uyuartik

[uyuartik]

Hello there!! Your family/domestic Obi-Wan one shot was SO CUTE!! You said you might write a pregnant reader one, so please do!! You’re an amazing author, and my number one source for Obi-Wan x readers 🫶🏼

Heatwave

A/N: I’m glad you liked the baby story! I have more ideas for dad!Obi Wan hehe

~

The night was heavy with heat, the kind that settled into the walls and stayed long after the suns had dipped below the horizon. You woke with a sharp intake of breath, the air thick in your lungs, your tunic plastered to your skin. Sweat dampened the hollow of your throat, the back of your knees, your pillow. Every part of you ached. Your hips, your ribs, your lower back. The baby—your baby—was awake and practicing what felt like acrobatics inside you.

You shifted with a low grunt, trying to ease the pressure in your spine, and a sharp jab landed just under your ribs.

“Oh—stars,” you whispered, hand flying to your side. You couldn’t help the quiet whimper that followed.

Next to you, Obi-Wan stirred.

He always did. He never slept deeply anymore.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was gravel-soft, tinged with immediate concern, and still thick with sleep. He sat up halfway, already blinking toward you in the darkness. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You groaned, frustrated tears prickling at your eyes. “I can’t get comfortable. I’ve been tossing for an hour, it’s so hot, my back feels like it’s on fire, and the baby—” A firm kick interrupted your sentence and made you wince. “—is apparently trying to tunnel their way out.”

Obi-Wan was fully awake now. He reached out and smoothed your sweat-damp hair away from your face, his fingers cool and gentle. “Shhh. Breathe. Let me help.”

He pulled himself from the bed and disappeared into the main room without another word. You heard the soft splash of water in the basin. A moment later, he returned with a soaked cloth in one hand, the other carefully carrying the small metal tub he’d filled earlier in case of another hot night.

You watched him work. Despite his fatigue, his hands moved with quiet precision—controlled, steady, calm.

He knelt at the foot of the bed and gently lifted your ankles into the cool water.

You hissed in surprise. “Force, that’s cold.”

“I know,” he murmured, massaging one foot carefully. “That’s the point. You’re overheating.”

You tilted your head back against the pillow, letting the sensation spread through your body. The swelling in your ankles had been getting worse every day, and the relief was almost immediate.

Obi-Wan moved next, his hand pressing the cool cloth against your forehead, then sweeping it slowly down your neck, over your collarbone. Every touch was reverent, careful, the kind of touch that said: I see you, and I will carry this weight with you, even if I can’t feel it myself.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you whispered, ashamed of the sting in your eyes. “I hate that I keep waking you.”

He stilled. “You think I care about sleep more than your comfort?”

“I think you’re exhausted,” you whispered. “And I know you won’t admit it.”

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly and leaned forward to press a kiss to your temple. “You’re right. I am tired. But I would rather be tired and beside you than well-rested and unaware that you’re hurting.”

You closed your eyes as his hand moved lower, gently rubbing your belly in soothing, slow circles. The baby kicked again, lighter now, almost playfully. Obi-Wan stilled and looked up at you.

“May I?” he asked softly, already sliding into the bed behind you.

You nodded, letting him guide you onto your side. His arm slid under your head, the other wrapping carefully around your belly. His palm rested there, warm and wide, calming the tiny flutters beneath your skin.

He pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder. “Do you remember when we used to talk about whether this was even possible?”

You smiled faintly. “You said the galaxy was too dangerous. That you’d never forgive yourself if you brought a child into it.”

“And you said,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your neck, “that love was always worth the risk.”

“And you listened,” you said, eyes fluttering shut.

“I always do,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t know how.”

He shifted behind you, adjusting the pillows under your knees and easing your legs into a more comfortable bend. One hand rubbed your back in slow, methodical circles, and the other remained tucked protectively over your belly. You melted into him, the pain dulling, your breath syncing with his.

Outside, the wind stirred, whispering across the dunes. Inside, in the half-darkness of your little home, Obi-Wan held you like a vow he would never break.

“I love you,” he said again, so softly it was almost a breath. “Even on the nights when I can’t fix anything. Especially then.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss the underside of his jaw. “I know. And I love you more than this heat will ever let me say.”

His smile was a curved, sleepy thing against your skin. “Then I’ll wait. Until morning. Until the heat breaks. Until the stars fall.”

And eventually, despite the aches, despite the heat, and despite the baby doing one last slow roll inside you—you fell asleep in his arms.

[uyuartik]

I was perfectly fine not being sexually attracted to Obi-wan Kenobi and you changed it with one post lol

Sooo...How would mister Kenobi react to finding his s/o wearing nothing but his robes 👀

A/n: This is the sweetest thing'

The door slides open with a soft whoosh.

You’re stretched out on his bed, one leg bent, head propped up on your hand, and a playful, knowing smile curving your lips.

Obi-Wan stops dead in his tracks.

His eyes widen.

His jaw tightens.

And that calm, collected facade? Shatters.

He can hear his heart beat strumming in his ears, blood racing.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice a bit lower, a bit rougher than usual. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You shrug, the motion making the robe slide open a little more, exposing the curve of your thigh, the bare, warm skin of your breasts, the soft dip of your waist.

“Waiting for you,” you say innocently. “Is that a problem, Master Kenobi?”

His jaw clenches at the way you say it, that soft lilt, that little spark in your eyes.

“You’re wearing my robe,” he says, stepping closer, eyes dragging over every inch of exposed skin.

Your smile widens. “I know.”

The fabric was soft on your skin, the rob engulfing your frame as Obi-Wan's eyes glazed over your body, your hair a mess.

He’s on you in two strides, his knee sinking into the mattress as he leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it open.

“Do you know what you do to me, wearing this?” he murmurs, eyes dark and intense as they roam your face. “All those months of restraint… patience… composure…”

You blink up at him, your lips parting. “What about them?”

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, voice dangerously low.

“They’re gone.”

He grabs the edges of the robe, pulls it open, exposing you completely beneath him—bare, soft, waiting.

You gasp as the cool air hits your skin, nipples pebbling, your thighs falling open.

Obi-Wan groans, his gaze roaming over you—taking you in, devouring you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, thumb brushing over your nipple, the pad of it just rough enough to make you shiver. “Wearing nothing but my robe. Were you waiting for me to find you like this?”

You nod, breath hitching.

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

You shudder beneath him, arching up, pressing your hips against the hard, insistent bulge beneath his tunic.

“Anything you want,” you whisper. “Take me, Master.”

His eyes darken, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Oh, I will.”

He yanks the robe completely open, the fabric pooling beneath you, and grabs your thighs, spreading them wide.

“You’re already so wet,” he murmurs, fingers sliding through your folds, feeling how soaked you are, how ready you are for him.

“All this… just from wearing my robe?”

You nod, face flushed, hips lifting to chase his touch.

"Obi-" his name a plea on your lips.

He chuckles—a dark, filthy sound—and then he’s sliding two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, his thumb brushing over your clit with each thrust. You teeth sinking into your lip to stifle a small cry.

“You want me to fuck you in it?” he whispers, leaning down, lips grazing your throat. “You want me to take you while you’re wrapped up in my robe, smelling like me, dripping all over my sheets?”

You gasp, clutching his shoulders, legs spreading wider, body aching for him.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Obi-Wan—please—”

He pulls his fingers out, grips your hips, and lines up the thick head of his cock, pressing it against your entrance.

“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting in one smooth, devastating stroke, filling you completely, making you arch and scream his name.

He doesn’t go slow.

Not this time.

He fucks you hard, deep, the robe bunched beneath your body, his cock driving into you again and again, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to keep himself from falling apart.

“Mine,” he rasps, slamming deeper, his breath hot against your ear. “My robe. My bed. My woman.”

You’re a writhing, moaning mess, nails digging into his back, head thrown back as he fucks you through it, grinding his cock into that sweet, sensitive spot inside you until you’re screaming his name, coming so hard you see stars.

And Obi-Wan?

He’s not far behind.

With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you, filling you with everything he has.

After, he collapses beside you, one arm pulling you close, his face buried in your neck as he catches his breath.

You’re still wrapped in his robe, still trembling, still warm and utterly, completely his.

And as he kisses your temple, his voice is low, soft, and utterly spent.

“You wear my robe again, and I’ll fuck you even harder.Until you can’t walk for days.”

Wetting your lips, you gave the man a sly smile as you let your fingers trail down his back. "I may have to with a promise like that."

A deep chuckle escaped Obi-Wan's lips.

[uyuartik]

corrupt bunny

ೀ happy birthday to our daddy dearest josè pedro balmaceda pascal 💝

ೀ a lil dbf!joel smut 4 celebration i hope u babies enjoy i was so tired from work but baby daddy deserved dis!!!

ೀ DBF!JOEL MY MAN 4EVA

ೀ description: FILTH LITERALLY FILTH HELLO, SMUT, DBF!joel, (pre-outbreak!joel kind inspired)early40s!joel, dom!joel, sub!reader, early20s!reader, heavy heavy daddy kink (MHM), choking (r receiving), cowgirl momentarily 👅, doggystyle, slight hair pulling (r receiving), breeding kink (☺️), no use of y/n, use of pet names (darlin, sweetheart/girl, babydoll), reader gets rammed in childhood bedroom.

you came home from college for summer break, you were feeling severely homesick—and sick for something else.

your dad’s bestfriend Joel. he was a burly, scruffed, and damn-right sexy; not only that but he was a man, a real man.

you couldn’t find yourself standing a second talking to a college boy after the last night you had 5 months ago before you left spring break.

now here you were, in your childhood bedroom; getting completely fucked out of your mind by that exact man, Joel.

when you came home, you expected to be greeted by your parents once you arrived at your childhood house.

your grandma had picked you up from your university and dropping you off with all your luggage; just to be greeted by Joel Miller.

he was sitting on one of the many wooden chairs on your porch, beer in hand as he leaned his back against the rest of the chair.

“welcome back, darlin’” his southern accent drawls so sweetly, your heart pooled straight to your cunt. you took in the husky man.

he was laid-back, wearing tight jeans with his old brown belt shining with that thick silver buckle holding his jeans tightly as white tee hugged his roughed-up muscles perfectly. especially, the way his brown rough of hair curled around and framed him perfectly. you were gawking as you kissed you grandma goodbye. slight shameful but fuck, he was so fine.

you forced your way up the three-steps, you could feel his eyes burn through you. the heat of summer sun wasn’t the only thing making you sweat; his gaze feeling hotter than anything else on this planet.

“hi—hiya’ Joel! —my folks?” your throat raked out—cheeks flushing in embarrassment, clearing it before continuing. you were a complete mess under the chocolate galaxy he carried in his husked eyes.

“they left for a cruise?” he answered, looking at you questionably as your memory begins to jog-back to you.

“fuck right! —you were going to greet me today—i completely forgot.” it had completely slipped your mind through your rushed packing that Joel was going to be with you for their last night of their cruise; to watch over you, take care of you.

“oughta’right babydoll—y’just gon’ stand there gawking?—or y’gon c’mere?” his tone was low as his drawl foretold.

there were no words, just actions.

you could feel the sweat trickle down your neck into the dips of your clavicle as you walked through your front door, taking in the aroma of your childhood home.

the place you grew up with your dad and Joel handling grill-outs on summers like these, the place whereas you got older, the infatuation you had for your dad’s bestfriend only turned into a undying crush.

you would do anything for Joel, anything he asked.

that’s exactly how you ended up in the salacious position you were in now; position he put you.

“better have not been fuckin’ around with those dirty ol’boys” his hot breath glazed your ear with his growl.

you took in the view of your childhood bedroom, taking in the white walls that were decorated with the cutest posters and fashion magazine rip-outs. your ceiling fan even had a pink monkey dangling from it that has been collecting the dust up there for the past decade.

your bed was completely by a full satin-ruffled bunny printed set from when you were younger, scattered with all types of stuffed animals; a couple of different colored teddy bears and hello kitties—almost all had been gifted to you by Joel himself.

this was a disgustingly heavenly-sent tainted picture-perfect moment.

he laid perfectly in between all your teddies and plushies as you hopped on him like a corrupt bunny.

“never daddy!—pussy s’yours! s’yours!” you cried as his rutting vigorous hips met yours. your titties were pushed against his broad hairy chest as his hand had a grip through your hair, keeping your heads connected.

all you could feel was the way he engulfed your insides was a flame hotter than the rays of the sun, a burn you craved more and more.

the only thing you could pay attention to be the sound of his balls slapping against your lower ass as your hips recoiled against each pistol of his own—feeling his cock brush against your cervix with each fuck-up from his cock.

the room that Joel used to once come check-in on you everytime he visited your home throughout the years, watching you become the woman you are today, so full of life and intelligent. yes, your father would kill him—go out first thing he was to find out to purchase a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it on him.

Joel knew this was wrong, but lord didn’t give him enough strength. it was you; how could he resist you.

it all made it more sickingly beautiful to him.

“who’s your daddy, babydoll?” Joel flipped you over. your faces embarrassingly smushed in between all your cute little plush babies.

“gah—fuck—you!you daddy! you!” it wasn’t even a second that he was outside of your cunt before slamming himself back into you.

“oh my—fuck! daddy s’big!” your cock-drunken self slurs out as you drool onto of the hello kitty’s Joel gifted you; completely dumbed out on his cock. he was biggest you’ve ever seen and taken.

you never failed to remember the way his cock stood girthy and tall, almost taking up the size of your face as one hand wasn’t even enough to pump him correctly.

Joel showed no mercy to your sweet little cunt as you were now on all fours for him, exposing him to all your perfect curves and dips; his hand running up and through your back as his hips slapped harshly against the recoil of your ass.

you felt his big callous hands hold the back of your neck, not caring for the sweat that glistened off the both of you before moving it over to grip your throat, cutting the air from you blissfully.

from now on, the only thing planted into your brain was Joel.

the way he had you in pure erotic dismay for him in your childhood bedroom, the bedroom he watched you grow up in. you loved this, you lived for this.

“such a dirty girl—likin’bein’ choked” Joel’s groan graveled, sending a shiver through your spine as you felt your vision blur from the loss of circulation. you felt like you were at the gates of heaven.

“only f’you!—only f’ya-daddydaddy please!”

your pleasantly ardenous moans and sobs echoed through your little girly walls, bouncing off just like your plush ass against his thick cock as your cunt slid him like it was molded for him and him only.

you felt his grip on your neck loosen slightly as it went to massage through the locks of your hair, roughening it up as he pulled on it slightly with each impassioned thrust into your squelching cunt.

“such a good girl fa’me—you always been, haven’t you? —gah fuck! —always wantin’ to do good by me, hm sweet girl?” the tone that carried through his deep accent was ravenous as his groans stuttered him out.

Joel could feel himself growing closer as he twitched inside of you. “yesyes! always good f’you, daddy! m’close—so close!” you moan out as you feel your legs shake as his other hand that never left your hip turned red by how deep his hand dug into your flesh.

you could feel his hips stutter as you reach your hand behind you to feel him, desperate to hold him in some form. he immediately grabs your hand and places it on his heart.

“feel this babydoll? this whatcha’ do t’me—ougah fuck! you drive m’crazy!” Joel didn’t hold back as he made his last rough and haste thrusts count.

you could feel the way his heartbeat was beating fast, beyond rapid. you were sure you loved this man “yes daddy! s’good—love yo—ah! ah! daddy!” you were so cock-drunk, you didn’t stop the confession from coming out.

“say it, sweetheart—please!” the husked groan was a beg.

“im cumming!—fuck! —i love you, i love you daddydaddy!—fuck!” the confession was carnal, but you looked back, pouring your eyes into his fucked-out ones completely matching his hungry gaze. you meant it.

“i love you more—fuck me! wanna make me a daddy? drive y’old man crazy, hm?” Joel was a menace, such a sick hot menace.

“Joel—but—but!—”

“whassa’ matter, sweet girl? y’don’t-fucking he—hell! —wanna get this young little pussy full of my kids?” you watched the sick smirk smear across his beautifully rugged lips.

“hmph fuck it-yes! yes yes! daddy daddy please—fill me up—oh my!” you blabbered out in pure bliss; you loved the idea of having his kid in such a twisted way. your dad would lose it, but right now, there wasn’t a single care in the world for the both of you.

just like that, you could feel his hot load shoot and seep into your cunt, coating your wall with his thick white cum; hoping to reach into your beautiful fertile self to bless you with a bump of his own.

the room was filled with breathless pants as your chests heaved, pulling you in once he collapsed onto your angelic frilly little bed.

you shared hot and love-drunk, wet open-mouth kisses, making both of your membranes fuzzy.

your kisses slowly went from his lips to the gruffness of the hairs on his beard, getting lost on the way the small greyish brown hair tickled your lips. then, down to his neck, leaving the softest pecks—feather-like as a deep sigh erupts through his lips.

you felt him pull you up, grabbing your chin to look at him.

there was that dark hungry gaze again.

the chocolate abyss in his eyes that lulled you in every single fucking time.

“im gon’ fill this fucking pussy t’ill i got a mini us runnin’ around.”

dolls-taglist: ̗̀➛ @yondaimekazzy @alyzae13 @elliewilliamsgirl3

to join taglist click here !

[uyuartik]

────۶ৎ all his

your dad’s best friend has always been too much—too big, too strong, too fucking tempting. you push him, he breaks, and now? now he’s making sure you know exactly who you belong to.

warnings: smut, age gap, dbf!joel, brat!reader, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, size kink, oral (f receiving), tommy’s camp vibes. you know what you're getting into.

more

ᖭ༏ᖫ

joel shouldn’t be doing this. shouldn’t have his fingers hooked inside you, shouldn’t have his mouth right there, shouldn’t be looking up at you like that, like he’s got every fucking right to be here.

but he is. and he does. because you let him. because you’re a stupid little thing who doesn’t listen, who keeps pushing at the boundaries of what’s right and what’s fucking not.

‘this what you wanted, baby?’ he asks, low and rough, fingers crooking just right inside you, hitting that spot that has your head falling back against the wall of his cabin. ‘this why you’ve been lookin’ at me like that? runnin’ that mouth, actin’ like a little brat just beggin’ to be put in her place?’

you nod, barely, moaning as his tongue licks up over your clit, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin of your thighs. he’s got you spread out on his bed, one of his big hands pressing your hips down so you can’t fucking move, can’t chase or run from the slow, steady flicks of his tongue. he’s mean with it. purposeful. gets you right to the edge and then pulls back, fingers still deep inside, stretching you out, keeping you open.

‘answer me,’ he mutters against you, and when you don’t—when you’re too busy whimpering and rocking your hips up, trying to get him to keep going—he pulls away completely. takes his fingers out too.

‘joel, please,’ you whine, voice high and needy. you don't care how desperate you sound. you are desperate. ‘fuck, just—just put it in already.’

he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he stands over you, unbuckling his belt.

‘greedy little thing,’ he mutters, watching the way you bite your lip when he pulls his cock out, thick and flushed, tip already leaking. ‘that’s all you want, huh? for me to fuck this little cunt like you don’t know any better?’

‘yes,’ you say, spreading your legs wider, giving him all the invitation he needs.

he doesn’t waste time. doesn’t make you beg for it, doesn’t tease anymore. he just grabs your thighs, holds you open, and presses the tip right up against you, pushing in slow. too slow.

‘jesus,’ he mutters, hissing through his teeth as he sinks in. ‘so fuckin’ tight. you sure you can take all of me, sweetheart?’

he’s mocking you, really. teasing. because he knows you can. knows you will. but it doesn’t stop him from being a dick about it, from making you work for it, from making you squirm and whimper as he stretches you open, inch by inch, until he’s all the way in, hips flush against yours.

‘look at that,’ he murmurs, one hand pressing down on your lower belly, right over where he’s buried deep inside you. ‘fuckin’ made for me, huh?’

you nod frantically, whining as he rocks his hips, setting a brutal, deep rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck himself into your bones.

‘gonna keep this little cunt full, yeah?’ he grits out, hands gripping your thighs tighter, keeping you in place while he fucks you just how he knows you need. ‘gonna let me ruin you for anyone else?’

‘fuck, joel, yes—’ you sob, hands gripping at his arms, his waist, anything you can reach.

he groans, hips stuttering, eyes fixed on where you're stretched wide around him.

‘that’s my girl,’ he mutters, leaning down, pressing his lips to your jaw, your neck, biting just enough to make you whimper. ‘fuckin’ mine.’

ᖭ༏ᖫ

dad’s best friend was never meant to touch you. now he’s making sure no one else ever will.

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated. if you’d like to be tagged in future posts, let me know!

[uyuartik]

(This was half inspired by @hanasnx’s constant stream of ex!character content and half inspired by my coworker and her baby daddy who will NOT LEAVE EACH OTHER ALONE!!!!!!)

ex husband!hotch who makes garcia keep tabs on you on the downlow. he stresses to her that she is not to share this with anyone, even derek, and she feels sort of guilty for spying on you, but she misses when you two were together and she'd do anything for him. every time she says she heard from a mutual friend that you've started dating again, he just nods and thanks her for the info. you find out eventually that's he's basically been spying on you and you have this big fight with him about how he doesn't have any right to know what's going on in your life anymore because he left you and he just stands there stony faced and lets you yell at him. he never tries to say that he's justified to be spying on you but he never says he won't do it anymore either, he just lets you leave and watches you until you drive away, and nothing ever changes. he knows you’re thinking about him though because garcia doesn’t report any more dates after that.

[uyuartik]

SIRIUS BLACK is a lot of things. he’s reckless, impulsive, handsome, charming, the epitome of trouble—yet what he refuses to be is disloyal to his friends, and that remains to be one of the few things that others can at least commend him for despite his questionable reputation.

however, his moral compass wavers a bit every single time he catches a glimpse of you, a fellow gryffindor whose laughter sounds like literal music to his ears whenever you’re near in the common room and whose smile can make him feel things that he isn’t sure he’s familiar nor okay with for that matter.

it’s mushy… fluttering… too soft for a git and well-known casanova like him who moves from girl to girl like a quaffle during quidditch.

but he can’t deny that when it comes to you, there’s an undeniable pull that he can’t seem to shake off no matter how hard he tries. it’s as if even if he makes a conscious effort of not staring at you, or tuning your voice out during class recitations, or choosing to step away when the only seat left in the gryffindor long table is next to yours—you still end up lingering in his mind after school hours, making him wonder what it would be like if he just succumbs to his desires. 

which is wrong. on so many levels.

because peter pettigrew likes you, and if there’s one thing that sirius hates the most, it’s willingly betraying your friends.

so, why does it feel this bloody good to kiss you like this?

“okay, fuck—” sirius pulls away, restraining himself from deepening the kiss and pressing you harder against the wall he’s caging you in. “you—you absolute dangerous little thing—” he tries to complain, but you tug him by the collar of his shirt again, kissing him once more which sirius groans against your mouth to, his head tilting to the side to kiss you better nonetheless.

everything happened so fast.

one second the gryffindors are celebrating a quidditch win in the common room, the next he finds himself standing next to you by the fruit punch that might have been spiked by james and himself, and then by the following hour or so, he’s seeing you flirt with him and he can’t resist the urge to flirt back, not when it’s you who’s smiling at him and batting your eyelashes in a way that definitely makes him stare far too long on that pretty face of yours.

“bloody hell,” he curses, dragging his mouth away from your lips, his forehead falling on your shoulder where he takes even breaths.

he hears you breathe with him, chuckling, before the palms of your hands find his cheeks, softly cupping them and forcing him to look at you.

you both stare at each other, and sirius scans your features—your shiny eyes, the strands of hair that fan your face, the way your lips appear sinful being swollen and red like that, as if begging him to make it worse.

you smile and pull him in for one more kiss, a soft kiss that he melts into and renders him completely helpless under your touch.

when you pull away, resting your forehead against his, he whispers something that one definitely shouldn’t say after a moment like that:

“peter likes you.”

you continue to gaze at him, raising an eyebrow. “what?”

“peter likes you.”

“yeah, no—i mean,” you laugh a bit, your hands falling on his shoulders, “why are you telling this?”

“because he’s…” he swallows hard, looking pathetic or like he doesn’t want to say his next words out loud, “he’s a mate of mine. and this—this thing that just happened between us—it shouldn’t have happened.”

“oh.” 

you don’t seem like you’re hurt by his words. if anything, you’re confused, and he gets why. the infamous sirius black isn’t exactly recognized for taking the high road.

“yeah, so.” he clears his throat and steps back (grudgingly, his feet protesting while he does so), unsure of what to do other than leave. “i’m sorry. i just…”

he feels foolish as he tries walking away. but he doesn’t even get to feel foolish for that long because the moment you call his name, he doesn’t even think—he just stops and turns to you once more, curious on what you have to say.

you’re still leaning against the wall, your hands behind you, and you’re looking at him in a coy manner that his inside feels goddamn weird again.

“i don’t like peter,” you say.

sirius inhales sharply.

“i like you.”

his hands form into fists at his sides, every bit of restraint crumbling as you stare at him like that.

and then with the press of your lips, you deliver the final blow.

“don’t you like me too, sirius?” 

he sighs, the innocence and sweetness of your tone causing him to close his eyes for a moment, further sending him spiraling due to his dilemma of being a good friend or having you for himself.

but then he hears you call his name again, with that breathy voice that he knows he’ll replay in his head for nights to come, and throwing every last bit of moral he has in his system, he curses under his breath and dashes towards you, kissing you senseless with much more fervor and want. 

your lips curve upwards against his and he groans.

“have me wrapped around your finger, have you?” he says.

your victorious laugh echoes in the dark hallway.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

[uyuartik]

thank you!!! bridgerton with ewan would be fantastic buy im down even for him to play any romantic period drama

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader) part iii

tags: angst, fluff, arguments, period typical misogyny (of course not from obi wan), just overall wealthy pricks being little shits, the trope of THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, but not really, do you believe in second chances (i don't) (💀), little smut compared to the rest because originally there was no smut in this (but i HAD TO use that idea), REPOST because i fucked up in the first place

a/n: welcome back for the finale!

well, i can't think of anything to say except this has been a blast for me, and i'm so happy that there are those who enjoys this madness as much as i do. hope you like the ending too. thank you all!

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can’t wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

part one | part two | part three | ao3

enjoy!!!

word count: 8.3K

chapter three: fuck it it's fine!

You don’t board that ship. A slight sickness you excuse, then spend your days sulking at home, still covered by the expanse of your lies. It is not totally untrue, though. You did really wake up with a swollen throat, and that put the integrity of your health during the journey at risk, thus with great grief, canceled the plans. Nobody knew that you’d not even mention the symptom on any other day, just requesting some honey tea and hardly noticing it disappear in the morrow. And it exactly worked out as predicted, more so, without leaving its discomfort for remorse. But after that, the hours stretched out each day, like you were living in a different plane where you were not welcomed. Perhaps you actually weren’t, for if you followed your fate, you’d be eating different foods, and walking foreign corridors. In an attempt to run away from that feeling, you try to socialize just a little, attending even the most dull tea parties. Also, your preference of company has to be specialized now, and that proves difficult sometimes.

So, that’s exactly why you indeed sulk at home, even though all your efforts.

But not tonight. 

Then again, perhaps you should've.

His presence has nothing to do with it, to be perfectly clear. On the contrary, he makes it a little endurable. The forced small talk and empty eyes you once feared dearly are not the case, even after your last encounter. Of course, there's a little awkwardness, an uncertainty about where the line of intimacy now stands, shadows of anger and disappointment still darkening the atmosphere, but the overall sensation comes down to longing. You both lost a great friendship, cast it aside in a blink, but your souls don't accept this new arrangement that quickly, trying to fall into the familiar rhythm once more each time you feel your walls break. You don't allow it, neither does he. Yet, it is about the only thing that turns this night into a not complete waste of time. Even a pleasant one, you'd dare say. 

If it weren't for literally everything else except this.

The hushed little uninformed jokes start during the dinner. It is the lord of the house that says them, to his close circle, barely hanging onto etiquette he had glimpses of. As minutes tick and glasses of wine roll, that glimpse is gone, and even in your seat at the end of the table, you hear him clearly. The pressed lips and masked mimics pretending not to be aware of it soon become apparent on every face, excluding you and Lord Kenobi. You glower the first time another of the guests feels confident enough to make his dirty contribution to the subject. Typical, you try to stay calm, tapping your fingers on the table. The world is filled with the likes of him, and the last thing they deserve is your attention. The reflex doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and he sends a sympathetic smile, showing that you’re not alone and accepting this invitation was a most regretful choice. He uses a few retorts to close the deal, let the dinner continue in different matters- or in silence, that would be fantastic indeed, but his smart wit and slight intimidation work only for a couple of minutes. Now it’s your turn to reflect that sad smile, and you do.

The sadness doesn’t come from the circumstances around you all, though. Your heart feels heavy, for not trying better ways to handle that morning. That guilt will haunt you, drag you into the gloomy pit you’ve been in, and maybe, you should stay there for some time, a penance for your mistakes.  

After dinner, when the ladies and gentlemen huddle around different interests, you get a chance to cool off. The soft peals of laughter and giggles fill the room, a much more pleasant sound than the roar of men. You get to entertain others with your stories of other cities you’ve been to, and they tell their interesting incidents, and make fun of their husbands, people who deserve, as their commotion spills out of the walls. The topic of their conversation, marriage, diffuses out into your circle in such a way, that once again, you’re restraining yourself, trying to listen to the problems one of the ladies is complaining of, and not to hear the crude comments going on on the other side. You’re stopped from rushing out of your armchair simply out of respect you have for the woman speaking when you pick up your name passing in their remarks. Plus, Kenobi’s words, you don’t flatter me by offending the lady, reach every ear in the room, sharper than a knife. Your cheeks burn with anger, then with gratitude, and at last, out of embarrassment, because how are you going to explain he’s just doing an honorable thing, that it’s his character to defy ill minds when he sees one, and this has little to do with his “pursuit” of you? Your breaths are shallow and quick as you focus on the discourse, and dodge every attempt to pull the subject towards your relations.

Though, the snake doesn’t give up on eating, even his own tail, it seems.

In less than half an hour, a joke about abduction is whispered, and you surge from your armchair, the screeching sound echoing. You murmur what resembles to be an excuse (you’re still deciding whether they are worthy of one), and send one glaring gaze at the group, enough to make one flinch, and walk out.

Out of the entire house.

Lucky for you, this is a night in which you carpooled with another guest, meaning you only have your own feet to carry you away in this pouring rain.

But of course, that’s not enough to deter you.

You take big steps, enforced by your fury. Thus, the house leaves your sight in no time, but not their audacity, still ringing in your ears. Implications about your freedom. Complaints of wive-hood. Humor about how perfectly reasonable is to get rich, by kidnapping a young woman… (Honestly, after all that, you don’t have mercy for them of the panic they might experience when they realize their guest is not refreshing in another room, and have left the estate altogether. Alas, that guest is you.) You string curses at them, the only form of thinking you have in regard, and feel the bulk of emotions resonate with every stomp, even spilling out of your tear ducts. Your dampening body, and the length of the road don’t make it any easier, feeding your frustration. Your only anchor is your self worth, the reason you began this path in the first place, and you desperately hope it will turn the tide in a while.

Though now, the picture you paint with those foul words and wet clothes isn’t exactly the brightest.

It is still among these moods, that Obi Wan catches up to you. You’re not exactly surprised to see him, his carriage closing the twenty minute distance you put between yourself and that damned house with a speed that you think can’t be that good for the horses in the long run. They stop abruptly at your side, and you have all those insults readied if it turns out to be that fucked up man or polite declines if it is indeed Obi Wan. 

But, you can’t speak them. The world feels like it freezes, the raindrops slowing down, and carrying away your burdens as they fall to the soil. The small door opens, and Obi Wan rushes out of it, with an expression that is so honest and raw. His fright vanishes at the sight of you, that scared gaze dissolving, eyebrows relaxing… You can actually see his lips move, Thank God. He is totally undisturbed by the downpour, already making his strands stick to his forehead. His hands find yours, and pull you close, almost like an embrace. You look into his eyes, how focused they are on you, as if they could burn you from the inside with their intensity. You have an undeniable urge to kiss him right now, and that has nothing to do with lust, but your wish to undo the last couple of weeks, uphold that strong connection once the two you had. Of course, you don’t, you can’t, thus, you let him lead you inside, and continue towards whatever destination.

Funny, how you feel much calmer doing the thing you thought you wouldn’t. Moreso, you have no woes about it either.

The silence is deafening, but nobody dares to open their mouth, the greatness of the storm of emotions you both are having too heavy on your tongues. He puts his less soggy jacket around your shoulders, you welcome it with a nod. That’s the moment you realize the redness on his knuckles. It’s not hard to guess the scene, and that has your head turned to the floor, processing the entire night. It is also at this moment that you become aware of your fresh tears, still sliding over your cheeks. Even if he notices them, he doesn’t do a thing about it, an indifference you’re grateful for. He just looks out of the window, and contemplates, same as you.

===

The tub filled with hot water doesn’t make you any wetter, but it helps with the temperature. You’re sorry that you exhausted the owners of the inn you had to stay in, (for it was getting impossible to travel in that rain) with this request, but a voice tells you that Obi Wan wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re unbelievably silent as he sorts it all out, staying in your bubble, unintentionally playing the part of the damsel in distress. You listen to his list of requests, for the horses, for three rooms (the best reserved for the lady, he insists), a tub to be prepared for you, and some tea-

“No need.” Your voice is weak, but it is clear. He would’ve protested this answer, but it is the first time you’ve talked after leaving the house, how ironic, and the realization sets deep in both of you. After that, you feel the words pile up on your tongue, but in a blink, you find yourself in a room. Alone.

“So sorry, I thought they gave me this room.” He stands at the door, holding it half open, face turned in the opposite direction.

“Obi Wan.” His gaze hesitantly finds your way again. God, he’s about to kill you with that blues… “Can we talk for a second?”

You name yourself a hypocrite for asking that, in this state, but you can’t breathe with all that untold things if you spend another second without explaining yourself to him, and apologize for all the trouble you’ve caused. And, isn’t this already proof of the trust you have for him, how vulnerable you can be in his presence?

And, there’s nothing he’s not seen before, after all.

He gingerly closes the door, locking it in a swift motion, and makes his way to you. You pull yourself together, and reach for his hand for him to help you out.

“No, stay. Your fingers are still cold.”

You can’t hide the small smile forming on your face as you settle back, careful to keep most of your body underwater. He, ever noble, keeps his eyes straight on your face, which somehow doesn’t help. There’s something about his rolled-up sleeves, the matching three-piece suit down to two for the damp jacket sits behind the chair in your back against the fireplace. His hair is drying up in all defiant shapes, and you have to stop imagining that morning he woke up next to you.

“I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. I- I never intended to cause this big of a mess, and make someone clean up after me. Certainly, not you, of all people. You shouldn’t have tired yourself this much, and I’m sorry for it.”

“You can’t expect me to do nothing.” The sentence begs for a dear to be added in the end, and he has to fight his throat to silence himself. Instead, there’s a kind tug at the corners of his lips.

“You’re right.” You nod. “But the truth is, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I needed to get out, I just couldn’t sit there pretend I didn’t hear all those nasty comments.”

His fist clenches at the reminder, and you once again spot the bruises settling in on his knuckles, filling with the desire to mention them, but you inevitably decide not to. “That asshole-“

”He was obnoxious since the first hour, and loud, but that doesn't scare me, for thus he has proven himself to be just a foul mouthed man. But, that title started not to cover the extent of it- it was too much and I couldn’t take it anymore. You may say it was obvious from the start, but I tried my best to not evolve this into a thing I would regret afterward. And I succeeded.”

“So you don't even regret ever setting foot in that house?”

A tinge of disgust seizes your face, but only for a moment. Even with all those words echoing in your ear, you don't have hatred in your heart, or any remorse. You're not so quite sure about its reason, nor do you wish to be, avoiding all analysis. Like you don't know the basics already. But the sudden change in your expression tells everything. “I don’t think I can ever regret it. At least, not in its entirety.” You say, hugging your knees and lowering your head. Hot steam no longer hits your skin, you realize in your attempts of distraction.

There's a second of silence in the room, despite the thunderstorm raging outside. You are as cold as in the beginning because of it, and you almost contemplate how good of an idea this conversation was, especially under these circumstances.

“I’d say the same.” Obi Wan speaks, and that's when goosebumps rise on your skin. Your eyes meet his, then flutter away quickly, overwhelmed. Does he mean-

Why is him meaning that any different than yours, huh? Why is it any worse when he says it?

“You should get out of there.” He reaches for a towel, and you shyly stand up, turning your back and pressing your arms around yourself. Nothing he hasn't seen before, right? As the coarse fabric is draped around your shoulders, you can’t help but feel afire, the imprint of his hand around your shoulders for a second lingering way more than it should, creating a tingling sensation.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I must return to my room now.” He folds his hands together, like trying to preserve where they’ve touched, and his eyes still stay respectfully up, causing your heart to lose its rhythm. There has never been a scenario that involved nakedness without… sexual intentions, and clearly, it’s not even crossing your minds right now. Your awareness of it takes up all the space in your mind, tosses every other idea out, and leaves you at the mercy of your soul.

“Obi Wan.” Fuck, the way you call his name, it is bound to weaken him every time. “Can you-” Oh, haven't you demanded enough from him? “I- I would like it if you stayed.”

His mouth hangs open for a second, with a subtle sharp inhale. His fingers tighten around each other, then relax all together, hanging free by his side. “Of course.” For all the words that come to his lips, it’s a most simple answer.

Not that you have any complaints.

You’re filled with another kind of thrill, being this open with your wishes, but having no clue whether they’ll take the night, having no clue where you want the night to go, or how to act in this very moment, half covered.  You just know that you prefer him, being in the same chamber as you. You’d prefer to listen to his idle talk or slow breaths, than the silence of the room. You’d prefer him to snore in your bed than to picture him in his own, lying awake. (Because let’s face it, it’d take a while for him to surrender to sleep, if left to his own devices.)

He takes a step towards the armchair, unbuttoning his vest and you come back to your senses, stepping out of the tub in the opposite direction, towards the nightgown the innkeeper gracefully lent to you. It’s slightly large for your body, definitely not tailored for someone close to your size, but if Obi Wan ever heard you commenting on the fact, he’d wholeheartedly claim you still looked like an angel. Since you don’t, he doesn’t too, but it’s obvious in the way he takes in your form, a battle of excess fabric against your movements. He has to bury a groan when your sleeve falls down your shoulder, a simple accident. He knows that shouldn’t have been seen by him, or you didn’t do it on purpose, that tonight is not meant for those activities, and it shouldn’t get him so bothered up, but it fucking does. Does it also make him want to slap himself? Yes.

Walking near the fireplace, you wring the excess water from your hair and run your fingers through the strands before rubbing that towel aggressively, for the fact that it is already soggy enough, and is not gonna do much. You despise sleeping with wet hair, it is an invitation for you to get sick, not to mention that you’ll be sharing the bed, leaving frustrating streaks of wetness on the sheets for them.

“Hey, hey, let me help you.” Is he a little bit scared? The answer is another yes. But he’s not gonna stand there and watch you fight with your hair. He takes the fabric, locating the most usable spots, and slowly massages your strands with them. Objectively, it’s not a lot different in terms of overall results, but it does more than that anyway. Despite the forbidden intimacy, despite the question of “How is he so good at it?”, you’re lulled by the constant movements, the tension in your muscles easing off. He keeps you by the fire longer than you would’ve stayed, and that achievement belongs solely to him. Frankly, he too is not sure how long the two of you could stand like that, or put an end to it. All that matters is that your hair is pleasantly damp, less bothersome, and he did that.

To be honest, with each minute he is in your presence; the task of holding onto his manners, respecting his broken heart, and following your lead is getting harder to manage.

“Thank you.” You murmur, eyelids barely held open, and he feels like a juggler, suddenly losing his sense of balance, and dropping one of his props.

“You’re welcome.” Perhaps he was the one to thank, for the pleasure. That’s the second prop, falling down.

Still, it’s obvious how that sentence misses a darling thrown out after it.

You climb the bed, and he follows suit. You both favor the edges of the mattress, and there’s a ridiculous distance between both of your bodies, but you’re both too timid to use it, even at the risk of tumbling down.

Only after the urge to find a better position kicks in that you move, and end up just a little closer, face turned to his side.

He’s already turned to you, eyes closed but definitely not trying to sleep, or relax if nothing. He opens them of course, after you rustled the sheets that hard.

“What if I get sick tomorrow?” Admittedly, that’s a silly question, but the scenario occupies your mind. All the elemental factors are present, and you only have a formal dress on your back. Also, the fact that it would be all your fault, yet you are the one to complain? You hate yourself for saying it out loud.

“Then we would stay ‘til you got better.” His point-of-fact words, softened with his bedtime voice, must be annoying. Must be. It is not. It is the raw truth, straight from his core. You won’t disrespect it, (again). “I would take care of you.”

(Doesn’t he, always?)

 A shiver runs down your spine.

(He’d name this place heaven, if it allowed you two to stay together a little longer.)

“Obi Wan.” Whispering, trying your best to break that ugly silence, not to crush under the weight of his words, but more importantly to let him know your truths, the alignment of your soul. “I- I never told you how much I appreciated you. Now just today, but especially today.”

He’s trying so hard not to sound rude, or leave you unanswered, but none of them are good enough. Thankfully, you are not expecting one. Your fingers ghost over his knuckles, afraid to hurt him. he’s not even sure you’re doing that, ‘til you hunch over, and press a small kiss over them.

That’s all the acknowledgment he needs, ever. It wasn’t becoming of a gentleman, obviously, but the situation didn’t require gentleman-cy, too. He has no recollection of how his fist ended up in that man’s eye, except for the exact second it happened, feeling his shirt slide from his other hand as the impact sizzled through his bones, and sent the man to the floor. He found himself in the middle of saying God knows what- he still doesn’t have a single clue, and thinks about the possibility of how they’ll resonate, ‘til it reaches his ears once again.

Though, he has no fear regarding that, or the altercation before it. Nor regret.

“I am honored that our names are spoken together, a testament of our likeness.”

The third prop.

It falls, most obviously, but he doesn’t show it. Not under these circumstances. No matter how you try to avoid the subject of love, or a future, he’s burning for it, burning for you. In that moment, it is settled that it’ll always be that way, forever. You’re absolutely crushing his heart, and maybe even crush yours in the process (for which reasons, he’s never sure), regardless of your intentions pointing otherwise, because he knows you’re pushing through your struggles to speak up, select the appropriate expressions, to honor your past. He’s touched by your effort, as well as your words, oh, your words… This is the only compliment he’ll ever accept, and it’s not even meant to be a compliment. Your voice is already etched into his brain, and there will not go a single day he’s not reminiscing about it.

Thus, with such strong emotions, his every muscle twitched with the desire to pull you closer, wrap his arm around your waist, card his fingers through your cool hair as your lips meet. He wants to kiss you slowly, savor your taste and caress your tongue with his, for the sole purpose of being close to you. You, throwing one leg over him… You, falling asleep in his arms as he gets to bathe in your enchanting scent… The feeling of your warm breath against his neck as you take refuge in there… He’s surprised he doesn’t have to chain himself not to act on any of these images.

(Oh, it very much feels like he has done that anyway)

Yet, it is probably the worst night to do so. It has all been too much, and all this on top of that is a recipe for disaster. A disaster he’s been struck with nonetheless, though, perhaps he can spare you from.

When it comes to you, he has always put his heart before his mind, (but never disregarding the latter part. It is the essential element to keep both of you safe, to never compromise your social statuses, to create the optimum atmosphere for your relationship to flourish (by your own unusual standards)). For the first time, he’s not following that code. Even he can’t imagine the consequences if he doesn’t.

You’re glad that nothing has changed. No response from him, no action. His relaxed expression tells you enough; the calmness of his eyes, his slow breaths and the slight curve of his lips… To be honest, you’re relieved to see your words reach their destination but also set with the urge to prove them. To press down your mouth on his, from which you hope for an answer; to hold his hand without causing any discomfort, or simply hug him for a second, eliminating all space between your bodies like your souls.

Alas, the role of the hypocrite is a part you no longer wish to play, and you’re perfectly willing to hurt yourself by not succumbing to your wishes, and refrain him from further confusion.

“Good night, Obi Wan.” You say, fingers grazing over his for the last time, and curl yourself into a ball.

“Good night, my dearest.”

 ===

The morning is unlike the previous example.

You wake up to him getting up, so there’s no way for you to know if your bodies drifted closer during the night, but considering the position of your arm, extended way beyond the middle, it is quite possible to assume some physical contact was present.

Considering you two are not facing each other, thus acknowledgment of the situation is not a matter, your embarrassment is half of what it should be.

Though, your cheeks burn brighter each second you can’t peel your eyes off of him, filling up the rest of that cup. Watching him walk around, the movement of each chiseled muscle on his back as he puts his shirt and trousers on quickly highlights another impropriety. He is perfection, even in that drowsy state of the human condition, there’s harmony to his every motion, the slow steps he takes, the way the fabric glides against his skin, the subtle fine arrangements of his fingers to make sure it looks decent, even how he breathes causes him to blend into the room, but also bedazzle it in his grace, make him stand out like a crown jewel, a masterpiece of arts that name the place.

You can only stop your ogling once he leans in and stirs the flames, which were already going strong since they were last fed before you went to sleep- wait, that doesn’t seem possible, did he actually sever his sleep to tend to it?

Is there any other explanation you need?

Your heart may flutter out of your chest after this realization, so you skirt out of the blankets. Of course, the sound draws his attention, and you’re caught, forced to react.

Yet, the unstoppable smile forming on his lips inspires a similar response on yours so easily, so naturally that you don’t feel obligated at all. On the quite contrary, that simple mimic banishes any pretense, showering you with reassurance and bravery, the motivation to act on your own true terms, not society’s or the ones you pressured onto yourself.

“Good morning.” The simultaneous greeting pulls a giggle from both of you, and it is all so small, yet so much. You sway away from his direction, casually reaching for your clothes, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor of your legs when you shed the nightwear and put the chemise on. Because you know, he’s watching you. Divine justice, perhaps.

“Be careful, Obi Wan, I might start to think you enjoy watching me get dressed too much.” The snarky comment, fighting its way out of your mouth further softens the atmosphere, and it is like the first days of spring after a harsh winter, soothing your souls with relief.

“Guilty as charged.”

You shake your head, consumed by his usual forward banter. A scene taken straight out of your past. You shimmy into your dress instead of coming up with a cleverer response.

“You don’t sound sick.” He says, indicating that he’s been paying attention. 

Biting your lip, you turn away. “Actually…”

“Is there something wrong?” He ends up right beside you in a blink, as if the world changed by your unfinished sentence. 

Your heart picks up a different rhythm, hands raised in position to tie your ribbon but frozen. “It’s nothing, my throat just feels-”

“Do you want me to call a doctor?”

That was the exact reason why you started with it’s nothing. Alas… “No, it’s probably just my overthinking and coming up with strange sensations.” And if not, it depends on how well you spend tonight, so there’s not much room for intervention. Definitely not in medical terms.

“Pity.” His comment makes you scoff. After that, you can’t reward him with your concerns, can you? It is funny, ugh.

“Let me help.” 

Your heart can’t get any rest as the tension simply changes garbs, his fingers trailing over yours and leading a 180° turn, leaving a blazing line along your skin, to tie the ends of your ribbon together. Your arms tentatively fall to your sides, not sure what to do with their freedom. His breaths lick your neck while he attentively, slowly smooths his creation, and you’d probably freak out if you weren’t so focused on the sheer range of his skills.

(Also the mystery of how he comes to acquire it, but it’s only the deep, dark parts of your mind speaking. Moreover, you do not pride yourself in a position to be jealous. You absolutely are, on that tiny level, and no, you’ll never admit it.)

Though, you’re not gonna comment on that, not when your heart threatens to fly out of its cage. The sacredness of the action brings back the echoes of your concerns, not a single one strong enough to overtake you, but the cacophony of them loud enough to occupy the entirety of your capacity.

All that talk of past times… Coupled with a little hesitancy, and how the tables turn…

“T- thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Like he just didn’t flip the dynamic, he carries on with his outfit, tying his cravat. His beautiful hands work expertly, effortlessly, and the result is perfect, even without a mirror, eyes on you the entire time.

“Is it looking fine?”

“Yes.” You meekly answer. It is decent, like he always is. Somehow witnessing that feels as sensual as the previous scene, pulling you further down the whirlpool.

Embarrassed enough already, you busy yourself with your hair, accepting the mess that it is, and decide on a simple bun, as much as possible. The practiced moves bring you some sense of calmness and control, even if the result isn’t perfect. The silence helps too, along with his occupancy of tidying up the room.

“Do you want to have some breakfast?” He asks. God, how does he still sound that cheery?

“No, thank you.” You don’t want to keep your father worrying any longer, and it’s not like you’re going to faint. The memory of your last food in the most unpleasant company is still strong enough to expel any thought of hunger.

That answer may be the clearest thought you’ve ever had this morning, yet it is the one that whispers doubt into his heart. You are silent, turned away from him, and far too engrossed in whatever unnecessary thing you’re doing. Because now, he fears that if the two of you leave this room, this building, all your lives in it will be a part of the history, never to be repeated or worse, mentioned again, lost in the torn pages. The joke about residing here for however long- seems awfully bitter, perfectly demonstrating he’d rather hold on to the possibility than put an end to this.

How could that be love?

Perhaps you were right, accusing him of madness.

That’s the only reason he walks out of the room to prepare the carriages, instead of cocooning the both of you in.

===

“Father!” You wrap your arms around him, who’s standing by the main entrance to your estate, waiting anxiously. He does the same, unaffected by the eyes that watch, the staff, and a mere acquaintance, Lord Kenobi.

Now Obi Wan knows who you got your bravery from.

He stands quietly, hands folded in front of him, not sure what to do but damn sure not to leave. He had plenty of time to think about his madness on the road, and decided it was not anything pathological- it was pure love and desperation for you. Isn’t that the nature of most of your meet-ups? Consoling each other in the positively dreadful situations, and utilizing everything to spend a second more together?

He hears you reassuring him of your well-being, and summarize the thing in pretty understated phrases. Even that makes him stutter over his words in a fit of rage. Obi Wan agrees. You distract him by speaking of the help you’ve gotten from a valiant friend, and that’s how he enters the conversation.

“Good morning, Sir.”

How he keeps it all cool, sharing and shaping his anger, silencing any doubt that may arise in him is a surprise, though he’s called a great negotiator for a reason, right? His work in various cases in court has earned him the title. He’s not overtly a fan of flaunting it. Though, it helps him a great deal in this instance.

At least, enough to have a pleasant exchange in these unpleasant circumstances, and secure permission to talk to you again.

Alone.

It is weird enough as it is already, you and him spending the night at some inn, him casually chatting with your father like his clothes haven’t benefitted from the merits of ironing, not to mention his hair being on the wild side after a slight treatment of rain, and now he is requesting your attention? Not only yours, but your father’s too in extent?

His plans have never been so crystal clear.

“No.” You declare your objection so clearly, in one word as the door closes behind him, giving you the privacy of the room. “No, no, no, no.”

“I haven’t even opened my mouth!” He objects, though it is more of a principal thing, than an actual defense. He knows you’ve worked it all out already. God, could he expect anything less from you? Your watery eyes and trembling hands break his heart into a million pieces, reactions so strong even before he has a chance to utter their cause. He caresses his beard, reevaluating if he should continue-

He can’t live with the consequences if he dares not. He can’t live with what-ifs, or not knowing the reason why you are so repulsed by the idea or would you still feel the same, if he told you about his love for you. Of course, that would require some magic, considering the magnitude and intricacy of it. How is he supposed to put the purest feelings he’s ever had to mere words, the origin of the butterflies caged up in his chest, the wires of his brain getting tangled up whenever you’re not around, and the constant intoxication from the strongest liquor he’s ever consumed? He’d rather die than sober up, and a part of him already recognizes that it’s not a possibility. It is his poison and antidote. There’s not a moment that passes without either of them.

And surely, he has no complaints about it. Never will. It is a brave choice, but what’s braver is this moment.

“No.” You repeat, hands clasped together to stop them from shaking. Your voice is low albeit steady, as much as it can be.

Because you do not lift your eyes to meet him. “You can’t propose to me, because I can’t refuse it. But I will. Then the whole country will wonder what is so wrong with you, and me, and they will talk about it all the time, for years to come. The whispers will be the first thing that you hear in every room you enter, and you’ll see the mischievous glint in the eyes of every person you meet, them scrutinizing whether those rumors are true. Our reputations will be tarnished forever, and we will hate each other for it.” And you can’t stand that.

You don’t sound like this is the first time you’re putting these words together. In all your distressed state, you sound awfully logical in your own way, so focused on one improbable, insane possibility (damn those reputations, he can never hate you), but devising every little detail.

“Why?” He basically hollers, running a hand through his hair. Why does that potential is the one you envision? “Why can’t you marry me?”

One can only dream that someone outside isn’t listening.

“Because- I don’t know!” You take a desperate step closer, showing him your honesty. You truly can’t quite name your aversions, and isn’t that already enough of a reason to stay away, spare the person you’re facing?  “I don’t know how to be a wife! And I am scared. All my life I alienated myself from the idea of a marriage, I methodically dismissed every chance claiming it wasn’t the time, all the way ‘til I would say it was too late. I was content with that idea. Because I love- loved my life the way it is; I get more than I need from my father, and that is to remain unchanged when my brother takes over, and I am free as a bird, unbound by society’s expectations, traveling wherever, wherever and trying new things. I was, I am so happy about it that anything that may alter it I shun from immediately. And now I find myself in a place I never imagined, and I am scared. I don’t know what happens now. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what that future looks like for us.”

He moves towards you, his head tilted sideways in understanding, arms reaching for yours. Finally, finally hearing your justifications, the basis of your attitude, fills him with pride and compassion, and most importantly, gives him an opportunity to help you solve those problems, together. But, you hush him, squeezing his wrists in gentle guidance, with tears streaking across your cheeks. “I just know that I love you. I love you so much that my heart will always feel like a weight in my chest when I’m not with you, like a ship sinking, but never reaching the bottom. And I will continue to love you even if you stop loving me back, but I would rather lose you on my terms than by the burdens a marriage brings.”  

“Why do you so believe that a mere contract would change my feelings? Do you think my affections for you are that fragile?”

You frantically shake your head, causing the drops to fall faster. “No, I’m not saying that-“

“Then what?” He snaps, though not because he’s angry. He wants to learn every single reason that’s keeping you away.

“You don’t know what that will do to us.”

“No, I don’t! And I don’t care! It will never change my feelings.” This, he can shout freely. This is the simplest truth for all his remaining days on this earth.

You don’t know that, you want to object. “Obi Wan…” Is the response that comes out of your mouth. “I am not a good bride.”

“No.”There’s acceptance in his tone, a punch to your guts. “You’re the love of life, my companion, my everything.” When he pulls you even closer, and cups your cheeks, you let him. “Haven’t we been through all the struggles a couple could share already? Haven’t I seen all of you, and let you see all of me? Haven’t you claimed my entire soul, and occupied my every single thought? You made me break my rules, and painted a picture I never thought was suited for me- and I came to like that picture very much. In fact, it’s all I ever want my future to look like, with you in it. You, exactly in the way you already are, with all your unsusceptibility to the norms and striking habits. I know that can be scary. I am afraid too. But, anything worth doing starts like this, I know it. And we’ll be the biggest idiots in the world if we let our fear rule us.”

You can’t help but laugh a little, the joyful sound making his breath hitch. It is reflected on his face too, and it is something you’ll hold on to, alongside the tears that begin to form on his eyes. Fortunately, they sit there, despite him kneeling in front of you, his fingers never leaving the bend of your arm, only to follow the route they create, and hold onto both of your hands. “Please, marry me.”

You’re convinced, but your tongue is still tied, so you nod. Your entire upper body shakes with the gesture in seconds, making you look like an overexcited child, on the verge of losing their balance with the restlessness of their legs. You barely feel him kissing your knuckles before he stands up and embraces you, stabilizing both of you in both physical and emotional terms. Let’s be real, if he kissed you instead as he desperately wished to, you’d fall on the floor (and continue there- ‘til somebody discovered the two of you in very indecent terms). His chuckles quickly become your favorite song, you feel blessed as they delight your ears, and make your chest vibrate like his. He revels in the newfound proximity, despite the fact that you’ve been much, much closer in the past. This is new. This is raw love, uncombined with other emotions, strengthened by the absolute truth that you two are meant for each other, and with the promise of you’ll do something about it. He holds you ‘til your sense of balance is restored, for he now has urgent matters he has to attend to. He’ll get to hold you forever soon, and that revelation doesn’t change the herculean feat of letting you go now. He can’t help but wipe the streaks of wetness on your face, though it forms again. He solely doesn’t repeat himself because of the widest grin on your lips. You press yourself to his palm, eyelids closing for a moment, then place a small peck on it.

 “I- I’m now gonna go and talk to your father, get the papers right- and find a-” oh, that’s not “a”, he is going to require many others even if he keeps everything minimal, “I’ll be back in three, fuck, four hours, okay?”

“What? No!” You exclaim, almost giving him a heart attack.

“What’s wrong?” His fingers tighten, a slight tremble taking over them. You have to smile to get him to relax once again, and raise your eyebrows wittily, as if he is a fool for not imagining it already, reminding him of your nature.

“I’m only doing this once. I want everything to be right.”

He squints his eyes, grasping your chin. There’s a few seconds of silence, the time it takes for his nerves to settle. When it does, you’re struck by the intensity of his blue irises, the condensed calm before the storm. “So you want to stay as my fiance ‘til the next season starts, in eight months, succumbing to waiting as we get no freedom to ourselves, always in the center stage, enjoying the last of our bachelor states, the lonely nights and beds bigger than you can ever occupy.”

His other hand, wandering across your waist tells you exactly what he implies. While you actually weren’t planning on such a thing, it causes a surge of rush to overtake you, burning you from the inside. Pursing your lips as you free your face from his grip, with a contradicting shaky breath, you say. “I was always fond of winter weddings…”

To this, he laughs, echoing in the room, and you join him.

One can only hope whoever outside listens to this too, this moment of pure joy preserved in one more mind.

 === 

 “I couldn’t be happier to be married to you.” Obi Wan whispers, but the sentence is loud and clear to you, etched into where he takes nest in the crook of your neck, hot breaths burning your skin.

“We’re still not- ngh“ Yes, this is supposed to be the rehearsal, the night before the main event. You two should be at the reception downstairs, among your many relatives and friends and other members of the society, all gathered for tomorrow morning, when these words of yours will be invalid.

Of course, you are further making a hypocrite of yourself by the way you hold onto him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders as he burrows his cock into you. It was impossible to wait any further, as you were separated by the whole ordeal of preparations and the watchful eyes. The moment you found a clearing, you two slipped away, cue to now, where your back on the wall as he supports you against it. You didn’t even get one meter away from the door, you could basically reach the knob with a simple extension of your elbow, but in the end, who cares? Who cares when he fills you so deliciously, scratching the itch that has been building for some time, peppering you with all the love in his heart?

Still, your sentence is cut abruptly as he drives his hips faster, rougher- very much an act of pedantry, advising not to get lost in the details. It works, the correction dies on your tongue, though a quite loud moan takes its place. His hand flies to cover your mouth, and your eyes pop open, meeting his. The pressure of his palm against your face almost forces another sound out of you. Fuck, you adore those blue storms, even when they are focused elsewhere, turned to the door as if it can see past behind it, scanning for intruders. You do actually whimper when the danger dissolves, the vibrations running among his bones, and he keeps up his pace, hitting that sweet spot over and over again.

However, it is getting harder in terms of balance as he now has one hand to stabilize you, and despite your best efforts, it is quite hard not to slide off of the smooth fabric of his clothes. Remorsefully, you push on his shoulders, and he understands, pulling his cock out of you and burying his mouth on your skin. He stifles a sob in there, the frustration getting the best of him.

“Oh, you definitely had too much wine.” Look at who’s talking, you with those wobbly legs and bitten lips…

“No, I just had too little of you.”

Your heart flaps its wings out of your chest, as it does after his every cheesy compliment. You still cannot figure out how he makes you blush harder with those words, even as he ravages you in the meantime.

You reach for a kiss, it is always a good idea. He hums contently at the touch, grateful at the most basic form of contact. Obi Wan rocks against you unintentionally, and that’s how the unsatiated desire wages war, with desperate groans and roaming hands.

Then, his fingers tighten around your waist, and you find yourself supported against the vanity with your open palms, depositing most of your weight there (thank God, because you couldn’t trust your feet much longer). He pulls your hips back to his. Your back arches in a way that is most complementary to his chest, and fuck, it is a vision.

It literally is.

Fluttering your eyes open for only a second (that was your intention at least), you’re struck down with the image of the two of you in the mirror, faces contorted in the prettiest way that is possible in this dirty position, heavy lids and open mouths, fingertips whitened by the strong grasp you have on each other, the matching colors of your outfits…

Yes, even with that detail, you’re still on his side, agreeing you’d be idiots if you weren’t doing this.

Deciding to take the sight from its direct source, you turn your head to the side a little, looking at the adonis of a man you’ll soon call your husband, with his neatly trimmed beard and prominent cheekbones and long eyelashes you are slightly jealous of and so much more…

He meets your gaze, breathless with similar thoughts, that little tug on the corner of his mouth telling you all you need to know, but then he nudges your face to its previous state by a small clasp of your chin, and you’re watching him through the reflection, leaning forward when he starts to fumble with your skirt once again.

The moan that leaves you is totally incapable of being unobscured as he enters you anew. The change in the angle along with the visual stimulation has you teetering on the edge quite easily, like him, but he denies it, maintaining slow movements and choking out any noise that dares to leave him.

Of course, all is impeded when the door is knocked-

“Occupied!”

“Occupied!”

Your voices are synchronized, high and tight. The clock stops for a moment for your bodies, as if the stationary status makes it any less scandalous, and both of you fixated on the doorknob.

It never turns. Never.

Still, the dilated pupils remain a little longer, joined over the mirror, with big puffs of breath and shaking hands.

“Do you think they-“ There’s not an exact word that you can find to explain what has just occurred, but the sentiment is clear.

“Probably.” And the answer too is just as clear.

Well, the only thing lost is the trivial achievement of never being discovered before the wedding.

A wedding which is hours away.

So, you push back, wiggling your hips. His unrestricted sound is all you need to regain your spirits back, and you do it once more. Just like that, the wheels are turning. 

“You realize there’s a bed behind us, right?” He asks as he slowly thrusts into you.

“Yes, but I like the view better here.” 

[uyuartik]

What appeals to me about whump: an incomplete list

[uyuartik]

he's everything to me. i love how he balances work and fun, the desire and the duty.

(@queen--kenobi) oh 19 for the smut prompts!

THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!!!!!!!! I'm still working on getting my smut bone back and this helps. ALSO!. Uniforms. Not just any uniform. It's gotta be crisp and form-fitting. Preferably with buttons which, being done or undone, can be very hot with the right eye contact.

I hope you like this little fic.

-----

As usual, Obi-Wan was first to leave the bed and get ready for whatever mission was next on the never-ending docket. As usual, you’d declined to get up and get dressed, preferring to lay uncovered, trying to entice him back for a little longer.

Usually if he did come back it would only be for a little tease: a nip at your breast, featherlight kiss between your legs. Always with that slinky voice: next time, darling.

Today Obi-Wan had pulled something other than the typical Jedi garb from the closet: a crisp white uniform. Something to do with an undercover operation in which he was posing as a low-level commander. As if someone with his face and swagger wouldn’t draw attention. You’d rolled onto your stomach, chin propped on your hands. You bit your bottom lip, watching him button the cuffs, straighten the collar, and tuck the distractingly well-tailored white pants into shiny black knee-high boots. You hopped out of bed when he started affixing the red, blue, and gold insignia on the uniform.

Maker, you had to touch him.

“Let me.” You took the insignia and ran your hand over his chest, making a show of finding the right place. Only when he had that almost imperceptible clench in his jaw - the one that indicated that he was on the edge of throwing you face down on the mattress and destroying your soul from behind, did finish the job.

“If you’re meant to be someone in command,” you said, pinning the insignia just crooked enough to annoy him, “maybe you should practice.”

“Then stand at attention,” he smirked. “It’s time for inspection.”

You stood straight; chin up, tits up, hands clasped behind your back. 

“Yes, sir.”

Obi-Wan circled, tsking as he adjusted your arms and legs to his liking. Once in front of you again, he flicked a finger at your nipple. He leaned down, taking it into his mouth and biting. 

He pulled away at your yelping whine. Brow furrowed, he stroked his beard.

“Disappointing. I expected better from you.”

“How can I make it right, sir?” you breathed. 

He drew a finger from your chest along your belly to your pearl and gently stroked so slowly for so long until your knees quaked and forgot how to breathe. He leaned forward, lips against your ear. 

“Wait for me.”

[uyuartik]

oh my god. OH MY GOD. I'm so gone bad for this man, again. This piece kept me on the edge of my seat ( tbh, bed)! i can't stop thinking about it!

All Grown Up || DBF!Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Summary: Your father trusts Obi-Wan Kenobi—his oldest friend and confidant. A man bound by duty, by discipline, a man who should know better.

Word Count: 1k || Warnings: not rly smut(i wish) but nsfw; younger!reader, dad's bestfriend!obi wan, age gap, morally dubious i guess idfk

authors note: my first tumblr post! i had an epiphany the other day to start writing fanfiction. uhh, i am new to writing fanfiction especially for star wars so bare w me. er, i also would have made this smut but i currently have zero idea how to even begin with that.. but TRUST that once i can wrap my walnut brain around the concept/excecution of writing smut, it WILL happen (threat). last thing.. requests are open but like i said im NEW (yelling) so PLS... bare w me. thx everybody!! ฅ/ᐠ. ̫ .ᐟ\ฅ || ao3: @andorsdoll 🩷

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

Your father trusts Obi-Wan Kenobi more than anyone. He’s known him longer than he can remember—long enough that he never questions it when Obi-Wan’s hands linger at your waist a second too long or when his gaze darkens as he watches you across the room. Long enough that he doesn’t see the way Obi-Wan looks at you.

Like a man who’s been starving for years.

While its true that there are other factors at play, your father's trust is what keeps Obi-Wan in check— what keeps him standing in your bedroom doorway everytime he visits you, with his arms folded instead of on his knees infront of you with his hands clutching at your hips, his mouth trailing sinful, forbidden kisses against your skin.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

“You shouldn’t be here,” Obi-Wan says, but he doesn’t make you leave. He’s still in his travel-worn robes, still carrying the dust of another distant planet, another mission that kept him away too long. And yet, somehow, he smells like home—like smoke and spice and something achingly familiar.

Your father is asleep downstairs, trusting, unknowing. And you’re here, in Obi-Wan's room.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” you say, stepping closer, your satin nightgown trailing behind you.

“I couldn’t.” His throat tries to work around the words, his jaw tight. His hands stay by his sides, itching, yearing, dying to touch you. “I shouldn’t be here at all.” He always says that. And yet, he's always here.

You lift a hand, pressing your palm to his chest, feeling the way his breath hitches just slightly and how he acts like it doesnt phase him, but when your fingers curl on the fabric of his tunic, just enough to make him exhale sharply through his nose.. he knows inside that its a lost cause.

“Then why are you?” you ask, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

His restraint is exquisite—carved into every tense line of his body and every careful inhale. You can see it in his eyes, the battle in real-time between duty and desire. And then.. he finally loses.

His hand lifts, almost on instinct, to cradle your jaw. His thumb ghosts over your cheek with his calloused fingertips trembling.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” His words sound like surrender. Like something he’s been holding back for so long that it tastes foreign on his tongue, that he cant even register if he actually said it outloud this time.

He’s spent years denying this. And maybe it should make you pause or hesitate. But it doesn’t because this moment with all its tension and need, the way his hands tremble as they hover near your skin—it’s familiar.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

You remember the first time you saw something different in his gaze.

It was your 19th birthday—nothing particularly grand, just a gathering at your father’s estate. You were still getting used to wearing dresses that fit a little differently, still adjusting to the way men were starting to look at you now.

And Obi-Wan had looked at you that night.

But not like the other boys who barely concealed their hunger and their corrupt intentions, staring at your legs and your pouty red lips like they were something to be won, conquered. No, Obi-Wan's gaze was something different, something dark, something restrained.

Later that night, when the festivities had died down, and the evening air had cooled, you found yourself on the veranda of your father's estate with Obi-Wan.

“You look…” He had trailed off, drink in hand, clearing his throat.

You had smiled, teasing. “All grown up?”

His gaze dropped to the curves of your body, to your cleavage, and to the way your dress clung in places it hadn't before. “Yes.”

You stepped closer, emboldened by his answer and the flicker of something forbidden in his expression. “Do you like that?”

And it was there, when he tried to think of an appropiate answer and the air was palpable, you had felt the weight of his restraint.

His jaw had clenched, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He hadn't answered but he hadn’t looked away either. He left shortly after, excusing himself before your father could notice. But that night you knew.

And it had stayed in your mind for years after.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

But now, standing in his room, Obi-Wan had finally admitted that you were all he thought of every waking second, the words barely a whisper as his forehead presses against yours. His hands are shaking, once again at his sides, like he’s one breath away from losing it completely. He had finally admitted that you were all he thought of every waking second.

With his breath hot against your lips,you say the words you shouldn’t: "Stop fighting it.” you whisper, pressing your body flush against his, feeling the way his breath shudders at the contact.

His restraint fractures.

And with that, he's on you with his mouth crushing against yours like the starved man he was, dying for this.

"I’ve tried—I swear I’ve tried—” he groans against your lips, his voice rough, desperate, pleading.

You silence him with another kiss, threading your fingers through his auburn hair tugging enough to make him groan again.

You gasp and his hands find your waist, dragging you even closer, pulling you in against his chest as it rises and falls in ragged uneven breaths

“Don’t stop,” your soft sultry words pierce through him and then he snaps.

He lifts you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, pinning you against the nearest wall, his mouth hungry: kissing, bruising, sucking, claiming you like he’s waited his whole fucking life for this.

His hands grip your thighs, your hips, your waist—possessive, frantic, like he’s memorizing the feel of you to burn into his mind for the rest of time.

“Say it,” he demands against your neck, his breath ragged, his teeth just barely scraping against your skin.

“Say what?” you tease him like you always do, even now, breathless and euphorically dizzy from the way his hands are everywhere, the way his body cages yours, his leg seperating your legs, his thigh resting underneath your core, sending hot traces all throughout your body.

His grip tightens. “Say you’re mine, darling"

You shiver—because fuck, you are. You always have been.

“Yours,” you whisper.

[uyuartik]

@thatorchiaxcherry it's been more than a year and i still can't find anything even similar,,, he's one and only

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader)

tags: slightly sith coded obi wan, no use of y/n, my unhinged take on regency era, (blaming bridgerton and pride and prejudice), probably historical inaccuracies, SMUT, mentions of oral sex (fem and male receiving), mentions of fingering, piv sex, dom!obi?, i really don't know what to write here it is just filth and it is gonna get filthier

a/n: HII! so i became haunted by historical!obi au's and spent six months writing a short series... this is the first chapter out of three, so i hope you stay tuned for the upcoming one (it is FILTHIER than this and about 19k words)

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can't wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

enjoy!!!

part one | part two | part three | ao3

word count: 5.4K

chapter one: see you tonight?

“…Fuck, just like that-“

That voice. Yes, that’s how you ended up here, you think, as you roll your hips, feeling the exquisite contours of Obi Wan’s cock stretching your walls and pulling pleasure out of every cell in your body, and possibly from your soul too.

Ehem. Lord Kenobi.

And truth be told, that’s not exactly how things led here. Of course, his rich voice and the manner in which he used it were notable factors. The way he camouflaged his remarks under sweet quips never failed to make you giggle into the next day, and regardless of the topic (ashamedly, it was mostly about the other people in the room, and their rather obscene behaviors), the comments he made always reflected the intelligence behind it. He played the serious bit perfectly too, even though his reverent sentences carried some poetry, never pompous, yet deep enough to convey its origin and the realness of his sincerity… That’s why you started spending hours with him at balls in the first place. Ten minutes alone with him, undoing all the prejudice you had against the man. All the rumors about him were proven wrong, or at least, half true. And you liked that remaining part of the truth.

Only after that, came the subject of his charms. Not quite surprising, considering that there was no lack of handsome faces around, but a lack of brains in them. Or a true heart. You hated the hypocrisy of it all, and it was a blessing to find someone who shared that sentiment. Not to mention the benefit of him deflecting any unwanted company.

Likewise, he must've thought the same about you, thus your current position. It was obvious that both of you two had similar standards, even in these lewd matters. People didn’t call him a heartbreaker because he pursued a lot of women, but when he did and it came to an inevitable end, they were the shell of whom they used to be, like a person could be mummified by the absence of the joy he charmed people with it. And you, you weren’t the type to have somebody just because you could. No, you looked for a special connection, a click, and when you got lucky and found one among the countless candidates, you treasured it. Now, even the word click sounded wanting, there were sparks present between the two of you, a considerable, good dynamic you two had built, and that made everything just better.

You were almost sad thinking this was a one-time event, already knowing this is a moment you'll remember your entire life. (You weren't gonna push your luck on getting caught.) If there were such deals, two of you keeping it to each other forever in this aspect of life, you’d have signed that contract in a blink.

“Thought you said you were tired.” He breathes out, clearly an effort, yet the smug grin on his face leaves no room for doubt or pity.

“I’ve been sitting all day.” That’s how travel works in carriages, after all. “I think stretching my legs, is what I need.” You emphasize by raising yourself higher and slowly sink back down a few times, a motion that pulls moans from both of your mouths.

Travel. It took you half a day to reach your aunt’s estate, and you were fairly certain you wouldn’t attend the ball that is currently taking place. Then, you realized there was no way your gracious hostesses would see you tonight, you were forced to enter the saloon. It would be a quick in and out, maybe greeting a few more people, no dance, with the very valid excuse of I’ve been on the road all day and I am quite exhausted ready on your lips at any interaction. This was why you didn’t even bother to put much effort into your looks, opting for a change of dress, and nothing more. No jewelry, no retouches to your hair. After all, it would just add to your part if you seemed slightly off.

Somehow, it turned out to be a regrettable decision, when numerous eyes turned to you as you took a step into the room, and even longer after that. Maybe not every head turned or the music came to an abrupt stop, the sprouting silence broken by collective whispers, but it happened, subtle yet enough to make itself known. You were given the same treatment for years at this point, but there was no getting used to it. Color that had been settling in your cheeks seemed to be permanent, at least for the night, not leaving your side as you took your place among your relatives. The expensive fan you were gifted by- God knows who, you were in no mood to remember it now, did nothing to relieve your suffering. 

And, countless other greetings don't help either. You fastened the movement of your hand, curling your lips into a forced smile. You could truly get tired from all these repeated words and gestures.

"I'm afraid I forgot to bring my dance card." You said again, to the third man who came with the same offer, Duke Caldo, all true except the part "forgot". You left it, willingly, just in front of your vanity mirror. The mirror which you desperately wanted to see yourself in right now, away from the ball. 

"A great pity." The exclamation didn't come from him, though. 

Your fan dropped from your hand and closed itself when it hit your wrist, dangling from the loop around your forearm as you heard that voice, no introduction ever needed. Perhaps, not even his voice was required, for there was always that unexplainable change in the quality of air in the rooms he occupied, like he was casting a spell on those around him, trickling magic dust with every step, a rare perfume. You wouldn’t use such metaphors if it wasn’t for the simple fact that your body always figured out his presence before your mind, catching a sense of that hypnotic essence. You often realized all the hairs on your arm standing up, or a tingling sensation in the back of your neck, breathing getting a bit harder, only to quickly locate him in your eyesight. 

"Lord Kenobi." It is said in a contemptful respect, a greeting and a goodbye. “Goodnight, my Lady.”

You didn’t even bother to mutter a proper response, and frankly, the Duke didn’t wait for one either. So, all your focus can be reserved on the man in front of you. 

You raised your arm as if intending to extend it so he could complete his small tradition of placing a kiss on the back of your hand, like he has done every time your paths crossed, even multiple times a day (that’s exactly how you noticed it was more than a simple salutation), (honestly, you liked it, his daring movement revealing a lot about his nature), only to flick it to reopen your fan. The gentlest gust of it licking your skin was more than enough now, making it all too pleasing to watch him save himself with a deep bow of his head, the annoyance quickly turning into a satisfied grin, like he didn’t expect anything less from you. 

“That looks even more beautiful in your hand.” He pointed at it, but his eyes wandered all over your body. You did the same, though there was little notice, his usual beige suit far too familiar. Your focus was always on the fact that he looked so good in it, taking in the broadness of his shoulders, or his defined arms exquisitely pronounced over the fabric.

Right. So it was his gift. Why did you ever entertain other possibilities?

You weren’t going to disappoint him by mentioning it is only here because your panicked maid accidentally packed the first item she saw, for you never took anonymous gifts. You didn’t need the attention they brought.

"And I couldn't thank you enough for it. I can practically name it my savior tonight." You answered, making a show of lavishing yourself in the stream it creates.

"My only source of pride is the fact that it perfectly blends with the rest of your attire. Now, I can proudly say I know your taste."

Classic Obi Wan. Even his compliments, far from usual, borderline scandalous. He's been peppering you with them ever since the start of your friendship and you were never immune to them. You outright enjoyed them. Especially now, they didn’t help the simmering tingles forming at the depths of your belly, amplified by weeks of solitude. “Only a part of it I’m afraid, but you’ll learn the rest in no time, don’t worry.”

“Can’t wait.” He grinned and scanned the room for prying eyes. Finding none, he made himself more comfortable by your side, hoping to spend the rest of his night with you. 

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” You admitted, somehow managing not to sound like you’re overly joyous of that not happening.

“I could say the same about you.” Was that excitement, or disappointment in his voice? Was he planning of politely ravishing other women, when you were not present to entertain him? Something told you those were not among his intentions, the smile on his face too honest, his twinkling gaze focused solely on you. 

You tilted your head and curled your lips. Touché. “It is nice to attend the ball your acquaintances are throwing, even if you arrive late. But for you, sir, I'm afraid people will actually think you're looking for a wife."

He rolled his eyes. There was a hint of offense in them just at the mentioning of the subject, but the playful type, not the exasperated type he uses for others. 

"Curious. The diamond of the season is also here. Isn't it strange that she still hasn't found someone, it's nearly the end of the season?" You inhaled sharply, dramatizing further. "Do you have something to do with it, Lord Kenobi?"

He scoffed, the impossibility of it reflected in his voice. "The diamond of the season?-"

"I thought you deserve nothing less." You explained, but he interjected.

"I'm only interested in one diamond." He said, initiating intense eye contact.

It was your turn to scoff, and run away from his gaze. "I was never the diamond."

"Only because you saw how better you were than the rest, and fled just before the start of the season." His eyebrows were raised, begging for a denial.

"I had planned that trip months ago." You simply stated. "And I came back halfway through summer, didn't I?"

"Just like now."

"Do I need to remind you who you have been spending time with since June?" 

"And where were you coming from tonight, ending your visit of- how long was it?"

"I am fond of traveling. Balls and banquets can entertain someone so far. " You shrugged, "Lord Kenobi, are you trying to say that you missed me?" 

"I could never claim otherwise." 

That was true from your perspective as well. All these years of constant traveling, and this year was the first time you missed what you left behind at home, even during the buzzing, pretense-filled months. None of it seemed that intolerable, and somewhat fun, if you dare to admit. You knew this impression was his doing, and now after your while spent apart, the feeling came back tenfold, almost making you squirm over such loose confessions.

That was it. That was the turning point of the night.

“Truth be told, the night is going much better than I dreamed of, and I almost regret forgetting my dance card.” You raised your chin, and sent him a look. “Would you be so kind to help me find it?” 

You could basically see the gears turning, a fire behind his eyes, fueling the desire growing in the depths of your belly. His gaze was piercing, even after he’d long decided, the truth known to both of you. Your heartbeats must’ve been visible, you imagined, and felt it skip a beat as he licked his lip. “Lead the way.”

Now that’s, how you ended up here.

However, as you look down at his face, the story gets blurry, perhaps outright loses its importance, abandoning your mind. His hair is tousled, a rebel strand in front of his eyes, and moves with every bounce. Your hands are too busy to hold onto his sweaty chest, slightly tugging on the auburn fuzz. You wanted to do that ever since he took his shirt off.

(Then again, you’re not sorry for the amount of time you couldn’t, drowning in him. The moment you felt his expert lips on yours, all your will to protest anything had died. Later, as his fingers joined the show, you quickly realized you were fine with what he gave, but he, ever the gentleman, let you prevail.)

It is a sight. And the moans that fall from his lips surpass the delicate melody the musicians are playing downstairs in every way, which can still faintly be heard. (You never thought an orchestra would accompany you during this, but here you were. It is a detail you’ll remember with a smile while looking back at it, but now, you couldn’t care any less.)

“You’re taking me so well.”  He starts to thrust his hips up slightly, meeting your rhythm, but never overtaking it.

“I know.” You giggle, but the reaction he’s taken notice of is your fingertips digging in further, and your walls fluttering around his cock.

When you start to falter a bit, perhaps due to the fatigue settling on your muscles embarrassingly not long after his words, or his mere presence clouding your brain, his fingers that have been resting on your thighs slowly ascend to your hips. The fingers drenched in your juices, another element that has the coil in your belly tighter. The next few strokes, with his guiding hand, touch something deep inside you, and your jaw hangs open.

“Fuck…” is the only word you can mutter, and he chuckles at it.

“Is that so?” He mocks, but brushes your loose ringlets with a single hand, and caresses your nipple on its way down. The latter shows his true disposition, and that drives you to be more vocal, if you weren’t already.

“You feel… so… good.” You can hardly say, as your puffy clit drag against his skin all so deliciously like this.

He twitches inside you at the compliment, and you throw your head back with a whine. Despite the fact that he would kill to see your face, he doesn’t push, enjoying the state he’s putting you in with his voice. Every praise that falls from his lips earns him a melodic moan, along with the feeling of you tensing and relaxing, always responding to his call in one way or another.

You’re one step away from being a doll at his bend, though you couldn’t care any less, not when you are this close.

He likes it, very very much. Yet, not enough to silence his wishes of how to ruin you, in the best way.

In a blink, you find yourself on your back, and him on top of you. That’s not the first thing you see, though. It is his hand, lifted from wherever it fell, catching your chin to turn your head to him. Sounds of panting are all there is, no movement, no words, not even your rapid heartbeats drumming in your ears seconds ago as if the world stopped for a second.  

His thumb caresses your lower lip, and you let it slip in. God, you can still taste yourself. The revelation has your objections at the change dead, your face twisting, yet he tsks thrice, capturing your attention.

“Let me see those eyes.” Obi Wan commands, and you have no choice but to oblige. “You look so good beneath me.” 

Somehow, his words have you flushing and squirming as if that was the most inappropriate thing happening in this room. Funny, how he breaks your will, and you let it. Against all the talk of your friendship, until an hour ago, you’d have lashed out at an equivalent demeanor, even said in affectionate terms. (Any other way is simply impossible, anyway.)  But, that hour proved itself to be much precious, and now with that glossy gaze, snatched right from the brink of climax, you focus on the doting aspect, how he cannot get enough of the image of you.

You start to writhe, the new emptiness inside you unbearable. “Touch me, Obi Wan…”

He's not proud of the way your begging has his cock leaking, though that hardly stops him. He lives for mutual pleasure, even just yours at the moment, yet you look so pretty like this, grasping the sheets. 

"Like this?" He slides his thumb further into your mouth, relishing the feeling of your tongue swirling around it immediately. Or course he wasn't expecting you to suck him off if you didn't want to, nor would he ever ask for it, he can't help but imagine the feeling, his hips rolling in seek of stimulation.

You shake your head, and his finger is freed with a pop. You frown as the sole contact you have with him is lost. It is a warning sign for him, the fragility of your dream-like state, a reminder of how he has to do better, if he wants to take control. As a gentleman, he wanted to give you everything you desired, but since it was your first time together, a terra incognita, he had to be sure of your limits, so he followed your wishes gladly. The wishes which were masterfully balanced versions of both of your needs. The same problem troubled you too of course, but you were a quick learner, a connoisseur of his taste in no time. The fact that it was very similar to yours was an exciting discovery, certainly a pleasant one, and was a great help, so great that it almost felt like cheating. While he took no issue with your tricks; the urge to take you on his terms, the compulsion to show you how he wants to cherish you couldn’t be suppressed any longer. He had to let you know.

He leans in closer, his arms bend as yours find his shoulders like a habit, “Like this?” He murmurs, right before brushing his lips against yours, effectively swallowing your whine. Though it was a sound of protest, all complementary sentiments die when he nips at your lower lip, and you open your mouth, lost in the sensation of his tongue licking yours, and his sweet essence. In contrast to his other needs taken good care of, he hadn’t taken enough of the feeling of our mouths joining. God, he spent hours imagining your mouth, curling into every shape as smart words spilled from it, enhancing his fascination with you. It fires the flames of haze further, even if he’s not actually properly touching you. Your hand roams his neck, then etches itself into his silky hair. You’ve done that a few times now (and found his response most addicting), but it is hardly satisfactory compared to the amounts you dreamed of doing during these last couple of months. You saw him prim and proper mostly, not a strand out of place, making you marvel at its excellence, and the itch to mess it up growing stronger each instance, a stark contrast to your surroundings. Also, there were times the infamous piece fell in front of his eyes, and sometimes even more disheveled than that, riding a horse, enjoying sports with his friends, and once after a bath, when your family visit started a little earlier than planned. You were always admiring the way it reflected light, creating almost a halo around his head, especially in sunlight. It is the first thing your eye is drawn to whenever you’re in the same place, a beacon of sorts. You never thought you’d be this amazed by hair, yet the moans he produces when you tug on it, add to your astonishment, and you’re not sure if you can look at it again, without being reminded of this moment.

He breaks the kiss as for you to catch your breath, for he has long kept you away from it. Still, he continues to pepper you with tons of them, scattered all across your jaw and neck, in search of that sweet spot that has you cursing. It is not a serious journey, in fact, he does more than press his lips against your skin properly, tease you with his open mouth, drag his tongue along the taut muscle, nip and outright bite, once.

“No marks-“ You protest. Futile. You should’ve warned before he started to nibble, way before he sank his teeth, but it has happened after all, and you can already feel blood settling on the sites of his attack. “What I am going to tell my maid now?”

“The truth.” He retorts. “Of how you led Lord Kenobi into our bed, and did dirty, unspeakable things with him.”

That earns him a harsh pull at his scalp, and a pat on his shoulder. He meets with your glaring gaze, and cheeks redder than a minute ago. So, he’s still on your good side. Barely.

“Apologies, my dear.” He takes the hand that smacked him, and places a peck onto your palm before placing it back. You can’t break the eye contact as he does so, something about his appearance, perhaps his position, or the charming contours of his face, or the way he deals with your anger keeps you from kicking him out. Caressing your open legs, he massages them ‘til they relax afresh, squeezing at the soft flesh. You hiss when his movement nears your inner thighs, thanks to his beard, and the climax it brought you. The gesture hints, still, there’s the matter of fire burning in your belly. “Couldn’t resist, you know me. Let me make it up to you.”

He wastes one more second to carve this image inside his head, then fulfills his promise. He likes the way you tremble while you wait, a whimper leaving your mouth at him taking his cock into his hand and stroking it a few times. God, how you wish that was your hand. Damn your stubbornness, and demand for compensation. You put extreme effort into staying still, releasing a shaky breath when he places the tip at your entrance.

Remember when he said “ruin”?

He doesn’t push it in, instead letting it slide up your slick folds, and tap against your clit. You nearly jolt at the touch, yet again tasting bliss, even if it is in mere drops. He repeats the action, and you sob, digging your nails into his shoulders. Maybe you’re the one leaving marks now, but you don’t care. Eye for an eye you can say, in retrospect.

“You’re so wet.” He can’t stop looking into your glistening core. He also can hear it, the squelching sounds echoing at his every movement. He knows you can too, that it calms your nerves, though they act up for different reasons. “All this for me?”

Unfortunately, you are late to realize he doesn’t take your moans for an answer. You can’t help it, you are unable to form words. Even if you gather the strength, they die out at your throat, especially under his piercing look. Fuck, he loves how cockdumb you’ve become for him.

He takes pity on you then, dropping his cock to briefly rest on your opening, and forces his fat tip in.

Your back arches, a throaty sound filling the room. He shushes right next to your ear, in an effort to calm you down as he slips the rest in. It is as if you’re taking him the first time, like you weren’t riding him moments ago.

“Fuck-“ That’s the only reaction, the only answer he needs. You fall back into the sheets, the first time he rolls his hips, and sets a new rhythm, a slow one to kindle the flame once more. Your hair probably getting tangled from the way it’s rubbing against the sheets, and your legs are split wide open. You feel every vein and ridge moving against your walls, the slight resistance disappearing in no time. His chest brushes against yours, and combined with the warmth of his breath, so close to yours, it’s easy to let go of your worries.

This is why you ended up here.

“Faster!” While he already feels great, it’s not the exact pattern to provide that sweet release, not in the timeframe you hoped.

“I want this to last, dear.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. A part of it due to irritation. Being subjected to that response before, he snickers to see you’re still you, even when you’re literally fucked out of your mind. As he does so, his lips skim yours. You take it, greedily, one hand first on his neck to ensure he stays, then to his unruly tress, aspiring to compel him into the middle ground. That earns you a few groans, yes, but his will doesn’t seem to falter even a little bit.

Perseverance, is a mutual quality, as you already know.

You slowly release the grip you have on his head, emphasis on slowly. It goes unnoticed, thanks to your timely bite, the same assault he once carried out. You don’t waste the access to his tongue, sucking on it. You’re not sure if his moans are increased in number, or if it feels more because you swallow every single one of them, but the fact that his beard starts to prick your cheeks harder gives you an idea.

Your free hand falls into sheets and slithers across the length of your body. Just a little more- you’re almost about to touch your –

His fingers wrap around your wrist instantly, dragging it up, a little further away from your face. You twist your neck, a wail coming out as you reject his kiss.

Only to be met by the sight of that said fingers running up your palm, and interlock themselves among yours.

Your breath hitches, for reasons unknown to you.

“Ah- ah -ah.” He tuts, though there’s not a hint of disappointment in his voice. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I let you do all the work?”

You can’t believe one physical contact, and his words, are enough to carry you to that previous peak. Your pussy contracts around him, beyond your control, an indication of your closeness, nothing compared to before.

“Ngh- that’s it.” He encourages, “Just relax and take it.” That’s more sincerity than you’ve ever heard from him.

It goes on and on for a while, him doing exactly what he promised to do, and fulfilling his wishes in the process. He already knows this could go on ‘til morning, and he still wouldn’t be completely satisfied, longing for your presence the second he leaves the bed. Still, he continues, pushing himself to his limit, and that’s getting quite harder when you clamp on him that hard. He feels his cock leaking, begging for that sweet end.

When his arm that’s not supporting his weight travels down, caressing your hip before pressing his thumb to your clit, finally, you reward it with a whisper of his name, a sound he won’t dare to forget. Your back arches impossibly higher, and he has to lean back, abandoning his other hold.

Your limb stays in the spot he left it.

He curses at the realization, perhaps its effect mirroring yours when he first initiated the contact. Fuck, how are you so perfect? He snaps his hips harder, and circles his thumb, feeling it throb.

“Obi Wan-I’m c-“

He loves how your words are cut with the need to scream that you gulp down, only resigned to breathing as your face contorts with pleasure. “Cum for me, love.”

Your moans blend into each other, as he cannot stay still at the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight. He holds your trembling thigh, fondling the soft flesh, adoring the way it spills from his grip. He doesn’t stop ‘til they settle again once more, and even a little longer than that, pulling out in the last minute to cover your belly with his spend. 

That act keeps you from turning to your side, and feeds the desire to hug the sheets, a soft but firm ground for your senses to return. You're not complainant of it anyways, you have a far better view in front of you, defined muscles undulating with each heavy breath, glistening due to the light coat of sweat covering them, lips puffy and slightly flushed with blood, as well as his cheeks. You always thought he was devilishly handsome, but this, this is something else. The world should consider itself lucky, or it would bend to his will just from his looks. Or unlucky, for the honor is bestowed upon a handful of people. 

He believes he's blessed with the sight upon him, too. Still holding onto your thigh, he delights in spontaneous tremors that possess it. If he looks closely, he's sure he can see the faint mark he left. Your hair is sprawled around, much in contrast to the delicate up-dos you and every noblewoman fashioned, its most natural form, and the intimacy of it definitely causes a small breakdown. You belong in a painting, depicting goddesses and nymphs, a grace outside the limits of time and culture. Your droopy lids and tired pull at the corners of your mouth fill his chest with pride and more adoration, like after his every successful attempt to elicit a reaction from you. It happens often, thanks to the understanding that grows between the two of you, but every example is still treasured in in his mind.

“Well, I don’t know any better way to spend the night.”

You giggle. “I agree.”

“We should’ve done this before.”

Your lifted brows are the perfect answer. Like it’s that easy.

But he has a point, too.

In the comfortable silence, he gets up from bed, a sigh at the roar coming from downstairs, drowning the music. That’s still going, huh? You watch as he wets the nearest towel, and returns, cleaning the mess with unexpected gentleness that it almost tickles. There’s no aim to steal one more touch at his movements, no personal gain except an easy conscience, and even that is a stretch because it’s most natural to him, his understanding of tenderness.

“Well, thank you, sir.” You sit up, with a yawn, and scooch backward to your pillows as he retreats to give himself the same treatment. “And my nightgown, please.” You point to it, and amusingly follow his subtle headshake, and efforts to hand it over. He hesitates for a second at the last minute, considering rebellion, a last joke. You see it, and snatch the fabric from his grip before he can tighten it. He can feel it sliding over his skin, the light material flying. You slip it on, aware of his voyeur. with a victorious smile cut too short as exhaustion creeps into your bones. You’re no different, in any case, settling into the fluffy pillows, curiously examining each piece of clothing he puts on from afar, the unwritten rule of his habits, his hidden glances at your mirror in a feeble pursuit to tame his messy hair. You’re willing to be charged guilty for that.

He stalls, though, you can feel it after a while, around the time sleep clouds your vision. How could anyone blame him for not wanting to leave, carve your picture to his mind, and calm his yet again straining cock at it?

“You should be going. Servants are going to be wandering these corridors for orders, soon.” Your heart winces at the warning, because he's not the type to need it, or disregard you to put you at any risk. But your cognation runs thin, and he needs to know the dangers he might face. 

"True. Right. You're correct." Is that a stutter? "Good night, my lady."

"Good night, Lord Kenobi.

"Glad to be of help in stretching your legs." 

The cushion falls short to exactly hit him, but the sentiment is clear. 

In the morning, you uncover the reasons behind his diversion. 

Bastard signed every slot in your dance card.

[uyuartik]

Can see this being roommate!Bucky

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPRcGCfkW/

Tell me why I saw a comment that said: I've watched my husband down a whole team just cause they downed me first. He definitely got the gak gak that night. 😂😂

-gif/idea anon

Roommate Bucky is always ready to defend you. And you—you're about to learn firsthand why gamers are notorious for being good with their fingers.

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

WC: 2K

CW: Size kink, Beefy Bucky being absolutely massive, praise, degradation, choking, hand kink, fingering, overstimulation, hint of voyeurism, video game violence.

AN: Written on my phone, unbetad. This isn't based on any game in particular. It's just an excuse to write a little bit o' smut.

“No. No. Nonononono.” 

YOU’RE DEAD flashes across the screen mocking you as your avatar’s bullet-riddled body fades into the abyss. You slump in the oversized gaming chair, tossing your controller on the desk. Jeers ring in your headset and you rip it off, throwing it next to the controller. She was so pretty. It took you ages to find one you liked and could pair with the cute outfit you picked.

The guys on your team didn’t even give you a chance. Who takes out one of their own? These jackasses apparently.

"You okay?" Heavy footsteps resound behind you. Glancing up, you see your roommate strolling into the living room. Your heart races at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous. No one should look this good.

Deep blue eyes framed by long lashes. Beard neatly trimmed, enhancing his jaw. He's wearing a pair of loose grey sweats that cling to his muscular thighs, long brunet locks, damp from the shower, curl around his nape. No shirt of course.

Your eyes follow a bead of water that rolls down his massive chest and goes into the valley of his ridged abs. It hits the band of his navy blue boxers peeking out from his pants and your mouth goes dry imagining what's hidden under those layers of cotton.

While you’re busy ogling him, he notices the mess you left on his desk and the start over screen on his gaming computer. “What happened, bunny?” 

The reminder of that stupid game has your frustation and anger returning in droves and it overtakes your burgeoning lust. You explain how the guys, his gaming buddies, decided to fuck with you by taking you out in a flurry of friendly fire when they realized Bucky wasn’t in the room. The longer you speak, detailing all the nasty things they said to you, the more his features harden, a muscle ticking away in his clenched jaw.  

“Huh,” he mutters under his breath. Bucky ambles over to the chair and lifts you out of it like you weigh nothing to him, considering what he benches for fun, you know you don’t. He sits down and arranges you over his thick thighs, your back resting against his warm, bare chest. He leans forward, picking up the controller and headset.

 It's not the first time, you've sat on his lap during one of his gaming marathons, Bucky says you help him play better.

“What are you doing?” You ask, canting your head back, his body wash, fresh cedar and vanilla, wafts over you and it takes everything in you not to drop your face into his chest and just inhale him. 

The corner of his lip lifts into a smirk. “You’ll see.” 

Adjusting the headset, he takes the controller in both hands, his corded biceps that are bigger than your head brush against the sides of your breasts.

If he feels the shiver that wracks down your body, he doesn’t comment on it. He never does.

The controller looks so small in his large hands, your gaze follows the veins lining the back of them as his fingers nimbly manipulate the buttons. A rush of heat spreads through you when he rests his chin on your shoulder.

You try to clench your thighs to quell the ache beating between them, but your legs are dangling over his and you can’t.

“I—I’m not.” The lie is obvious even to your ears. He hums noncommittally, but you feel his arms press closer to your body, pushing your tits together. 

You shift on his lap, freezing in place when you feel his chest rise and fall against your back, his deep, knowing laugh rolls across your skin. He teaaes, “don’t tell me you're needy already, bunny?” 

Sometimes you can't tell if he's teasing or not. You asked once and he just grinned like tie answer should be obvious.

“Sure you’re not,” Bucky casually retorts after a man appears on the screen. His guy is more menacing than your avatar, tall and flanked in dark green camouflage, face concealed by a skull mask. Weapons rotate next to him, eventually stopping on a machine gun. Static crackles through his headset and he’s dropped onto a rooftop. “I’m back fuckers.” 

Various greetings trickle through, only to be cut short when it becomes apparent that Bucky is going on a rampage. He storms across the building. Player after player goes down. Some you don’t even see until they fall to their death. 

“Aw c’mon.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Seriously, what the fuck Barnes–” 

He’s ruthless. Headshots. Stabbing. More headshots. Your already damp panties are drenched when you point out the one that shot you first, and Bucky’s guy stomps the fuck out of Walker6969 before snapping his neck. A slightly undignified giggle slips past your lips when you hear his obnoxious complaint about Bucky not playing fair. Oh. Fucking. Well. More curses filter through his headset as he absolutely decimates the field. 

Bucky tilts his face towards you with a blithe smirk, taking out another player without missing a beat. “I warned you shitstains that you better be nice to my girl.” 

It’s not long before there’s no one left. Bucky tosses the control down, and wraps his arm around your belly, and leans back, taking you with him. “Feel better?” 

“Yeah,” you reply sincerely, both impressed at his skill and pleased that he was so willing to defend you. “Thank you.” 

“You really want to thank me, Bunny?” he whispers in your ear, nipping the lobe with a soft bite. 

Your breath hitches. His hands curve under your knees, placing your legs over the armrests. “I asked you a question,” Bucky states, his tone domineering and dark. 

You struggle to find any answer, but you can’t think with your roommate’s warm hand sliding down your shorts and cupping pussy and all you can do is whimper.

“You’re soaked,” he teases, tracing a finger down the middle of your clothed cunt. His touch is light, so light, but it sends a zap through your clit. “Could feel this hot little pussy throbbing on me. Practically begging for my cock,” Heat fans up the back of your neck and spreads to your face. He could feel that? Before you can drown in embarrassment, he’s kissing his way across your shoulder. ”Need me to get rid of this ache, don’t you?”

You want your roommates hands on you more than anything in this world. You’ve thought about this so many times, you can’t believe it’s happening. His touch feels better than you dreamed. His other hand travels a leisurely, gradual path up your shirt, moving your bra out of the way so he can roll your sensitive nipple between his rough fingers. 

Another slow sweep over your pussy, just skimming your pulsating, swollen clit. It’s not enough. “Please,” you whine out, grinding down over his growing bulge. He’s getting bigger and bigger under you. 

“Please what? Hmm, bunny, please what?” He cruelly taunts, pinching your nipple until your back arches off his chest. “Use your words.” 

You cry out, the spark of pain fades into a heady, warm pleasure. “Touch me.” 

You feel his lips curve into a smile, his teeth scrape over your throat. His thumb presses down your clit and goes still. “I am touching you.” 

This is unbearable.

You’ve never been so wet in your life and he hasn’t done anything. You need him so badly it hurts.

Your pussy clenches down on nothing, you feel so empty.

“Bucky, I need you, need your fingers inside me, please fuck me,” you babble, willing to say anything to get more of him. 

He doesn’t make you wait long. Without warning, he pushes your panties aside and a thick, calloused finger slides inside you. 

“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” he remarks, adding another. Bucky used to everything being small compared to him. You are no exception. He doesn’t give you time to get used to the stretch before he starts scissoring you open, working your hot, wet cunt until he can give you one more finger. Bucky crooks his fingers, and he finds that elusive spot, the one you swore didn’t exist until now. He finds it again. And again. And again. White-hot sensations make you curl in yourself, your thighs trembling. The rough pads of his thick fingers languidly working that sensitive spot as he moves to your other nipple, plucking it into a hard peak.

“That’s your spot huh?” He asks with a cocky rasp. He knows. You told him by the way your moans went all breathy and softy and you started grinding on his cock like a greedy slut being to be filled. Judging by the way he can barely fit three fingers inside you, he knows his cock is going to split you in two. He can’t wait.

“Oh god,” you breathe out, clawing deep marks in the leather under your hands.

The wet schlick schlick schlick of your pussy with every knuckle-deep thrust of his fingers is pornographic.

Right around the second or third time, you clench down around him; he decides he’s going to film you, put your pretty pussy front and center on his flatscreen across from his bed, and make you watch as he fucks you the same way you’re fucking yourself on his fingers, your hips rolling back and forth, grinding your ass over his throbbing cock. Gonna make you watch as you struggle to keep every inch inside you, make you watch him fuck you stupid. 

“Look at you making a mess all over me. Should make you clean it when you’re done. Gonna have you keep my cock warm while I finish the game.” The debauched image of you sitting on his cock while he plays flashes through your mind and a desperate moan builds in your throat, spilling out of your parted lips. “Yeah, you’re going to let me use this sweet cunt any time I want, gonna turn you into my personal fuckdoll.” 

His thumb swipes over your clit, once, twice. Sensations burn through your veins, your body feels so hot and tight, like you’re on the edge of imploding. His hand leaves your nipple and grabs your throat, the sudden pressure makes your head feel light. “Oh god." Right there, fuck he just has to keep doing that, you’re so close, he just has to stay right there. 

It’s like he can read your mind because he does, going harder and harder, giving you everything you need. “C’mon bunny, let me have it, give it to me.” 

“Fuck yesyesyes, don’t stop please don’t–” you sob, the start of your orgasm sparks inside you. 

“Not gonna tell you again, cum for me right the fuck now,” he rasps in your ear, squeezing tightly as he slams into your cunt, his thumb circling your clit faster and faster. His fingers catch your spot again, the pressure so good and so right that it sends you over the edge. Your orgasm barreling over you, wringing pleasure from every nerve in your body, and you gush around him.

“There it is, that’s my girl,” he praises, his words lost over the steady roar in your ears. He fucks you through it, drawing it out, only stopping after your vision blurs and you let out a pathetic noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob, but you feel too good to care how you sound.

You’re a mess—limbs trembling and weak, still so lightheaded, you can't lift your head, letting it loll lazily over his broad shoulder. He gently takes his fingers out of your pulsating cunt and holds it up, the evidence of your release dripping down to his wrist. He brings his long index finger to his mouth, sucking it dry with a grin. “Damn, you taste good.”

"I–fuck Bucky that was amazing." You grab the armrests and push yourself up.

“Where ya goin’? I didn’t say I was done with you,” Bucky says, his hand loose around your throat as he brings you back down. "I was jus' getting you warmed up."

Oh.

He grinds against your ass, his heavy cock digging into you. He's so big. Despite the fact that you're still on an orgasmic high, you want more. You want Bucky.

“You still gonna thank me Bunny?"

And I—

Roommate!Bucky has returned!

[uyuartik]

PLEASE I NEED SOME SIZE DIFFERENCE WITH ANAKIN, god I need this man to tower over me and compare hand sizes just for the sheer fun of it

—❝achingly gentle❞

anakin skywalker x reader

tw ; nothing, just pure fluff

a/n ; GUYS I AM SO SORRY I HAVEN'T POSTED ANYTHING IN AGES 😭 i got WAYYY too caught up in my work after that little.. incident.. with my arm.. BUT WE ARE BACK. i hope you all enjoy this, angels <3

THE SUN HAD LONG SINCE DIPPED BELOW THE CORUSCANT SKYLINE. The air carried a quiet chill, whispering against your skin. Training had gone on too long, the heat of the battle between you and Anakin now cooled to nothing but tired limbs and unsteady breaths.

The first time you truly felt it—felt just how much bigger he was, how easily he could envelop you—it was in something as simple as a borrowed cloak.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your body shivered, hadn’t paid any mind to the way the wind nipped at your sweat-damp clothes—until his warmth was draped over you.

Anakin’s cloak was heavy, impossibly so. The fabric smelled like him—something grounding, something safe. It pooled around your shoulders, its sheer weight pulling you downward, sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem nearly brushing the ground.

You turned, peering up at him from beneath the oversized hood, and found him watching you with that slow, knowing smirk—the kind that sent warmth curling through your chest.

“You look ridiculous,” he teased, reaching out to tug the cloak tighter around you.

You scoffed, struggling to push the sleeves up enough to free your hands. “It’s not my fault you’re built like a krayt dragon.”

Anakin hummed, stepping closer, so close that you had to tilt your head back just to meet his gaze. The sheer size of him was something you had always known—felt in the way he stood, in the way his presence filled a room, in the way his arms caged around you when he fought to protect you. But here, like this, his height, his strength, his warmth—it was undeniable.

A playful determination sparked in your chest. You lifted your hands—your small, ridiculous hands when compared to his—and pressed them against his chest, shoving with all your might.

He didn’t move. Not even an inch.

You blinked.

Anakin raised an eyebrow, so unbearably smug. “Was that supposed to do something?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I was testing a theory.”

“And?”

“I don’t like the results.”

His laughter was warm, that boyish yet infuriating grin you love so much appearing on his features. And then, before you could escape the embarrassment of your failed attempt at moving him, he reached out and grabbed your wrist. “And what did you learn?”

Your breath caught. His thumb traced a slow, absentminded circle along the inside of your wrist, warm and steady. He lifted your hand, turning it so your palm pressed against his.

The difference was laughable.

His fingers stretched far past yours, the breadth of his palm nearly double in size. His hand was strong, calloused from years of wielding a saber, yet so achingly gentle as he laced his fingers through yours. Your hand looked so small in his hold, fragile in a way that made something deep in his gaze soften.

You swallowed, a sudden shyness creeping in. “That you’re unfairly large.”

Anakin let out a low chuckle, his voice a warm vibration beneath your fingertips. “Or maybe you’re just unfairly small.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he did something unexpected—something that sent your heart stuttering.

He lifted your intertwined hands and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

The touch was featherlight, reverent, as if he was memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, in the only way he knew how. His lips were warm against your skin, his breath a whisper of heat that sent shivers racing down your spine.

Your fingers twitched against his, tightening ever so slightly.

Anakin’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, pure and utter adoration flickering behind them.

A pause. A heartbeat suspended in time.

And then—

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a thread of something deeper woven into it. “Let’s get inside before you disappear completely in my robes.”

His fingers tightened around yours, a silent promise, a tether, a warmth that chased away the cold.

And with your hand still safely tucked in his, you let him lead you to the safe haven you two call home.

@thesassypadawan @anakinstwinklebunny @sydkneez @dessxoxsworld @nikiloveshayden @sweetcheesecakesblog @throughparisallthroughrome

let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the tag list, angels <3

[uyuartik]

Hey, welcome. I love to hear other people's headcanons about my husband (obiwan). And I also leave a request if you are open ofc 🫶🏻

-🪷

assorted obi-wan headcanons a/n thanks for the req! i have a ton of random hcs for obi-wan & they're so fun to actually write down lmao. hope you're having a nice day (..◜ᴗ◝..) tags gender neutral reader. sfw & nsfw (at the end). alcohol mentioned.

silly/random

vegetarian although he rarely has the time to cook for himself. i don't see him as the holier-than-thou type, just never liked meats. probably the texture?

a few years after the battle on mustafar he buzzed his hair again (lmao) but ended up hating it & wore a hood until it was mullet-length.

his living area in coruscant is completely devoid of personality to discourage lingering. literally the most basic furniture and plain, dark walls. unscented everything. sterile like a fancy hotel room.

never listens to music and will not give you his opinion on a song even if your life depended on it.

very modest with alcohol. only got super drunk once in his life (padawan years) and tried to irritate everyone around him. now, he has such amazing self control & hardly anyone can tell if he's been drinking. to make matters worse, he's not a social drinker. visits the corner of a bar on special occasions. you learned to ask if he's 'had a few' if he's acting sassier than usual.

when alone, he sleeps flat on his back with one arm folded over his chest. only one pillow needed.

this man hates fizzy drinks for some reason.

when the weather is cold, his nose area and lips get really dry. probably keeps one of those mini moisturizing balms on-hand and doesn't care if people think he looks weird with it smeared on.

romantic

obi-wan's body is a furnace. i don't make the rules. always so warm and cuddly. dizzy and feverish. if you're laying with him, nine times out of ten you'll have to cool off at some point.

while we're on the topic— he cuddles you in his sleep. always murmuring your name and tightening his grip on your waist.

whatever your hair care routine is, no matter what hair type you've got, he learned it and will offer to wash / braid / cut / dye / oil it for you. every. single. time. have you seen his hair? he knows what he's doing.

initiates hand-holding mostly by putting his hand on top of yours and waiting for you to lace them together.

in his younger years, he was a shameless flirt / womanizer as an act of rebellion against the 'rules,' but post-tpm era, he's a lot more serious about it (though some witty moments come through after he feels comfy). more interested in inviting you over for tea because you're out of teabags, or offering to clean / fix things for you. things you can almost brush off as friendliness.

yes, i'm dropping hints that his (giving) love language is acts of service.

loves having his back scratched, though he refuses to ask for it. he has no idea that it's a common relaxing gesture— thinks it's some quirk of yours that you sometimes do while zoned out. stays completely still so you forget to stop.

mild nsfw

this man does not wear any sort of undergarments. sorry. this isn't even something i care about yet i feel it so strongly for him. he's constantly wearing so many layers of soft, loose-fitting linen that he simply doesn't need to.

would never sleep naked, though. he finds that inappropriate and has a ton of robes / loungewear.

will carry you around (and carry you to bed) no matter the occasion. possibly my favorite thing about obi-wan is that he doesn't have a concept of the performative aspect of romance nowadays; he won't pick you up because he wants to make you feel small or protected or something to boost his own ego. he wants to get you where he wants (needs) you as fast as possible while remaining his sensual, old-fashioned self.

super loud. this is barely even a headcanon. he's got a range of grunts & high, breathy, open-mouthed moans. i need him.

i don't see him being stereotypically 'dominant' (he's not the type to care about rigid labels or expectations and is quite the gentleman) but once in a while when he's in those sarcastic moods where he wants to annoy you a bit, this will translate into the bedroom.

still gets shy / timid when you step out of the bath or shower in a robe or get dressed in front of him.

hardly ever tells you directly that he's turned on. you can tell by the way he kisses you or how pink his cheeks are. it works.

see above when i talked abt his love language— he is not above using acts of service to get in your pants. he offers to do other things for you once he's got you happy and taken care of. i said what i said.

[uyuartik]

LITTLE FIC WHERE THE READER WANTS TO LEARN HOW TO GIVE A BJ AND GOES TO ANAKIN FOR HELP.

this post is 18+, minors dni.

"It's not that hard," Anakin's chuckled reassurances do very little to ease the achy nerves that are wrapped so tightly around your heart that they're surely searing marks into it, "Just- here, practice first."

"What-" You frown, jumpy and anxious with anticipation when he reaches for you. His hand doesn't reach for your own, though, nor does it move to readjust you on the bed- no, it heads for your face. Thumb first, he presses the digit against your lips, and for no other reason but pure shock, you part them to allow him entry past your mouth.

"Good," He nods, but you hadn't even made the choice to let him in; you'd just done it. Naturally, instinctually, you'd wanted his thumb in your mouth. He holds your cheek with his other four fingers, pressing his thumb down over your tongue. It's a heavy feeling, one that pools saliva around your teeth, and Anakin rubs his thumb side to side through it to coat his finger.

"Suck on it," He urges you, "Gently, start gentle."

You suction your lips together, gently pulling at his thumb with easy force. You hold the pressure, keeping his thumb under constant suckling force, and he nods, stroking along your cheek with his unoccupied fingers.

"That's good. Really good. Now let go," He instructs, and you break the suction, but he doesn't empty your mouth. Instead he tilts his head up, chin pointed towards your mouth briefly, "Lick it."

"Anakin," You mewl, muffled and mortified around his finger, but he presses its tip down onto your tongue in reprimand.

"You wanted to learn! What, now you're embarrassed? Come on, commit." He eases up on the pressure he's holding your thumb down with, "Lick it."

You drag the flat of your tongue experimentally over the pad of his thumb and you nearly miss the shaky breath that huffs from between his lips under the sound of your own. His eyes, previously zeroed in on your own to bore into them teasingly, have dropped to your mouth, watching the trail of saliva that escapes through the loose seam of your lips.

"Good, that's- that's really good." He shifts on his mattress, an arm pressed down over his lap as he leans in, "Now the underside, baby, kinda... trail along- there."

You do as you're told, and a twitchy jerk of Anakin's thumb presses down accidentally over your tongue once more, bleeding your spit hot.

"Now these fingers," He decides, tearing his thumb out of your mouth and stuffing his pointed and middle in its place, "Come on, baby, keep going."

"Ana-mm!" Your protests are useless and garbled as his fingers momentarily hit the back of your throat, inducing a gag.

"Perfect," He breathes, eyes shining as he tests the give of your tongue once more, "You're a natural, baby."

[uyuartik]

Water and Rock

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created.

TAGS/WARNINGS: slow burn, explicit sexual content, angst, major character death, mild violence, drug use, dubcon, noncon, some elements of sith!obiwan, master/padawan dynamic, age gap, pro-jedi/jedi positive (see final chapters for additional tags)

WORD COUNT: 106K (Complete)

CHAPTERS: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10 // 11 // 12 // 13 // 14 // 15 // 16 // 17

☆☆☆

Concessions

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: Obi Wan chooses to undertake a trial that prevents him from sex for one year, and asks you to serve as his witness. As his close friend, you don't mind helping him. The rules of the trial are very clear. You make it your personal mission to find every exception.

TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, orgasm denial/edging, sexting, light bondage (handcuffs), dubcon

WORD COUNT: 15K (In Progress)

CHAPTERS: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4

☆☆☆

Heat Sick

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: While on a mission with your master to uncover an assassination plot, you forget to turn off your security cam. Obi Wan sees more than he's ready to confront, and feels more than he's ready to withstand.

TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, noncon elements including nonconsensual voyeurism, master/padawan dynamic, age gap, power imbalance, masturbation, angst, guilt kink

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

ONE-OFF

☆☆☆

Pretty Young Thing

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: Obi Wan only has one rule for your meetings - no names involved.

TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, alcohol, porn without plot

WORD COUNT: 2.1K

ONE-OFF

☆☆☆

Main Masterlist

[uyuartik]

home in three days, do not wash

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: age gap, mild choking, mentions of child death, hurt comfort, breeding kink, lactation, reader has children, taboo for the time oral sex, talk of war. Word count: 3.6k words Summary: Your General returns home ravenous for you and you cannot decline him, even if any exposure of his act would bring him great shame. A/N: Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the awesome graphics. Napoleon said 'be home in three days, do not wash' and what was I supposed to do? Not use it for our big thicc roman general returning home from war to fuck us? I did research and shit and came to know that eating pussy was a big no no back in the day. dj Khaled would love to be an ancient roman ig. also learned that rich ladies didn't breastfeed and used a wet nurse but they knew that breastfeeding could help and some women did it. Outside all that research, it's just depravity, baby. Anyway, validate my depravity with some comments pls.

Laughter echoed through the hallways of your palatial home and you stood at a balcony with the best view from atop the hill. The campaign that had taken your husband away had finally come to an end with victory for Rome. Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, you were always one of the last people to receive the latest news of importance. This time was an exception to the rule. 

Home in three days. Do not wash.

All you wanted when you received the message was to run in the direction of the roads that would bring your beloved home. Three days were too long. You wanted to curtail the long wait, run to him so you would be in one another’s arms in a day and a half. 

But you chose the more realistic path and prepared the home for his arrival. The servants polished every surface, your handmaiden ensured you had all your most preferred clothing— that which he loved to see on your body. The kitchen was busy preparing every meal that the master loved. Your two older children with your general busied themselves recollecting everything they learned from their private tutor to impress their father. 

Your youngest, your first son, was still so young he had never met his father. He was the child your dearest had longed to have for so long. For all the luck the gods had given him in the battlefield, they had given very little in the way of children to carry his legacy. In his heart, he was father to seven daughters and six sons. The gods had only allowed four daughters to live. Two of his sons passed in infancy, one passed in birth, taking his mother with him. One other was taken by disease and another killed in battle. 

He now had only one son and he hadn’t yet the joy of holding him in his arms. Everyday that Marcus was in the battlefield was torture. Babe on your breast and fear in your heart over whether his father would live to see him. Fear sometimes subsided for anger to have its way. That very anger remained in your chest, prepared to unleash on him the moment he stepped into the home. 

When the sun dimmed, night crept in and so did Marcus. You refused to greet him at the door. A warm welcome was reserved for men who told their wives where they were going before they left. You had half a mind to ask for a bath to be prepared. To wash yourself with milk and fragrant oils in front of him so he could see your defiance in action. 

But you remained in the balcony, eyes set on the moon who served as your companion when he left you. For all the fury you had for him, there was also an ache of sympathy. You wouldn’t sour his mood the moment he entered. He must see his son first. Then you would see to that he groveled at your feet for his cruelty. 

Just as you thought, you had a long time to relax on the settee. He always went to his children first. Be it after months away on the battlefield or a mere day in the city. You asked for your son’s crib to be moved to your daughters’ room so he would be able to see them all at once, saving him the battle of choosing between his great loves. You’d sent word to him on the battlefield after you gave birth, sent him the name of his son so he would know to include him in his prayers. 

You heard whispers of his voice conversing with a servant. Your heart quickened its pace, each thud against your ribs matching the thuds of his feet against the floor. Oh how you wanted to turn around. It had been so long since your eyes were blessed with him. His towering height, broad frame, the pink of his lips and the curls you so loved to comb through with your fingers. You trembled, the cold breeze reminding you how devoid you’d been of his warmth. Yet you were resolved to not give yourself up to him so soon. You stayed in place and closed your eyes.

He stopped behind you and your name spilled from his lips like honey. It had been so long since anyone spoke your name so… The servants called you mistress and your children called you mother. Your birth family only wrote your name in their many letters. He was the only one who spoke your name, leaving you without hearing your own name since his departure. But you stayed, did not turn, did not open your eyes. He spoke it again, his voice gentle but louder as he stopped at your side. 

“Open your eyes, dearest.” 

“Where have you come, General?” You asked, your voice cold enough to be the envy of the winter breeze. 

“General?” He asked, a hint of amusement playing at his lips. 

“Are you not a General?” You taunted, finally opening your eyes. He looked weary from battle and travel. You longed to take him to your chambers and strip him of his armor to count his wounds, kiss each one be it new or old. His hair was grayer than when he left, his skin duller, but his eyes were still the soft brown that gave you peace when you first saw him as his young bride. 

“Your General,” he said with a small smile as though his words were supposed to make you forgive him at once and shower him with kisses. It only strengthened your resolve. If he wouldn’t treat you as a wife, you wouldn’t give him the respect of a husband. 

“You have a son,” you said, stretching your legs out in the settee just as he made to take his seat there. His hand wrapped around your ankle and you kicked it off, daring him to make another attempt at moving your legs so he could sit. He smiled softly, conceding as he moved to stand by your head. 

“He is beautiful, mellilla,” he said, caressing your cheek. You slapped his hand away. All of Rome may fall at his feet and welcome him back with praises of his victory. He was deserving of course, not only for his achievements but for his undying loyalty to Rome. If Rome were a woman, she would be his principal wife and you— you would only be a tavern whore he fucked and left in the dead of night. 

“You block the moonlight, General Acacius.” 

“Marcus,” he said, moving to allow you sight of the moon once again. He sat in the little remaining space on the settee and looked down at you. Despite the toll war had taken on him, he was incredibly handsome. Bold nose, pink lips and graying curls that only made him look ever so slightly more distinguished. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your lips. You did not return the kiss, but you did not push him away. There was an limit even to your anger. You placed a hand on his shoulder, the act of denying yourself the joy of your lover weighing heavy in your heart.

“I’m afraid I haven’t such an honor.” You bit down on your lip, annoyed at yourself for the trembling of your voice as you spoke. Your anger for him had a foundation of pain after all. 

His face fell and he sighed. He looked down at his lap and you hoped it was from shame.

“If you have nothing to say, you may leave. If you need it, you may summon the servants for your meal. But I am sure the emperor did not send his best general hungering for food or cunt,” you spat, rising to sit up on the settee. Hand as strong as iron wrapped around your wrist, coupling with his strong torso that trapped you in place to keep you from getting up. You squirmed in his grasp, but he did not budge.

“Listen to me.” 

“Is that an order?” 

He wrapped an arm around you and held your cheek in his hand. You looked up at him, giving him biting fury to his firm yet gentle gaze. “If it is the only way I will have your obedience, then yes. It is an order.” 

“You may speak, but you cannot make me listen and you most certainly cannot make me respond.” 

“I am your husband.” 

“A husband doesn’t leave for a year long war at the dead of night with no explanation to the woman swelling with his child,” you screamed, fist slamming against his chest. It didn’t affect Marcus. Nothing affected the great General Acacius, you thought with derision. You hit him in the chest again, tears brimming in your eyes and clouding your vision.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You ceased your attacks as his apology coupled with the pain in his eyes reduced you to tears. You’d kept everything in for so long, put on a brave face for your daughters and hid your heart in your letter to your father. It was only with Marcus that you didn’t need to hide. He always tore your fears down and pulled you into the safety of his arms.

“I wouldn’t have been able to leave had I said goodbye.” 

“I was so afraid,” you confessed, leaning into his chest. Every pretense of strength and composure left your body as you let him hold you to his chest. The gold earrings you wore to please his eyes pressed cold against your skin under his hand. He moved next to your hair and then you neck, the hand that held swords and spilled blood only to return home to love you. 

“Carissima…You were all I could think of after I left. Forgive me,” he begged, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to each finger. 

“Later. I have missed you. Marcus,” you whispered, craning your neck to kiss him. He returned your kiss in an instant, arms cradling you as you devoured each other. He smelled of war— blood, soil, sweat, and leather. It was far more pleasing to your senses than any fragrant oils and flowers. Your Marcus and his distinctly masculine scent was above all but the fragrance of your newborn. 

You whined as he retreated. He laughed and returned to scatter kisses along your jawline like Rome scattered rose petals along the steps of the Colosseum for his feet. He reached under your layers of silk and linen, making you tremble and press yourself closer to his chest. 

“So soft…” 

“I need you, please.” It was all he needed to hear before he walked up to the doors of the balcony and slammed them shut. What he did with you, for you, wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but your own. 

He unlatched the gold clips that held your palla to your shoulders and set them aside. Your stola and tunic followed, piling up on the marble floor. Cold air caressed your bare breasts, bigger and fuller now as you nursed your son yourself. You traced your hand up his arm, feeling his vambrace before finding his muscular arms. You whimpered from just how big he was in your hands. You squeezed, feeling the hard muscle and rough skin. 

Your General knelt before you and you sat up straight, confused by his action. He couldn’t be… You sought his apologies and regret, but by no means would you ask him to humiliate himself for you. Such a man, superior to you in every way. 

“Dominus!” You shrieked, reminding him who he was even when he came home. 

“Shh…” 

“Are you going to—?”

“Lick you cunt? Yes. Sit back, now,” he said as he guided you to lean back on the settee. You shook your head from side to side, appalled by the circumstances and confused as to how you were supposed to stop him. He spread your legs wide, planting your feet upon the seat. He licked his plush lips and looked up at you, his eyes those of a ravenous beast. 

“You cannot. I only want you to understand the torture you put me through, not debase yourself in front of me. It’s not right.”  

A corner of his lips curled up slightly. He spat on his hand and rubbed it into your cunt. You arched into his palm, your cunt chasing any contact you could have with your beloved. “Tell me, who do you belong to?” 

“You.”

“Speak fully and speak my name.” 

“I belong to you, Marcus.” 

“Correct. Why do you think then, that you can tell me what I can and cannot do with you?” 

He parted your cunt lips and slid a finger inside you. “You belong to me. All of you. This cunt belongs to me. Does it not?” You nodded as he pumped his thick finger in and out of you. It had been so long since you’d been touched that even his finger felt a little much for you to take. You shuddered as you thought of his cock, promising the virility that came with such a size. 

“Speak,” he commanded, every bit the fearsome General who led men into battle. When even warriors couldn’t defy him, how could you? 

“It belongs to you, Marcus.” 

“Mmm,” he rumbled, curling his finger inside you, making you whimper. “If I want to lick this cunt then, do you have any right to stop me?” 

“N-no,” you cried, grabbing his wrist and imploring him to slow down for you couldn’t take such intoxicating pleasure. “If peo— Marcus! If someone knew—”

Then he dove into your core and licked the nub above your cunt, eliciting a squeal from you. He looked up at you from between your legs, tongue still licking you as he smirked. It was sinful, the sight and the act of a man serving a woman. You shook your head, your senses already addled from being so close to him after a long year. It was wrong. Wrong. But oh gods, he made all the wrongs feel right and who were you to deny him? 

Tears rolled down your cheeks, no longer from the agony of separation from your dearest but from the building pressure in your core. 

“Marcus…” you said, unable to say anything else. You reached your hand towards him, needing to be anchored to the Earth as he flew you to the heavens. He enveloped your hand in his and gave a small squeeze. His other hand and his lips were unrelenting, giving him new ways to torment you. 

How did anyone deem it submissive for a man to kneel and lick cunt? Your Marcus still looked as majestic as ever. The picture of victory that Rome worshiped. The Marcus Acacius who slew and killed was home and ruthless in his conquest of you. Even as he licked your core, he was the one with all the power in hand. This was but a new way for him to take you. 

You gasped inaudibly as he inserted another finger in your cunt, stretching you in preparation for his cock. You felt your unraveling come closer. He pulled you deeper into whatever spell he had you under whenever he touched your cunt. You squeezed his hand tighter, saying everything your lips couldn’t. Hold me, keep me safe, never let me go.

The waves crashed against the rocks on the shores of the beach as you came crashing down from the heavens. Marcus kept his wordless promise. You tightened your legs around his head yet he held you in place and kept you safe. 

When you came to, you found your fingers tangled in between his dark curls. You loosened your grip on him but did not let go, needing to feel him even if it was just his hair. 

“I should not have liked that.” 

He laughed and gave your cunt another lick, smirking as he watched you shudder. 

“But you did,” he said, getting up at last. “I knew you tasted divine, but having you directly from your cunt is something else, melilla.” 

“I have not washed in days because of you. I am sure I taste horrendous.” 

“Good girl, following orders well. But you are wrong. You taste and smell like a woman. Not a perfumed woman. This,” he said in a low voice as the tip of his nose traced up your neck. He inhaled your scent and moaned. “This is nothing you can find in a vial. This is your true scent,” he said, stopping at your ear and placing a kiss. 

“I would recognize it anywhere.” He reached under his pteruges and toga and retrieved his cock. Your cunt clenched at the mere sight of him. 

He was far too covered. As much as you loved to see your General in his armor, you loved more to see him bare. You needed to run your fingers over his bare chest and dig your fingernails into his shoulders as he wrung his pleasure out of you.  You found the ties that held his armor in place and began to undo them. 

“Impatient girl,” he chided as he aligned himself with your cunt. 

“Help me out then,” you snapped back as you struggled with the knots. He ignored your request and continued on his path of destroying you, plunging his length inside you much too quickly. You cried from the pain and pleasure of being stretched out by him once again. 

“Marcus!” 

He bent forward and whispered your name against your lips before claiming them. You moaned into the kiss as you rubbed yourself against him for friction. You were loath to pull away from his cock even the slightest as you ached for him too much to part from him. You wrapped your legs around him and pressed your heels down on his back, pulling him deeper inside you. 

He wrapped a hand around your throat, tightening and loosening every now and then. “Day and night, I longed for you,” he whispered, his breath mixing with yours. “Dreamt of the day I would be inside you again.” 

You echoed the sentiment, but he quickly silenced you with a hard thrust that you felt in the deepest part of your core. He wasn’t the gentle Marcus who treated you like you did your fine silks but the General who conquered every land he set foot on. He rammed in and out of you, reclaiming you as his. Your cunt opened up to take its master, molded itself around him like it did each time since your wedding night. He had taken you, his young bride, and shown you a world only he could. He’d taken and taken, made you a woman by showing you what your body could do for you. 

He licked up your neck, growling like he was tasting the finest delicacies from the emperors’ table after being starved for months. “You smell sweet, Carisimma.” 

“You lived in tents with men for a year. I’m sure a pig would smell sweet to you now,” you said, making him laugh even as he wrecked you. He reached down to your breasts and grabbed one in his hand. He pinched your nipple between his fingers and tugged, making you cry out in pain. 

“Marcus!” Drops of milk trickled from your breasts and he swiped it with him thumb before licking it. 

“I only regret that I could not see you grow bigger with my seed.” 

“You ha- you have seen it before.” 

“Yet I am not satisfied. I need more, I need to fill you up with my seed, keep you full with my children in perpetuity.” 

“Marcus! Please…” 

“What do you beg for, girl?” 

“Give me sons, Marcus. Let me give you heirs,” you cried, overcome by the need to become his in that primal way. It was more than just your duty as his wife. It was an innate desire. As frightening as pregnancy was, you wanted it again and again at the hands of your husband. To give him sons carry his name and daughters who would control the great General with their laughter. 

“Give me sons,” he repeated, the hand around your neck squeezing tight. This time, he did not relax, holding your air hostage as he used your cunt for his carnal desires. You gasped for breath. Your cunt squeezed around him, keeping him in so he would give you his seed and refusing to let go even for a moment. 

Every thrust after sent delicious ripples of pain. You knew that you would wake the next morning unable to walk as usual. You would hear your servant girls giggle when they thought you couldn’t hear. He would wreck you day and night, make you scream for all the house to hear. He would take you to high places in the city, an arrogant smile on his lips as he showed you off, rounded again with his child. 

As though he could read your thoughts, he spilled inside you with a cry of your name. You held him close, afraid he would part from your body and rob you of his warmth. 

He showered you with kisses, beginning as a downpour and ending with a drizzle. You melted into his arms, the tension in your muscles leaving now that you had your Marcus home. You were no longer alone, he was here and he would take care of everything. 

“Am I forgiven now?” 

You smiled, burrowing into his chest as draped your discarded silk over you and picked you up in his arms. “I will consider it if you make sure I don’t bleed this cycle.” 

You felt his chest rumble as he laughed. A kiss on the top of your head.

“As you say, melilla.”

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