.

(Actually, Twilight would probably still do it anyway. He was just like that.)

He kicked a rock, cursing every god he knew, and then their mothers, for good measure.

"You let the captain do it, no?" Urbosa asked.

(Ghosts were the best people to rant to, as they couldn't tell anybody, and Wind knew that Wild, the one person they could, wouldn't say anything.)

"That's different." Warriors didn't do it because he was a kid, he did it because he was still their big brother.

"We'll be in your time soon." Mipha placed a cool hand on his shoulder.

"You said that two months ago."

"To a spirit, time can pass so quickly."

Bullshit. That was only with the really old ones.

"Tell him how fierce you truly are next time he tries it." Revali offered.

"I tried that." Wind explained. "When I told him I've killed men before, he laughed and said I was too innocent for that." He paused. "You give shit advice."

Revali squawked in outrage. "I never-!"

He couldn't believe appearances mattered so much.

"I'm sorry." The guard said, blocking their path. "You'll have to remove your weapons before you can see Lord Droupon."

Legend groaned. "Really?"

"No exceptions, not even for the hero."

"It's fine, vet." Time said, already pulling off his sword.

Wind passed his sword and a couple knives over, but was stopped by Warriors before he entered the room. "All of them."

"That is all of them!" He protested.

Warriors raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Fine." He said, pulling out a few more.

Warriors's eyebrow rose higher.

"Ugh." More knives joined the pile. Legend and Four were watching with fascinated expressions, while the guards stared in horror.

Somehow, impossibly, his eyebrow rose even higher. If it went any higher, it would probably vanish into his hair.

Wind rolled his eyes, finally pulling out the last few. "Happy?"

Warriors reached into his hair, pulling out one last knife, one similar to a hair accessory that he had stolen- eh-hem, borrowed from Artemis. "Yes."

"Holy shit, Sailor." Legend muttered, peering at Wind's tower of knives. "That's what, twenty-five knives?"

"Twenty-seven." He corrected, walking through the doors.

"Wow." He heard Four say behind him. "I can usually only get eighteen."

"It's because you're short." Legend said.

"Fuck you, vet."

Ha. He thought triumphantly. Warriors hadn't even noticed the ones in his boots.

Finally, after six months of bouncing between every era possible, and then some that weren't, he was home. Home, with his sister and his crew and his fucking clothes. He'd been wearing the same thing for so long.

"I'm glad we're finally at your home, Sailor." Time said, slapping his back. He winked (or maybe it was just dust in his eye; it was hard to tell sometimes). "I bet you're happy to be able to get some fresh clothes."

…That bastard knew the whole time, didn't he?

Wild stifled a laugh when he saw Wind's face. (Clearly, the ghosts were snitches. Could he trust no one?)

Even Four was struggling to keep their face straight. (How did they know, actually?)

Wind ignored the traitors and dashed across the sand, running towards his home. He couldn't wait to see Aryll, but if he didn't change first she wouldn't hesitate to tell everyone.

"Link?" A female voice said, full of shock.

Wind froze, balancing on one leg. "Oh fuck."

"Link!" Aryll said, shock giving way to joy.

"Heeeeeeey." He frantically jammed his feet into his boots.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He said, very obviously lying.

She glanced at his loose shirt skeptically.

"Aryll." He said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "You know the heroes I told you I was traveling with?"

She nodded.

"They're here, and most of 'em think I'm an innocent little kid, so if they ask, please go along with what I say."

"What do I get out of it?"

Was… was he being blackmailed? Was this what true betrayal felt like? How could she?

(And in his hour of need, too!)

His eye twitched. "I'll do anything, but can we talk about that later?"

"Sure!" She said cheerfully. "Your shirt is on backwards."

He groaned.

Legend squinted at him. "Wind?"

"This is my sister, Aryll!" He said, waving his hands at her.

Four peered at his wrist curiously. "Is that a tattoo?"

"A what-" Twilight started.

"Oh, did you get another one?" Warriors asked.

"I feel like we should be asking about the clothes." Sky said, looking faintly confused.

"You look like a pirate." Legend mused. "I mean, you said you were, but…"

"I have that coat." Wild said, bewildered.

"But don't pirates-" Twilight looked a little faint.

"Steal and kill people?" Wind offered.

"Yeah-"

"We don't usually kill people unless they really deserve it."

"Usually?"

Time looked down at Twilight with what might have been sadness - or mischief - in his eye. "Sometimes… death is the only option."

"Like murderers." Sky nodded sagely.

"Killing a murderer doesn't change the number of murderers in the world." Twilight protested.

"Kill two." Four suggested. "Or three."

"Maybe four." Warriors said. The shorter hero sent him an annoyed glance.

"Oh, dear." Legend said mildly as Twilight let out a strangled wheeze. "I think we broke him."

Wild wasn't even trying to hide his laughter.

"Why do you have my coat?" Wind asked, as he thought this was at least a little important.

"I found it." Wild paused. "In a river."

He pulled his slate off his belt, tapping the screen for a few moments before a familiar coat materialized in his hands. He handed it to Wind with a small flourish.

"What the fuck." Wind said as he inspected it. "This is my coat."

"Uh, yeah."

"No, this is the fucking coat I lost." He turned to Warriors. "You remember, right? When we were leaving, I lost it." He pointed to a hole in the sleeve. "There, from-"

"-A lizalfos claw." He finished, leaning over Wind's shoulder.

"Do you… want it back?" Wild asked hesitantly.

"Nah. You can keep it."

"I suppose we know who the champion comes after, then." Time mused.

"Yeah, but we don't know who I come after, so it's not really helpful." Warriors sighed. "It's amazing how long it lasted, though."

Hyrule rubbed the hem of a sleeve between his fingers and hummed. "Is there magic in this?"

"Yeah, I got it repaired by a great fairy." Wild wiggled a hand side to side. "It was a little…"

"Why are you wearing different clothes, Wind?" Twilight, who seemed to finally be able to breathe, asked. "They look completely different."

"He left in his pajamas." Aryll piped up. Wind, and it seemed everyone else, had forgotten she was there.

"Your… pajamas?" Legend asked, grinning. "You were in your pajamas?"

"Were you wearing twenty-seven knives while you were sleeping?" Sky asked, looking as if he couldn't imagine how uncomfortable it would be.

"Twenty-nine, actually." Wind corrected. "Warriors missed the ones in my boots."

Warriors groaned, grumbling. "How did I miss the boot knives? We all wear boot knives."

"So, twenty-nine? While you sleep?" Legend whistled. "Damn, Sailor."

"No."

Sky sighed in relief.

"It was just nine, actually."

"Nine!?" Sky looked ready to cry.

"Where did you even keep them?" Four circled Wind, a violet hue in his eyes.

"Oh well, one under my sock-"

"You sleep in socks?" Wild said, face filled with horror.

"-three on my arms, four on my legs, and one on my forearm."

"Doesn't it get uncomfortable?" Hyrule asked.

Wind shrugged. "Not really, they're all pretty small, perfect for-"

"-sliding between a man's third and fourth ribs." Time finished.

"Where'd you get the other twenty then?" Legend asked.

"Stole 'em." Wind paused. "Some of them from you. Took one of Time's."

"What?" Legend squawked.

Time shrugged, twirling a knife that, despite the years of wear, Wind could tell was his. "That's fair."

"Time has knives?" Wild asked.

"Of course." He said, suddenly holding a completely different knife.

"Little brat was always stealing mine and losing them." Warriors complained.

Four looked between them, obviously not seeing the 'little'.

"They see the obvious threat and don't look for anything else." Time explained, again holding a new knife. Wind wasn't sure where he was getting them from so quickly.

"He probably took his eye out doing a dumb trick." Warriors said.

He winced. "You are… not entirely wrong, Captain."

"Why were you wearing your pajamas, anyway?" Sky asked.

Wind huffed, crossing his arms. "Because, for whatever reason, I got portalnapped in the middle of the fucking night!"

Legend nodded. "Mine opened under my feet while I was walking."

Twilight gave them a strange look. "Mine was just a door, like usual?"

"Me too." Sky said.

"Mine as well." Time added.

"Huh." Legend mused. "Maybe whoever opened them knew I wouldn't have gone through?"

"I definitely wouldn't have gone through." Wind confirmed. "I was on vacation."

"Wow." Legend said. "On vacation? That's just rude."

"I know! Was it really so important it couldn't have waited a couple weeks?"

"They aren't going to stop soon, are they?" Sky asked.

"Nope!" Aryll said. "Come on, I'll show you around."

[fayes-fics]

Target Practice [Drabble]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict teaches his wife how to handle a rifle...

Warnings: Mostly fluff, a couple of suggestive moments, and one explicit line of dialogue. Married couple teasing each other.

Word Count: 0.7k

Author's Note: This is a request fill from DM chat with a lovely mutual who wishes to remain anonymous. They wanted to see a similar teaching scene to the infamous Kanthony gun moment... but with Benedict and his wife. Sorry it's taken so long to write this and that it's so short, but I hope you still enjoy <3 This is set in the Innocence universe.

“Concentrate,” he murmurs, each syllable elongated, the tone teasing and resonant.

You purse your lips and shoot him a sideways glance, feeling his heated breath dusting your cheekbone.

“Maybe it would be easier if you weren’t crowding me out, husband,” you point out with more than a hint of snark.

Benedict lets out a quiet chuckle.

“I’m merely trying to provide ample instruction, my love,” his voice tinged with amusement as a gust of wind makes the trees surrounding you rustle slightly, whipping the points of his cravat up to tickle your neck.

You hum, sceptical of that assessment. He seems to be doing his darndest to distract you as much as assist you.

“Here, hold it… like this,” his arm snakes around your back and his long, warm, agile fingers curl around yours on the barrel of the rifle. 

“You are just doing this in sport now, aren’t you?” you pout.

“Not in the slightest,” he lilts, “you just have to be the very best at everything, don’t you? So here we are.”

You almost hate how accurately he can sum you up with such an economy of words.

“Now look down the barrel of the gun along the aim line; line up your target with that v-shaped notch and fire at will,” he tutors softly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You take a calming breath and line up your aim with the empty wine bottle he has placed on the old stone ruin in the forest, some distance away.

He is silent as you cock the trigger, but just as your trigger finger moves to fire, he leans right in and rumbles right in your ear.

“I love seeing you handle my weapon.”

The gun fires loudly and ricochets you backwards. 

And… you miss—by a country mile.

Your whole body instinctively reacting to that bedroom voice he can affect whenever he wants to rile you.

“Not fair!” you huff loud and indignant. “I call shenanigans! I demand a redo!”

“All is fair in love and war, my darling,” he chuckles, already turned away to load and prepare his gun for the same shot.

“That was not done out of love,” you counter, brushing a stray hair from your face, “but it was a declaration of war, Mr Bridgerton.”

He guffaws louder. “Do your worst, my darling. I was a crack shot at Eton, and I'm still not bad now,” he simpers, the confidence oozing from him both attractive and galling. 

He really needs to be taken down a peg or two.

To be fair, he looks an innate natural with his rifle as he checks the barrel and lines up for his shot, his hold one of practised ease and years of tutelage. You’re almost annoyed at how good he looks, just how damn attractive he looks—his tan britches and blue overcoat straining in all the right places over his muscular outline. Damn him.

“Now darling, once I’m done tutoring you, maybe you will be this good,” he states airily, shooting you a crooked, sideways grin without taking his eyes off the target.

So you deploy the one weapon you have in your arsenal that obliterates him—every time.

Just as you see his trigger finger squeeze, you lean in and slide a hand heavily over the front of his trousers.

“I am so wet for you right now….” you exhale, biting his earlobe, breathing hot and heavy into his ear.

The gun fires…. And he has missed by a mile too.

He swings his head to look at you, mouth hanging open in disbelief as you simply tilt your head and raise your eyebrow.

“What? You did it to me,” you shrug.

“You brazen little minx,” he growls, and its equal parts impressed and annoyed.

“Husband, you told me, on our wedding night, if I recall, if I were ever in such a circumstance that I should tell you right away,” you continue in that smug tone. “I am merely abiding by your ‘ample instruction’,” you volley, echoing his own words right back at him as it's his turn to quirk an eyebrow.

You squeal as he tackles you to the ground. And there is no more shooting for a while… at least not with rifles.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84

[gojos-thot-patrol]

my mental health is spiraling in real time, Suguru fluff GO!

Suguru was always kind of put off by the idea of love. The thought of giving himself to someone so fully- of trusting them so wholly- and giving them the power over him that comes with that does not sit right with his soul. Meaningless sex was far more appealing to him. It always felt safer.

He was always very careful. Friends with benefits was a strong term, acquaintances with benefits was far more accurate. He didn't want to risk any of the potential feelings that often come from sleeping with a friend to pop up. And the moment any of those lovers confessed their feelings for him, he vanished- like a whisper in the wind.

it was better for everyone.

You never even registered to him as a potential threat in his war against love. You were just Shoko's cute friend who showed up at a lot of the hang outs Shoko threw. Her cute friend that happened to like the same music as him, and the same poets. The friend that he always finds himself slipping into philosophical conversations with and revealing parts of himself to that he hadn't really revealed to anyone before. That he found himself feeling safer and safer with.

He didn't even realize what was happening.

He thought he was still safe. Yes, he held you very very dear, but he held all of his friends dear. And you were just that- and only that- a friend. Is what he kept telling himself until he woke up in your bed after a blurry night of drunken shenanigans.

And you felt so perfect in his arms. Snoring softly as you curled into his chest, sleeping peacefully and trusting him fully to protect you. Something just instantly clicked- like when you finally find the solution to a puzzle that you had been stuck on for months. Maybe falling in love wasn't a death sentence. Maybe it wasn't as scary as he thought.

Maybe he could trust you with his heart.

For the first time in his life, Suguru woke up next to another person and didn't run away. He didn't untangle himself from the situation and try to slip out as quietly as possible, blocking them on the way out. He didn't do any of that.

Instead, he pulled you closer- if that was even possible. He gently kissed your sleeping forehead, and wondered how to ask you on a proper date. The first he would ever go on.

[cutedice]

Luffy, Usopp + Buggy w/ an so (gn) who is SO INCREDIBLY SILLY

Like the so is basically a jester. a little fella. just mindless entertaining fun 24/7 with this guy.

((Anon. You are my new favorite anon ever.))

When the S/O is Silly!

Characters: Luffy, Usopp, Buggy Warnings: None, fluff.

Everything is GN!

LUFFY

- He's all for the goofy behavior.

- Seriously, if you can make him smile he's 100% already vibing with you and you make him smile constantly.

- He's always ready to play with you or just listen to you tell jokes.

- People already compare him to the sun, and he never really understood that until he met you.

- He also 100% has a prank war going with you. It's endearing at first but now it's an actual war and the other Strawhats have been picking sides.

- So far you're winning, much to his annoyance. But, he can't pout for too long when he hears your laugh and looks over to be met with such a warm expression on your face.

- If you want an easy way to get to him when he is in a mood, physical comedy gets him a lot. He's a sucker for slapstick. Slip on a banana peel for the man.

- He'll always make sure you aren't hurt afterwards, so no worries! He just... has to stop laughing first.

- You can pout at him all you want after, but it won't do much.

- "C'mon, (Y/N)! You just- and- and the noise you made--" and he's hunched right back over losing his mind.

- Come on, how could you stay mad at him? Well, you can't! Because he finds it so funny, he tries to replicate it so you can see what he saw.

- Ends with you both lying on the deck, cheeks red and heads fuzzy from the lack of air, but genuinely enjoying each others company so much.

- Luffy wouldn't trade the feeling for the world.

USOPP

- Let's be real, he appreciates comedy. And, while he loves childish jokes and acts he also enjoys most other forms (except Robin's).

- But he loves yours!

- He makes a lot of self deprecating jokes at himself, it's his fall back and, while he doesn't do it enough to be concerning, he also doesn't hold back.

- But, none of those jokes last long when you're around!

- Cheesy pickup lines always get him to laugh. Sometimes you might get a blush or a bashful turn-away, but he's always laughing and fighting back chuckles.

- He loves hearing you add onto his tall tales. Commit to this man's bits!! He will love you!

- Get's even more entertaining if you act it out with impressions, play it up with him! Be nerds! Drama kids!

- You can't play any acting game together because you just wind up laughing too much to participate.

- One of his secret favorite things you do to make him laugh is when you sit in his little corner with him and purposely put something together wrong.

- "Y/N, pfft, I- I asked you to make a cube! How- how'd you make a triangle? Where- where's the other piece?"

- This situation is a win all around because it makes him laugh, he gets an ego boost in helping you, and if you really don't know how to build stuff or don't want to then he'll never know!

BUGGY

- As a clown himself, Buggy has been known to appreciate the finer forms of comedy.

- So, needless to say if you throw a pie at someone you're already a star in his book.

- Okay, he might be a little more mature than that and the pie might have to be well timed, but a well time pie throw is still a win! Really, if your timing is pretty good you'll land most jokes with him.

- Not to say everything needs to be timed. Sometimes silly things just happen with him.

- He's a walking shenanigans magnet and if you can double down on that and make it a positive thing for him he'll adore you.

- Plus, you so graciously taking the butt of the captain's jokes and pranks has the rest of his crew and Alvida praising you (mostly due to their mild annoyances to them).

- Buggy does pull pranks by the way. Constantly. But, he always, without fail, get's flustered when you catch him trying to set one up or mid-lie.

- Full body, red faced, you swear you can hear steam coming out of his ears. But, he always ends up laughing with you afterwards. It's funny once he looks back on the scene after a few minutes of denial and he can admit that much at least.

- And, you never laugh at him. Well, not in a bad way. He gets defensive, he's got a sensitive ego and he's greedy; but you only see him as... well, your fun partner in crime!

- That's right. If you've got the confidence to go head-to-head with him then you're officially his partner in crime! You don't really get a choice in this, he'll drag you along with his plans.

- Of course, he takes all the credit for any joke he might pull on the crews. He doesn't want you to get in trouble. Plus, he gets mild entertainment watching them treat you like your innocent.

- It's like having a spy on the inside as you come back to him with everyone's plans and schedules, and you two have a late night planning session.

- "So, if Alvida and Mohji are on the island that leaves--" he turns to face you for some help only to see you mid air plane throw at his head.

- You maintain eye contact for a moment before he grins and suddenly a hand is on your side, tickling you into surrender. "Hah! Try and best me again I dare you!"

[tashacee]

For master mode, has Warriors and Wind ever wondered if they'd meet Mask again? Or what about shenanigans with Time and members of the chain who like fire a little too much?

Love all your writing!!! ♥️

Ooooh so first: Wars and Wind FREQUENTLY wonder about meeting Mask aagain and Time is FRUSTRATED. Right up until he transforms back and gives them a big ol hug.

Second:

Master of Flames

Time found it funny how timid the rest of the Chain had been around him about fire at first. As if he might be offended by it. He had spent a lot of time in (read: breaking into) the Deku Palace in Termina and he could confirm that those guys absolutely did not have a problem with fire.

It was nice of his brothers to be so concerned for him, but he had waved them off and encouraged them to light fires as and when they saw fit.

Uh.

Maybe he shouldn't have encouraged them quite so much.

It wasn't a problem! It was just. Uh.

...

It was a bit of a problem.

The first time was in a battle. Wind had fired a fire arrow while running and it had lodged deep in Time's arm. He didn't exactly feel things the same now that he was made of wood so he just felt a dull thud and ignored it. It was only when his arm suddenly flared into pins and needles and Wild shrieked, throwing one of his weird water fruit things at him, drenching him.

His arm had been on fire. He hadn't even realised.

Oops?

Wind had been inconsolable, desperately apologising over and over again, even when Time cradled him in a hug and stroked through his hair. It had been a genuine accident, after all.

Still. Time was a little more careful after that. Especially around his more... fire-happy brother. Wild's bombs had singed his branches more than once and Twilight may have been a wolf, but Time had seen him on his adventure and knew that a lack of opposable thumbs had not stopped him from setting fires before.

So, well. He had to be more careful around fires. But his brothers looked out for him and when occasionally he did find himself set aflame, there was always someone there to put him out again.

And to laugh at him.

There was a lot of laughing.