uyuartik - Tumblr blog

uyuartik · 5 days

Text

slipping through my fingers

Obi-Wan Kenobi x platonic!padawan!reader

summary: obi wan has to let go of his padawan as you grows up and out of his protection and teachings || warnings: i cried writing this, mentions of death || word count: 623 || masterlist

Obi-Wan can't help but to feel guilty as he watches his padawan interact with the other Jedi knights. He can't shake the feeling that he's letting her go out into the world woefully unprepared. You've changed so much from the young girl he first met.

He supposes these are the fears all parents feel as their child grows up. Because that's what you are to him. He raised you since you were a child to the adult you are now. You were his child, in everything but blood.

He’s watched other masters let go of their padawans and move on with life. But he wonders how they can move on without glancing back at the person they’re leaving behind. Do they not feel guilty about taking new padawans? Or are they desensitised to the whole system? Maybe the first is always the hardest, maybe it’s the first that sticks with you, maybe the sudden ache in his heart will ease when you smile.

“Are you alright Master?”

He’s been lost in thought for a while, longer than usual. Obi-Wan simply nods, taking in the time he has with you know and fondly remembering everything you had done together. These moments will not happen again, nothing ever will. Life is made of fleeting moments you don’t truly appreciate until they’re over. But you must hold tightly to those moments and cherish them so they don’t go forgotten.

It’s a duty as a parent, or pseudo-parent, to come to a stop and let their children continue on their own. It’s scary. It’s terrifying actually, but all birds leave the nest, all seeds float away in the wind.

“Are you sure Master?”

Obi-Wan placed a hand on our shoulder, “You’ve grown up so fast.”

“Master-“ Words fail you. “I’ll never be too grown up for your teachings.”

“I’m very proud of you.”

You pull him into a hug, burying your face in his chest. “I can’t cry. Don’t make me cry.”

He chuckles, sounding slightly watery.

Becoming a Jedi Knight was very important to you. It had been what you were working toward for most of your life. Somewhere along the way, you realised that being a knight meant leaving the safety net you had relied on most of your life. Obi-Wan Kenobi was your safety net.

At one point, you would be away from him for the longest time, be the furthest away from him you had ever been and see him for the final time.

It was nice to be grown but there was something to be said for youth. There was no shame in not wanting to grow up but we all do it, we all move on. A new chapter begins because the previous one ended.

Time would separate you and your Master but he would always be your master. Eventually, death would call for him and you would be left without a source of advice and comfort. Death was such a small word for a big thing. But death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.

Your story would not end at your death, the same way Obi-Wan’s story did not end at his. His story did not end because of you, his padawan, his child. Your story would not end for the same reason. Everything Obi-Wan taught you, you taught to your padawan. The chain continues on and stretches back as long as time goes on.

You could trace teachings through time, from master to padawan, as padawan becomes master and teaches a new generation.

Every Jedi carries the legacy of a hundred others on their back.

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time.

Boy, oh, boy. I’m looking at future uni destinations right now and this song hits hard. I’m sobbing into my pillow at 1am after finishing writing this

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen

#obi wan kenobi #fluff #he's the best

16 notes · View notes

uyuartik · 5 days

Text

Why am I like this

#authoring #sorry #two works coming tho #the smurfs will only appear if you're good or however that saying goes

10K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 9 days

Text

your thoughts are loud

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x reader

summary: you, padme’s top advisor, can’t sleep, and neither can obi-wan.

warnings: none

author’s note: i disappeared off the face of the planet for over a year bc i was in my first year of law school. somehow i survived and realized i needed a hobby. so i’m revisiting my writing and dumping this here. please be gentle, i haven’t seen the prequels in a while bc my friends won’t watch them with me, and i haven’t seen the show yet either. also would anyone like this to become a series? where it’s this kind of pining but with other characters in different fandoms? pls let me know bc I’d love the feedback. much love.

suggested listening: ‘moonlight serenade’ by glenn miller

“Your thoughts are loud.”

You jumped at the sound of his voice, posh as ever but a little rough some sleep. “I didn’t mean to wake you. And what are you doing in my thoughts?” The question came out with a laugh, knowing Obi-Wan well enough that he wouldn’t get in your head without permission.

He looks down and chuckles softly. “You didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep, and I just heard them.”

“Dare I ask why you couldn’t sleep?” You slid over on the small stone bench, trying to make some room for him.

He cocked his head slightly, pondering, almost hesitating. But he walked over to you and sat down, tugging his robes closer around him. “Anakin, mostly. Concerns for Padme, sometimes.” A whisper, “concerns for you.”

You tried to shut your thoughts out. You couldn’t, however, helped the heat that rose to your cheeks. “Concerns about me?”

“Yes, concerns for you,” he said. “I know how the Senators are with you.” He folded his hands in on one another in his lap. ‘And I don’t like how they are with you.”

Okumaya devam et

#obi wan kenobi #fluff #I need him to be happy #this was so sweet

2K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 9 days

Text

corinthianism's fic recs

here are my personal favorite fanfics! idk how often i'll update this, but i hope you like them as much as i do :) *indicates smut

last updated: march 26, 2024

MARVEL

loki laufeyson - from the void, with love — by whirlybirbs (my fav fanfic of all time!!! i think about this fic several times in a day bro) - riptide — by starks-hero - the tailor* (series) — by birdofhermes (ao3) - time after time (series) — by goldencherriess (ao3) - a friend from work — by cozy_the_overlord (ao3)

thor odinson - god of fertility* (request) — by charnelhouse - highway don't care (but i do, i do)* (part one, part two, part three) — by spacelabrathor

peter parker (andrew garfield) - agree to disagree — by delicate-dorothea - nerdy peter (request) - webslingingslasher - good boy x bad girl trope (request) — by webslingingslasher - hold you here, my loveliest friend* — by p3mybeloved - your friendly neighborhood sensitive spider* — by jin0 - glad you're home — by withahappyrefrain - the mechanics of a soul — by irndad - 3 is the magic number* — by withahappyrefrain - crush — by ptersparkers - as it goes — by forever-rogue - here comes the sun (part one, part two, part three) — by withahappyrefrain - stability, reciprocity, and a romance for the ages (series) — by privateanxieties (ao3 - need an account to read)

steven grant (moon knight) - hold me close — by stormkobra-5 - gift of min* — by astroboots - puzzles* — by stormkobra-5 - first time* — by luvpedropascal - domestic adonis* — by peterman-spideyparker - where it starts — by silversweetpea - fallen from heaven, grown on earth* (series) — by davosmymaster (ao3) - call me poe* — by kittyfandom (ao3) - elemental — by batsingotham (ao3) - the boy with the thorn in his side — by eating_flowers (ao3)

marc spector (moon knight) - not him — by loud-mouth-loser - it's worth it, it's divine* — by the-archxr - i'm getting to know someone — by davosmymaster (ao3)

wade wilson (deadpool) - tea and sympathy (series) — by bucketsoffrogs (ao3)

SHERLOCK (BBC)

sherlock holmes - your hidden strength — by okay-j-hannah - sublime dexterity* (part one, part two) — by daydreamtofiction - literally everything by starks-hero

SUPERNATURAL

sam winchester - playing house (part one, part two) — by uncouth-the-fifth - baby i'll stay (heaven can wait) — by uncouth-the-fifth - move over.* — by ggwritesstuff - where's your head at?* — by beau55515 - birthdays: sam winchester style* — by karleekarma (ao3) - the comforts of home — by zepskies - under the hood* — by shawslut

dean winchester - whether you like it or not — by kbeautimous (ao3) - reading you wrong — by zepskies - cherished — by thatonewriter15 (ao3) - soft touch — by wearywinchester - i love her, that's why* — by kaleldobrev - drivin' me crazy* — by lis-likes-fics

castiel - salt n' lick* — by aperfectgrace (ao3) - a bite of apple pie (series) — by ac_deanc (ao3)

THE SANDMAN

the corinthian - bring me a dream* (series, ongoing) — by placeinthemiddleofnowhere - nihil — by lis-likes-fics

dream/morpheus - sweet dreams (are made of this) — by stranger-nightmare

CRIMINAL MINDS

aaron hotchner - from eden — by heliotropehotch - gold star — by honeypiehotchner - love, an abstract concept — by luveline - honeymoon phase* (series) — by hotchsbitch (ao3)

THE BOYS

soldier boy (he's absolutely horrible but so. so. hot.) - break me down* (series) — by zepskies (go read their other stuff too!) - talk to me — by zepskies

homelander (also absolutely horrible. would sleep with him.) - if i can't have you — by watchstarscollide - milky white* — by after-witch

GAME OF THRONES

jaime lannister - i'm not made by design — by ichorai (this legitimately changed my brain chemistry)

STAR WARS

obi-wan kenobi - like turning on the light* — by full-time-make-believer (deactivated acc) (this also changed the trajectory of my life) - where it wasn't* — by 221bshrlocked - your thoughts are loud — by spidersbane - empty me out* — by 221bshrlocked - house of memories* (series) — by meshlasolus - bad idea, right? (series) — by mischiefling (ao3) - you make me feel like dancing — by saradika (ao3) - it's a wonderful lie — by firstofficerwiggles (ao3) - temptation's kiss — by karasong (ao3) - you make my dreams* — by wickedscribbles (ao3) - like a living mirage — by karasong (ao3) - broken drought* — by rosalindbeatrice (ao3) - never grow up — by doihavetoloseyoutoo (ao3) - never ending story — by kybercrystal (ao3) - volveré* — by kxnobi (ao3)

din djarin (the mandalorian) - the savior* (part one, part two, part three) — by dindjiarin - significant — by softlyspector - touching din — by archieimagines - uncharted territory* — by pedrito-friskito - creed* — by wheresarizona - home is wherever i'm with you* (part one, part two, part three) — by saradika

DRACULA (BBC)

count dracula - the székely* (series) — by theplumsoldier

LOTR/THE HOBBIT

thranduil oropherion - a boon* (series) — by inksplots (ao3) - beauty and the beast (series) — by tamurilofrivendell (ao3)

DOCTOR SLEEP

dan torrance - of monsters and men* — by helaintoloki & obitwo - domestic life (headcanons) — by thornsinmycrown - smut alphabet* — by daincrediblegg

#ment #THANK YOU!#still can't believe i made it to a fic rec list

4K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 14 days

Text

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐒. 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

paring: fem!reader x miguel o'hara

summary: just how would be a friends with benefits relationship with miguel.

warnings: Miguel out of character maybe? nsfw, not established relationship, unprotected sex, jealousy, i'm being self indulgent.

❊ it starts one night after having some drinks with friends. He was taking you home, when you two started to talk about how horny the alcohol makes you both

❊ which leads to you inviting him in just to have some coffee to sober up, but it's just an excuse, because you didn´t drink that much, just enough to find the courage to do what you both have been wishing for so long

“are we really doing this?” you moan while he kisses your neck, trailing kisses down your body.

“do you want me to stop?” he asks, stopping what he's doing, looking into your eyes.

“no, keep going. Keep going” you beg, spreading your legs, allowing him to kiss your clothed pussy.

❊ it was suposse to be a one time thing, but it ends being an anytime thing. Any of you calling or sending a message with something as simple as “wanna come over?” or “can I see u?

❊ the first few times were great. After hooking up you used to leave, and that was all. Until one night, it was a long day for Miguel, and he just fell asleep after one of your sessions

you are trying to recover from your climax when he starts to cum, shooting his seed inside you with a raspy groan.

“mierda” he mutters against your neck, still inside you, trying to catch his breath “you have no idea how much I needed that, cariño” he pulls out slowly, collapsing on the bed next to you “can I sleep here just for tonight? estoy realmente cansado”

“yeah” you say, not sure if he heard you before falling asleep

the morning after, you wake up with Miguel still sleeping, with his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as he can

❊ after that everything feels more intimate, crossing the “just sex" line

❊ and of course, your friends are not blind. They see the stolen glances, the holding hands under the table, all those "accidental" touches

“we're just friends” you say, rolling your eyes, taking his hand off your thigh.

And for some reason, he hates how hearing that makes him feel.

❊ I think that he would be the first one to catch feelings, so he is the first one to be jealous

“wait, are you jealous?” you smirk, placing a hand on his chest.

“what? no. why would I be jealous?” he mutters, walking away from you

❊ but at the end of the day, neither of you are willing to make the next move because you're too scared of screwing things up.

“we're just friends, right?” you whine and he almost laughs at the scenario. At how funny it's the question while he has his dick buried deep inside your cunt.

“yeah, just friends, preciosa” he hisses, rocking his hips against yours.

#miguel o'hara #smut #love them

3K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 14 days

Text

Pairing: Joel Miller x afab!reader

Warnings: Angst, obsessive love (reader), pregnancy, two miserable people fucking, unrequited love, unprotected p in v (do whatever you want idc), Joel isn't very nice but he isn't full on mean, tiny bit of degradation, possessiveness. unedited rubbish as ususal.

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Joel doesn't love you, it doesn't matter.

There is a part of Joel that lives in you.

There is a part of him that is planted deep and heavy where your heart meets your soul.

The dagger of his love buried inside your ever-his body, your ever-his spirit. Even in the air you breathe there is him all around. He seeps into every pore, moulded to every valley of your being. Where your fingertips touch your own soft flesh, you feel him. Everywhere and nowhere, Joel possesses you.

It’s not just the child that grows in you, the one he’d promised with every deep thrust and seed spilled in you. The one he had hardly acknowledged even while you swell with it.

Long before that, you were his.

You have always been a part of him.

The first time you ever saw him was in the square where Fedra militants made you watch innocent people hang. You preferred to scan the crowd than watch the horrors being put on show. Fear shaking through the people like the wind, just like the soldiers wanted, but he stood there stock-still and heavy and caught your interest immediately.

There was something rare about him, a mystery in a way that men in this world were often not. He seemed inimitable. A rugged thing made to tempt and cause turmoil in your soul. Greying hair and beard, broad shoulders, strong profile, a presence that made itself felt in you and the clench of your cunt as you looked him over.

You'd sought him out the next time - he was easy to find.

You found him again, and again, and again.

The next time, you followed; he had left the crowd and slipped away into the sapphire night, down towards a darkened alley, the kind of place in the QZ you would avoid. He didn’t seem the type to fear anything.

You were good at following. It was easy to blend in with the crowds of miserable and fraught spirits. You didn't stand out, as far as you knew. So you did what you were good at and stole away after the man for no reason other than some kind of emptiness in the pit of your stomach that perhaps this stranger could fill.

You watched him as he spoke to a soldier. Two people clearly wanting to be away from each other as they talked hurried and hushed, always looking over their shoulders. And then you'd heard the whispered name. ‘Joel’.

His name was Joel, it slipped from your mouth and felt even better than you'd hoped.

Joel, Joel, Joel. You whispered it into the air around you, cried it out as you tangled in your sheets. You thought that name with breath after breath, you heard it in your airways before you even spoke it.

This Joel was beautiful to you.

And this Joel would plant himself in you deeper with every blissful murmur of his name.

Finally came the day you saw him away from the crowds. You'd got your rations and your duties for the next day just like everyone else, and had decided to find your way home via the alleys you'd seen him in before. It was stupid, but you were possessed with the need to be where he had been.

When you'd rounded the corner of that alley you’d first followed him to, he was there. Was he really there? Your brain had been toying with you for weeks. You saw him in your dreams, you saw him when you closed your eyes, you saw the ghost of him in everything you did. He surrounded you but never had you felt him so close.

He stood across the way from you, someone else already retreating as he pocketed a baggie and ration cards.

Your brain screamed his name and you were grateful only that it didn’t force the word from your mouth as the imposing man approached you with a hard look.

You loved him, then and there, you didn’t doubt it for a moment.

He fucked you then but not like he fucks you now. He’d fucked you up against the wall after you’d all but begged him to. Now he fucks you in your bed whether you beg or not. You take it, again and again and he knows you will because you're his.

“My fuckin’ girl, that’s right” Joel groans a symphony of pleasure as he pushes in to your dripping cunt for the second time that night. He slides in easily, stopping with his hips flush against your ass as he takes you from behind “Fuckin’ whore desperate for me to fill you again”.

You babble something incoherently stupid and he grunts before beginning to move, retreating and pulling you back on to him until you get the message to fuck yourself on his cock like he wants.

You love him. Consumed by him, devoured from the inside out, you do everything he wants and you give everything he needs. Pushing yourself back and forth, sliding against his thick length and stopping when he’s buried all the way in again. You sigh and press your forehead to the crinkled sheets until he slaps your rear so hard it stings.

“Didn’t tell you to stop” He mutters, voice low and dark and lighting a new fire in your belly.

If this world is a rotting orchid he is the one living tree left you have been searching for. You’ll eat from him for as long as you live, for as long as he’ll let you.

You whine and move again, but you both feel how the weight of your pregnancy makes your movements harder, makes everything more uncomfortable than it used to be.

“Fuck” Joel sighs and stops you moving. He’s quiet for a while, grinding slowly into you as you prepare to be admonished. Instead your breath hitches as he rubs large hands over your ass and up your back in a rare act of tenderness.

“You hurtin’ from this, huh?” He murmurs slowly, one hand dipping down to cradle your belly. It’s the first time he’s really touched there since you started showing, the first time he’s really even talked about it. You have to hold back the gentle sob that gurgles up your throat when he strokes there for just a moment. When you’d told him it was his, he hadn’t said a thing, just looked away from you when something sharp shone in his eyes.

“Mhm” you nod, hiding your face so he doesn’t see the desperate tears that spring up in your eyes. His hand is warm there, radiating within you where he touches, soothing your skin gently even as he begins to rut into you harder.

“Had to get yourself knocked up” he sighs, slap of his skin on yours gradually filling the room again and making you whine like a weak thing caught in a trap. A broken little animal caught by him.

“Didn’t mean to” you whimper pathetic, words punched out of you with his increasing thrusts. The hand on your stomach sneaks down to where you’re joined, finding your swollen clit with ease.

“What am I gonna do with you?” Joel exhales rubbing you slowly as he fucks in to you like he has a hundred times before.

Love me. Love me. Love me.

You cry out a stuttering sob as the lights behind your eyes turn sugary pink with pleasure. A flutter in your core runs its way up your body like a crashing wave; advancing and retreating as he draws the climax out of you in teasing movements that make it last what feels like forever.

“There it is, yeah…there it is” His voice is dark and gravelly as he tries to hold his own pleasure down for a moment longer

“That’s mine. It’s mine. Tell me”

You reach back to grasp any part of him that you can. Everything aches sweetly in you as you twist ever so to see him. His eyes are dark, a hard glare and yet not unkind. Even in the most intense moments of taking from you he isn’t cruel for cruelty's sake.

He’s chasing the same need that you are, the same desire to feel alive, to forget, to live as someone else for even a moment. To exist outside of the dying world around you.

“Yours, Joel. It’s yours” And you mean it - your orgasm, your body, your heart, your soul, your baby. Every part of you is his, has been since the first time you’d laid eyes on him and felt that spark of something new.

You love him.

He fills you then, pulses inside you like always, with a languid moan of your name. His hands grab at your hips hard, keeping you close to give every last drop.

It’s a ritual, at this point. You each kneel at the altar of lust, both drink from its cup. Sacrifice yourselves to it.

“Mine” he tells you, sitting back and pulling you up, hands stroking your stomach as he stakes his claim.

He doesn’t love you, it doesn’t matter.

“Yours” You agree, like you have ever since the first moments of him.

You love him, it doesn’t matter.

#joel miller #angst #smut

225 notes · View notes

uyuartik · 14 days

Text

Do You Like It Here?

Joel Miller x afab!Reader || W/C: 2k

Summary: Joel contemplates shaving his beard. You are absolutely against that idea, and he makes you explain why.

Content/Warnings: Pics above are for aesthetic purposes only. Neutral descriptions of an AFAB reader (“your top”, “your shorts”, “your breast”, etc.). No use of “y/n”. Joel can carry you but there are no other descriptions of reader. Implied age gap if you squint. Joel being big and burly. SMUT 18+ MDNI. Joel being a menace. Hints of body worship. Dirty talk. Reader liking facial hair for dirty reasons🤷🏻. Joel on his knees for you…. ✨Bathroom counter✨ Cunnilingus. Tongue fucking. Face grinding. Hair pulling (m receiving). Joel’s fucking nose deserves a warning😵‍💫 Allusions to further sexual activity. As always, let me know if I’ve missed anything!

A/N: Can we tell how much I think about Joel eating pussy?💚 My sweet sweet Roman Empire. Enjoy. :-)

MASTERLIST || NOTIF BLOG -> @endlessthxxghtsnotifs

“Should I shave it off?”

You choke on your own spit, eyebrows hitting the ceiling. “What?”

“My beard. All this scruff. Should I shave it?” Joel asks you, his thumb and forefinger rubbing against his jaw, his eyes surfing his jawline in the mirror much too critically for your liking.

“Do you want to?” You reply back, curious to understand what is going on in that chaotic mind of his.

“No? Yeah? I mean,” he breathes. “I dunno. A lotta white is startin’ to come through, ‘n I feel like it makes me look… raggedy.”

You frown. “Baby,” you say softly.

You woke up before Joel, last night’s activities knocking him out cold right after you two cleaned each other up. Unfortunately for you, no matter how hard you fell into your slumber, your body always woke you no later than 7am. It was a blessing and a curse. You decided a shower was in order.

As soon as you finished and got dressed, your burly, grumpy and sleepy baby of a man stumbled into the bathroom. Wanting his presence always, you hopped up on the bathroom counter, your legs hanging off the edge, and stayed with him as he continued his morning routine. It was after he brushed his teeth and washed his face that he posed his question to you.

You place your hand on his jaw and pull him closer so he’s standing in between your legs. The light press of your fingertips never leave his face. “You don’t look raggedy,” you scold. “You look… well, you look fuckin’ sexy, for one. I love this look on you,” you admit, a little sheepish. Your eyes scan his facial hair once more before you glance at his eyes, then to his lips. Your finger traces his bottom lip. “So fuckin’ sexy,” you mutter, emphasizing your claim.

You don’t have to look into his eyes to know his demeanor shifted. You can feel the way his gaze darkened. He pulls himself closer to you, his knees knocking the cabinets. His hand starts on your knee, dragging it up your thigh and up your side until it settles on your jaw, his fingers grasping your chin to make you meet his eye. “Oh, is that so, darlin’?”

You gulp, your head softly nodding at his words; unable to speak as your eyes gloss over. “What else d’ya love about it, darlin’?” He pushes, his fingers tightening on your chin—words, he’s telling you.

You can feel every part of your body heat up. “It…it…” you stutter. His eyebrow flicks up with a faintness only you’d catch. You clear your throat in hopes it makes you speak up. “You- you’re already so big ‘n broad, ‘n this… the scruff… it just adds to- to you,” you tell him shakily, your brain starting to flood with just how much you love his facial hair. “P-plus, it- oh my god,” you whine, unable to stop the spew of shit that’s about to fly out of your mouth. “It feels so good when it rubs against my thighs ‘n my-” you gasp. You don’t remember when it got there, but his other hand is gripping your thigh, his strength tightening at the last words that fell from your lips.

Slow, tantalizingly slow, he leans in. He places a lengthy kiss to your lips; your eagerness gets the best of you as you try and deepen it, but he’s already breaking away—moving down. His lips grace your jaw, your neck—more open-mouthed and needy these ones are, and he pauses. “Ya like how it feels here?” He says against your neck. Then he’s moving lower.

He peppers kisses along your shoulder and the exposed parts of your chest your top shows. He licks and sucks at a particular sweet spot atop your breast. A breathy little moan escapes you, your arms falling limp to your sides—and out of his way. He pauses his kiss to breathe you in. Lavender. Vanilla. The shower you just finished still clinging deliciously to your skin. “Ya like it here, too, don’tcha?” He places one more kiss on the mark he just gave you, not giving you a moment to respond.

Then. He’s falling to his knees. Today was supposed to be a lazy day for you two, so you settled on solely a pair of sleep shorts. Nothing more. His hands settle themselves underneath your thighs, scooting you as close to the edge as possible without making you off balance. He’s so tall that on his knees, his nose is belly button level with you.

He pushes your thighs open. Starting at your knee, he places a swift kiss there. The higher he goes, the wetter and slower they become. A drop of sweat beads down your neck. His hands make their way to your sides, fingers dancing along the waistband. He meets your eyes for a silent confirmation. Planting your hands behind you for stability, you lift your hips for him, a whimpered please leaves your mouth.

He pulls your shorts off slowly—the wetness staining the center of your shorts peels off of you, the cold air interacting with your slick sends a shiver down your spine. Joel lets your shorts fall to the floor beside him, his eyes darting to your glistening sex. “Fuckin’ wet,” he growls. “All worked up from my white beard? My old age?”

“‘S not what I meant,” you sputter, the kiss he places to your mound throwing you off-kilter. His hands grab onto your waist and he’s angling your hips forward, giving himself a full view of you. He does it again—kisses your sex—but this time, he puts his whole face into you as he uses his tongue to aid him, his scruff tickling all around, on your thighs, your clit. Your hips buck into his face at the sensation, a louder moan reverberating against the bathroom walls.

“Oh,” Joel smirks. “Right there, huh. Ya like the way it feels right there? Right there on that sweet, perfect fuckin’ cunt, huh? Drives you mad? Wild?” He teases.

You lament at his words, conflicted between which you want more—hearing his mouth or feeling his mouth? You're pulled from your internal battle when you feel yourself become impossibly wetter: a glob of warm spit lands right where you need him most. Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah okay, you want to feel him.

One hand behind you leaves from its place and reaches for his curls in an attempt to pull him into you. “Joel, baby, please,” you cry.

His head doesn’t budge no matter how strong you are. “Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Tell me what I wanna hear,” he tells you. “Tell me what I wanna hear first, and then I’ll give it t’ya exactly, baby. Just be the good girl I know y’are f’me.”

“F-fuck. Fuck. Please, Joel, please-” you say impatiently. “I love the way it feels when I grind my fuckin’ pussy all over your face, baby, I love how it feels when it starts to burn against my thigh, the way it nudges and scrapes every part of me- it makes me feel like I’m on fuckin’ fire, baby, please,” you rasp.

“Atta girl, darlin’,” he coos, licking his lips before his hands pull you flush against his face, his tongue flying straight to your seam, licking a messy path that sends your slick and his spit everywhere. Instantly your head flies back, your hand curls into the roots of his hair once more as you moan and squirm against his grasp.

Joel loves spending his time down there, but regardless of the fact, you’ll never get used to how fucking good he makes you feel. Joel is ruthless when it comes to eating you out—always making you see stars even in the light of day.

“F-fuck, j-just like that, baby,” you pant, your one arm keeping you up threatening to lose balance at the greedy touch of his skillful tongue. He drags his muscle from your entrance and up to your clit, running circles and figure eights on it for a moment before he latches onto you—his lips completely wrapped as he suckles and continues to flick where you’re most sensitive. His dominant hand leaves your hip and he drags his fingers to your opening, his middle finger sliding in with ease—the sensation sending you to the edge of something white, hot, and all-consuming.

“I’m- I’m gonna cum, Joel, shit, I’m gonna cum-” you squeak, your entire body feeling flushed at his actions.

He pulls his finger out of you, his hand finding its rightful place perched against your hip as he pulls you impossibly closer once again, your ass nearly hanging off the bathroom counter, his grip the only thing keeping you up. Your arm loses its strength and you fall limp, your head thumping against the bathroom mirror, completely at the disposal of your man as he ravishes your sobbing pussy.

He lifts off your clit momentarily. “Give it t’me, sweet girl,” he tells you in a frenzy. His mouth is on you again, his tongue going straight to your hole—his tongue pushes inside of you as much as he can, his face pulled tightly against you. He begins moving, advancing his tongue in and out as you mindlessly begin grinding against face. With every upward push of your hip, his nose nudges at your clit and the pure ecstasy that washes through you is evident in the way you’re practically mewling above him, your obscene moans and gasps enough to make Joel’s hips thrust into nothing on their own accord in an attempt to seek some kind of relief.

More arousal pours from you, and Joel is quick to drink it up. You can feel the way his tongue flexes as he gulps, and fuck, that is what sends you reeling. You yank onto his hair tighter, driving your hips into his face at a ravenous pace—practically fucking his face—and then it hits you. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as your back arches in this awkward angle, your orgasm hits you hard. It’s without warning, heart-pounding, toe-curling, addicting, and everything Joel.

Your lips are babbling nothing coherent, the occasional drop of his name escaping your mouth as he continues to fuck you through your high. He’s moving much slower now, much more precise—as if he’s doing this solely for his benefit now, not yours. Which, you don’t mind. Even as you start to slip into overstimulating territory, you don’t want him to stop.

You’d lay at his mercy for him to use you in any way he pleases if it meant you got to experience what it means to be loved by a man like Joel. With him, it’s all or none—none of that half in, half out bullshit. No, when Joel loves, he loves hard, and it’s evident in everything he does for you. Especially when it comes to your pleasure.

A particular lick to your clit causes you to yelp out in a pleasurable pain, so Joel finally rises again, kissing your spent cunt one last time before he pulls you up, rubbing up and down your spine to ease the uncomfortable position you were in.

“You okay?” Joel asks, slight concern and slight amusement on his features as he looks at your face. Pure bliss and contentment fills your features; he can still see the fog clearing from your head.

“Yeah,” you mutter softly, a lazy grin plastered on your cheeks as you look up at his shiny face. Weakly, you bring your arms up and wrap them around his neck, pulling him in to kiss you. He takes the hint, and he bends down, letting your lips meet in a soft yet enthusiastic embrace. You love the way you taste, especially when it comes from his mouth.

Pulling away breathless, both your and Joel’s eyes are aflame again.

“Don’t shave, baby.”

“I won’t, darlin’.”

You kiss him once more before he wraps your legs around his waist and carries you back to bed.

You were wrong. It’s going to be a busy day after all.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope it made your private parts tingle you enjoyed💚 If you’d like to be notified for upcoming fics, follow my notif blog!

@pedrostories

#joel miller #smut

2K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 14 days

Text

Places you should add to your little town/city in your fantasy world!!

Post offices. Wild, I know. But give me the unhinged kind. Pingeons and little postal dragons all over the place. You enter. The most disgusting smell fucking assaults your nostrils. You know what it is. Letter in hand, you go up to the counter. The postal worker is just a slightly bigger pigeon. You shed a tear.

PLAYGROUNDS!! Create the most dangerous kinds of playgrounds, the ones suburban moms would TRIP if they ever saw one. Monkey bars that are way too tall, swings that go full circle... The metal slide stays the same, it's already painful enough.

PARKS!! MAKE IT ALIVE!! Show people going on walks, reading beneath trees. C'mon most of them are already hundred years old (And are going to die after that CR 15 creature wrecks the town) anyways!! Show couples and picnics, show a family enjoying the sunday, give me someone picking flowers for their loved ones.

A bakery! Do you know how much these places are underrated? And do you know how much plot potential they have? Every good story starts with food poisoning or granny's recipe! Give me a place your players/readers are going to treat like home and, for once, it's not a tavern or a guild.

Government buildings! Give me a town hall that has a kilometric line in front of it. Give me a registry that is as old as this town. Give me police stations! Give me courtrooms! Make one of your players get arrested and now all of the party has to go through burocracy like a bunch of normal people!

(Who am I kidding? You don't need to make them get arrested. They are going to do that for you.)

Touristic attractions! Give me a full-on statue of the country's leader! Give me museums! Give me streets, ruins and whatnot that attract thousands of tourists everyday! Give me an annoying city guide that tries to get the party's attention everytime!

Magazine stands! Magazines don't exist? Newspaper stands! From the Queen's Journal to the most questionable new piece of Fox's Tailtracker, you have it all! Make your players doubt what's actually happening, sprinkle a little fake news... Or is it fake at all?

...Toy stores. OK HEAR ME OUT. Make magic toys; miniature skyships that actually fly, metal toy dragons that expel fire, little wands that make little light spells, wooden creatures that can move and make noises... Make children happy! And your players too because they will waste their money on these stuff.

Instrument store!! Make your bards happy with special instruments or just weird ones! Give me a battle in one of those that is just filled with funny noises and the worst battle soundtrack ever!!

Not exactly a place but... Cleaning carts!!! Show me people cleaning the streets, picking up the trash, cutting trees!! Make the town look clean!! Give me an old man that is really proud of his work!!!

(or ways to make your players feel even worse when the villain destroys the town later on :) )

#authoring

19K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 16 days

Text

born to write the beginning and ending, forced to write the middle part.

#authoring

6K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 16 days

Text

everyone hate my loquacious swag. its always "why did you make this sentence so long" and "why do you use so many commas and em dashes" and never "how did you come up with run on sentence" or "writing that run on sentence looked fun"

#authoring #english is not the best language to write in okay

35K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 17 days

Note

here's a horny joel thought i've been having. or like. i've been thinking of smut written from joel's pov?? like it could still be reader ig, but we're in his head, and he's experiencing it?? what would that be like 😳 could obvi also be for any chatacter not just joel!!

holding back - a drabble

A/N: this was just sitting in my drafts so here it is

pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ minors dni word count: ~800 warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), piv, some dirty talk (joel having an uncontrollable filthy mouth), pet names (sweetheart, baby), little bit of insecure!joel, almost spanking but not really. no use of y/n.

He's supposed to be taking his time.

That's what he always tells himself he's gonna do - take it slow, savour it, be gentle.

He's kept it together long enough to make sure you get off, but he'd be lying if he said he hasn't been aching just from the chance to touch you, taste you, pleasure you.

The sound of his name on your lips when you'd come against his mouth had nearly taken him out, delighted little moans of his own echoing yours as his cock had strained against his boxers, stiff and leaking.

He loves that part, loves knowing he'd made you come undone, that it had been his name you'd cried out, his mouth that had coaxed you to that perfect, beautiful place.

Your climax is confirmation he's still good for something.

He rides that high as he strips down and climbs over your shuddering form, positioning his arms on either side your head and bending forward to lick into your waiting mouth, to let you taste yourself on his tongue.

He attempts to relax, to take a moment to gently run his hands up your sides and feel the soft skin of your belly, to properly appreciate the spread of your thighs and the lax, suppliant parting of your lips.

But of course he can't do that - instead, his touch is fierce and needy, all fingernails and calloused palms; his eyes graze over you like you're the first meal he's seen in weeks, lustful and impatient. He’s forcing your legs apart so wide your hips are probably straining.

And then, like it often does, filth tumbles from his mouth as though someone else were speaking through him.

"Want this cock, baby?" he hears himself saying gruffly. "Gonna be good for me?"

The sweet chime of you whimpering beneath him only further clouds his thoughts, only makes it that much harder for him to remember to take it slow.

"Please, Joel," you beg softly, staring up at him with nothing but want, want, want and he can't - he can't fucking wait anymore.

The air leaves his lungs in a ragged exhale before he's lining himself up with your centre. His aging heart pangs with anticipation, arousal stewing in his guts when the tip of his cock hits the warm wet of your cunt.

Slow, slow, slow, he has to remind himself. You're always eager to be full of him - always manage his cock so fucking well - but he knows his size is a lot to take, always catches that minute contortion of your features when he sinks his length into you.

He sees it now, the way your eyebrows knit together, the way your mouth falls open and your breathing goes shallow when he slides the tip inside your walls.

But then you quietly plead with him for, "More," and who is he to deny you?

He buries himself to the hilt in one harsh thrust, falling forward to connect his lips with yours. You groan into each other's mouths, Joel's mind momentarily going blank when he feels you flutter around him, the sheathing warmth of your cunt exactly what he needs to finally let go.

"So fuckin' tight, sweetheart," he growls wildly into your neck as he begins to move in and out of you - already too fast. "This perfect fuckin' pussy, so wet and ready for me, huh? Always so ready, so goddamn good for me. Feel that? Huh? You like bein' full of this cock?"

He thinks he sounds like a goddamn madman but you just squirm and moan and keen, your fingers exploring his arms curiously, eyes fixed on his weathered face. He can never understand what it is you see there that makes you look so...hungry.

He tries with all his might to make it last, to slow the snap of his hips into yours and loosen the bruising grip he has on your rib cage. His eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back but your voice, once again, shatters his resolve.

"Joel," you whisper. "You won't break me. It's okay. Please, Joel. Take me how you want me."

A strange and sinister noise erupts from his chest at the offer. He's too far gone to argue, too far gone to question if you really mean it.

He hurriedly pulls out to flip you on to all fours, marvelling briefly at the curve of your spine, his hand coming down on the flesh of your ass to squeeze, hard. You sigh dreamily at the contact and it’s the match in the powder barrel.

Fuck taking his time, he decides.

#joel miller #smut

2K notes · View notes

uyuartik · 17 days

Text

inertia

[crosshair x gn!reader] removing crosshair's inhibitor chip was never going to be an easy task, but you never expect it to demand an item of equal exchange. otherwise known as picking up the pieces with crosshair, together.

warnings: past paralytic injury, general angst, hurt-comfort

w/c: 2.2k

a/n: as much as i hate physics, you can't deny there's a poetry to the laws of the universe. inertia keeps heavy objects in place, and guilt's one of the heaviest burdens of all.

There are certain universal laws you learn while living on a ship, like the slightly upsetting fact that magnetism is relative and so is time. But there are constants: the behavior of gravity around a massive star, the physics of self-contained gas giants, and, on a less macrocosmic scale, that Crosshair’s armor has neat paint, all clean lines and sharp edges bordering plastoid and standard issue paint.

It only makes sense, a steady hand demanded by a life behind the trigger, you think quietly, watching Crosshair carefully scrape the excess red paint from his brush on the side of a flat scrap of metal. With only the low hum of the Marauder to fill the silence, you follow his brush as you stand in the armory threshold and simply observe the slow deliberation of an even, unwavering line drawn from a memory even the inhibitor chip could not blur.

Not that it’s a particularly difficult thing to paint, the sharp, stylized edge of a nine. But there is a silent weight to its image, a firm and resonant return in its bold crimson colour, reclaiming its rightful place on his shoulder in amends, if the restless bob of his toothpick says anything.

If you look long enough, it’s like he never left. Like you never lost your legs.

“You’re back early,” Crosshair says, dipping his brush back into the paint squeezed over his makeshift palette.

“The rest wanted to explore, but the humidity was getting to me. And I missed you,” you add, and your heart swells when you hear him laugh softly in return.

“I believe you,” he chuckles. It’s a rare thing to come by, laughter genuine and sweet, even with Crosshair’s return—perhaps, because of his return—but you take it gratefully either way.

Two cups of caf in hand, you push yourself off the doorway and move to join Crosshair at his place on the armory floor. But as you set a foot forward, a bolt of pain laces up your ankle. It’s the kind of pain that precipitates a fall, starting low in the arch of your foot, gaining a momentum that renders you immobile by the time it’s clawed up your thigh and fizzled around the cybernetic plate welded to the base of your spine.

It fells you without warning or remorse, cracking you open with the bone-deep sensation of memory. A single ultra-ionized shot through a modified rifle and silencer, calculated and surgically precise, a one of a kind and the only one you have known.

(It wasn’t his fault.)

You jerk forwards, caf sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and you distantly register the clatter of plastoid across the floor before you feel a shoulder push up from under your arm. Long fingers dig into your side, reminiscent of better days and tender touches shared in the quiet comfort of a bunk, and you pitch unsteadily, eyes squeezed tight enough to see white.

As much as you would like to confirm the certainty of a stable support before you can relax, the lingering dredges of atmospheric humidity and exhaustion of breaking into a high security imperial compound work cruelly against your strength. You can do little but give in.

Your knees buckle beneath you, and you sag against the only person on the ship able to brace your fall. Miraculously, the caf, handles squeezed tight under your white-knuckled grip, remains unspilled.

“I ruined your paint,” you laugh through your teeth, fuzzy black edges slowly receding from your field of vision as you blink your eyes open.

“And I shot you,” Crosshair hisses.

Crosshair lowers you to the floor, and you feel a full-bodied flinch shock through his form as your unmoving legs splay awkwardly over the cold metal. He is quick to take the cups out of your hand, setting them down with a hard clack before he returns his attention to you. You had always thought Echo would be the one on the receiving end of carefully placed touches to coax the pain of surgical scars and rough wiring away.

You never once dreamed it might be you, too.

One arm secured around your shoulders, he reaches down like it’s muscle memory to rub slowly over the scar tissue framing your implant. The scars are fresh, just barely a week old and forever seared over your skin, but guilt, you have found, tends to hasten the learning process, the scrambling compensation.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you sigh, leaning against Crosshair’s chest and dropping your head back against his shoulder.

“I aimed. I pulled the trigger, y/n.” He’s angry, a low, simmering rage held close and bubbling under the hard edge in his voice as his grip tightens around you. You feel it in the faint tremor in his arm, how he holds you tight to his side and silently wills you to stay.

He is angry, but it is not for you.

“You weren't you,” you mumble.

It’s second nature—it always has been, now, simply with pause—to turn your head when he’s nestled up against your back, to lean close, nuzzle into his neck, and ground yourself, ground him, in the silence of touch. Relief floods your chest, warm sunlight dawning over the thorn in your side, when you feel him chase your touch, settling both his arms around your waist and ducking down low to press his chin atop the crown of your head.

Nothing would ever be the same, but this was a start.

“If it wasn’t me,” Crosshair starts, his voice catching on a sputtering inhale, thick with the tangle of words unsaid. He clears his throat, and if you notice the curling edges of a tremor on his tongue, you say nothing. “If it wasn’t me, who else can you blame?”

“I don’t blame anyone,” you say into his skin, lips ghosting over his rapid pulse.

It’s a diplomatic answer. Of course you blame someone—Palpatine, Tarkin, the fact that Crosshair and his brothers, every last one of the clones, had been built around a single, biding initiative that he hadn’t the luck or the chance to resist. You had been sleeping with the enemy even before he knew that he could be the enemy.

But thinking about it makes your head spin. Blame is too hard, too tiring to place when you, yourself, had been sewn into its vast web. So while Crosshair had slept with a bacta patch plastered to his temple, you had rewired your spinal cord and decided to be away with the anger, the resentment, the mornings waking up in tears when you lifted your blanket and barely recognized that you had legs at all.

“Don’t fucking lie,” Crosshair spits, and you feel him shake around you. Anger, such an easy defense. Such a flimsy one.

“I’m not—”

“I hear you cry in the mornings when your cybernetics don’t click; I hear you scream when you try to move and your mind tells you one thing but your legs don’t fucking work because I made a killshot that paralyzed you—”

“And it paralyzed me because you had every chance to put a bolt through my head but you aimed for my back. You were fighting it, Cross,” you counter, voice quivering.

“But it was me. I took that shot, and you pretend like you don’t—like you don’t hate me because I still had my chip. But I remember it, and it was still me, and you have every right to—”

“Cross!” you shout, and he starts hard enough that you feel him jump. You feel blindly for his hand, gripped tight at his own wrist, and squeeze, hard. “I have my legs back. And sometimes they don’t work just right, but all I care about right now is that you’re back. It’s all I’ll ever care about.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he mumbles into your hair, the sudden burst of vitriol tamed and locked away for the moment.

You’re distinctly aware that he itches to push you away. You feel it in the uncertain pause rigid in his movements before he turns his palm to twine his fingers with yours. After all, it’s easier to cope when the object of your crushing guilt is at an arm’s length.

“This is the part where you’re supposed to comfort me, tell me that you missed me too and that I was right, and you say that everything’ll work out, Cross,” you laugh weakly. You gently knock your head against his collar, prodding, urging, anything to break the crushing silence you know haunts him every time he closes his eyes.

Instead, you feel a shuddering sigh against your ear, and Crosshair only dips his head low, hiding his face in your shoulder as his grip tightens around your waist. There is no sardonic quip or playful bite to offer you peace—only slow, mechanical breaths pressed into your skin in a desperate attempt to keep from falling apart altogether. You reach up, gingerly carding your fingers through his hair when you feel that telltale warmth seeping through the fabric of your shirt, salt sharp on your tongue.

“I shot you. I aimed to kill,” Crosshair mumbles, almost hysterical in level calm, the steady veil locking his tense jaw and drawn shoulders in place. “Why are you comforting me?”

“Would you rather I never speak to you again?” No malice in your tone, you shift your weight, bearing down against Crosshair and begging him to move closer. He does.

“It would be more believable if you did,” he mutters, and you catch the tail end of a soft sniff.

“Not really my thing, grudges,” you say. “Especially against the people I love.” Trailing your fingers lower, you slip below his hairline and begin stroking your palm over the back of his neck, bent forward at an unforgiving angle. You wonder how many times he’s curled into himself like this that he can simply sit, penance and grieving, and the ache that seizes your ribs hurts more than your cybernetic misfire.

“After all that,” he finally mumbles, something close to hushed awe in his voice. “You still love.”

Slowly, melting through the numb static crackle, you feel the sensation seeping back into your feet. You could always rebuild your mobility with some careful cerebrospinal implants, seasonal aches and occasional pains be damned, but you could never replace him.

“Of course I do,” you whisper back. Careful to keep the quiet, tremulous peace, you bring your hand down, sliding around the side of his neck to cup his jaw from behind, ignoring the wetness streaked over his skin. “Still loving,” you affirm, voice steady as you thumb over his cheek. “Still loving you.”

It takes a beat of silence, your words lingering in the still air of the armory, but instead of the tense, fraught grief of when your implant had fizzled out, there is warmth, present and forgiving. You know that nothing will ever be the same, but when Crosshair turns his head to press his lips into your palm, you know that you can still try. Like the waking groan of a crashed ship, you will pick up the pieces and power up one more time, again, again, again, as many times as it takes.

Crosshair nuzzles close, quietly basking in your presence as you sit curled together on the armory floor. And at last, his breaths still, slow and deep as the ship hums around you. He’s never been one for words, not even at his fever pitch of disorientation and distress. He doesn’t need to speak for you to know what he means when he clasps your hand again and holds tight, but his voice is a welcome sound all the same.

“Thank you.”

And for a while, that’s how you stay, breathing slowly and clinging to each other like moving apart would mean never coming back. And that’s how it genuinely does feel—the safety in stillness, carving out your own constant in the cosmic entropy of conquest and loss. For a moment, you can simply savor the quiet simplicity of being.

But the universe wills motion, stars colliding and collapsing and breathing new life all over again. So too, do you feel the strength return in lapsing waves to your legs and the coiled fear leach out of Crosshair’s posture.

“Promise me this,” you whisper, just loud enough to rise above the ambient noise of the ship as you curl your toes and feel again, lurching into motion like gears fallen into disrepair. Crosshair rouses behind you, and he sniffs deeply, once, before he presses his cheek to the side of your head—he is listening. “Promise me that we’ll move on.”

“I can’t promise that,” he says after a brief pause, words measured and low. “But I’ll try.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

As much as there are variables scattered through star systems and wreaking havoc wherever they go, so too are there constants pushing back against the chaos, aligning the universe. Like clockwork, when you wake, the stars turn, the gas giants dance, and when you squeeze Crosshair’s hand, he squeezes back.

#crosshair #angst #wow this was so good

214 notes · View notes