*This was initially written with my OC and was edited to be posted as a self insert, if there are any places where I forgot to edit it to “y/n” please inform me so I can fix it! This retelling is based on my OC so I apologize if it’s too specific, as I usually try to make my x reader fics vague enough for everyone to self insert. The reader is female. If it gets requested specifically, I can try and edit one to be GN.*
Reader is Graham’s twin sister and is a member of the band as a writer and vocalist. The story is written with a mix of book style interview scenes and normal scenes. There’s a mix of the book and tv show canons, I really just picked what I wanted from each one. Some parts might honestly not match either canon, I wrote like half of this with no plans on posting it anywhere so I wasn’t paying that much attention. This is Eddie Roundtree x Reader, however it walks through all of the band and the reader’s relationship with everyone, it does not revolve solely around her romantic relationship. This is a multi-chapter fic, I will make a master list with the chapters at some point and include the timeline so if any of you want to skip right to a certain part, you can. ALSO, this first chapter includes a scene that is literally based fully on a different Eddie fic I've read, once I can find it again I will give proper credits !! Anyways, Enjoy !
Chapter 1 - 1k
The Six started out as a blues-rock band called the Dunne Brothers in the mid-sixties out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Billy, Graham, and Y/n Dunne were raised by single mother, Marlene Dunne, after their father, William Dunne Sr., left in 1954.
Billy Dunne: I was seven when Dad left, Graham and Y/n were five. All he left was an old Silvertone guitar and Graham and I would fight over who got to play it. Playing that thing was about all we did. Nobody taught us, we taught ourselves, and Mom made us teach Y/n. Once I got older, I would hang around after school and mess around with the piano in the chorus room.
Eventually, when I was about fifteen or so, Mom saved up and bought us an old Strat for Christmas. The twins fought over that one, so I left it in their hands. I kept the Silvertone.
Graham Dunne: Once Billy and I each had a guitar, we started writing songs. Me and Y/n shared the Strat technically, but once she got into writing she didn’t play it anymore. When Billy wasn’t home, she would play his Silvertone. She always loved that guitar.
Y/n Dunne: I suppose every little sister steals her brother’s things. I really don’t know why I liked that guitar so much. Billy used to say I just liked having things that weren’t mine. I think I just wanted to be like him back then.
Graham: Billy got really into songwriting. All he would talk about was Bob Dylan. He would come to our room with notebooks filled with lyrics he had written.
Billy: Just like everything else I did, Y/n started doing the same.
Y/n: Just like everything else I did, Billy took the credit.
Graham: I never got in the way of Billy and Y/n, but the older we got, the more they would fight. I never fought with either of them, but me and Billy were brothers and me and Y/n were twins, so I guess there was always more of a connection with me than with each other.
In 1967 they brought on drummer Warren Rojas and bassist Eddie Roundtree.
Warren Rojas: A drummer needs a band. It’s not like a singer or a guitarist, you can’t play by yourself. I lived in the same neighborhood as the Dunne’s and they heard me play from my dad’s garage a few times, so they asked me if I wanted in.
Billy: Warren kind of fell into our laps, he was easy and he was good. I knew we needed a bassist, and the twins knew a guy. I don’t remember why I trusted them.
Y/n: Eddie was a friend of ours from school. Well, technically he was a friend of Graham at school.
Graham: Me and Eddie were close, closer than him and Y/n appeared to be.
Billy: We started practicing as a band, day in and day out. We were always in our garage playing songs over and over again.
Graham: I mean, what else were we gonna do? None of the guys had been dating anyone except Billy, and he never cared about his girlfriends back then, practically had a new one each week.
Billy: At some point Y/n started missing practices to hangout with some guy, I don’t remember his name. I certainly remember when they broke up though.
“You son of a bitch!” Y/n’s yell stopped the boys in their tracks. She had missed a rehearsal again to hangout with her boyfriend, though it didn’t take long for her to come back. She made a beeline for the garage where the boys were practicing. Billy went to reply, assuming she was yelling at him, but before he could say anything Y/n stormed past him, only stopping when she cornered Eddie.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? You wanna go around pretending like you own me?” She rambled. Graham grabbed her and pulled her back, “Calm down! What are you going on about?”
“Eddie threatened my boyfriend! Said if he didn’t leave me alone that my brothers and their friends were gonna do something about it.” She pulled herself out of Graham’s hold after he loosened it. The rest of the group looked at Eddie, mostly in confusion. It was no secret that Eddie liked Y/n, it seemed everyone knew it except Eddie himself. He just had a terrible way of showing it.
“He was a total dickhead, I was doing you a favor.” Eddie spoke, far too casually for Y/n’s liking. “That was my choice to make, not yours! It’s my life Eddie!” She screamed back, tears rimmed her eyes as she bordered a breakdown. Graham gently pulled her aside, helping her inside of the house before he came back out.
“What were you thinking man?” Warren turned to Eddie, “I know you like her but that was so not cool.” Before Eddie could reply, Billy spoke up as well, “I hated the guy too, but even I’ll admit that was idiotic.”
Eddie looked at them, he seemed almost frustrated at their remarks, “I don’t like her, alright? That dude was a douchebag and yall know it. I was helping her out.” The rest of the boys seemed to roll their eyes in sync. “She’s never going to forgive you, you know. She holds grudges like you wouldn’t believe,” Graham said pointedly. Eddie huffed and turned to pick his bass back up, ready to continue practicing. He would never admit it, but a part of him was scared that Graham was right.
ALSO- for this fic, I want to be inclusive, but I have to idea what kind of demographic are going to read it. So... we're having a reader customization poll! And I'll make another for ethinicity and mental just HERE.
hii i have a dazai x Fem!reader fic request!! (^o^)/(≧∇≦)/
I didn't really plan the specifics of it but i LOVE kitsune!zai ╥﹏╥
MAYBEE like you were a mortal kid (oh n i forgot to mention it but the reader is fem!) and while you guys had went on a picnic wuth your family, your 5 year old (the age can be changed idm just between the childhood years ☆) self decided to step into a beautiful-looking forest (woah) and then you came across a boy that looked like the same age, maybe just like 2-3 years older than you and you guys play with eachother for the whole day and he asks when you'll be back with SUDDENLY looking very sad (he made a point of it to show that he was sad through his ears and tails too •́︿•̀) and you say idk, then run away. You guys may grow up like when you're an adult, 19 or something, while he is 22 and ehile you have forgotten all qbout playing with a immortal boy, he hasn't forgotten it since you were his first friend ever and you decided to come back to the forest when you saw it again on your way to university because something about it felt like it was calling to you, just to see Dazai again. (Insert you guys falling inlove and being a couple)
I just realized the request is very sloppy but i hope you'll understand the general idea 👀😿😿)
I most definately did forget about this! But I finally finished part one of this, Which is the childhood friends. The rest shall come soon.
Heeeeyyy I have a one shot idea! Would you write something with Obi Wan and Reader reconnection after Order 66 and it making him confess (mutual) feelings? Like kind of angsty bc he thinks reader is dead and she thinks the same of him?
Loving the Dead | obi-wan kenobi x f!reader
summary: Obi-Wan thought you died in the Purge. A chance encounter in a dusty Tatooine market shatters a decade of mutual grief, proving that some ghosts are still flesh and blood.
warnings: MDNI, angst, mutual yearning, emotional reunion, trauma, grief, PTSD, survivor's guilt, flashbacks, mild NSFW at the end.
A/N: sorry, not my best attemp at exhile Obi :(
The Force has been quiet for years. Not gone—never gone—merely grieving. He keeps his head lowered beneath the hood of his worn cloak as he navigates the narrow streets, avoiding eyes that linger too long. He is simply Ben. An old hermit looking for supplies. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He reaches the market stall just as someone beside him speaks.
"...They're charging twice what this is worth."
The voice is soft. Calm.
No. Impossible.
His hand freezes halfway toward a pouch of dried grain. His heart forgets how to beat.
The voice laughs under its breath, a quiet, familiar sound. "They always overcharge travelers."
No. No. No.
He turns. Slowly. Afraid that if he moves too quickly, whatever cruel miracle the Force has decided to grant him will vanish.
And there—standing three feet away. A weathered cloak. Hair longer than he remembers. Older. Thinner. Faint scars crossing one cheek. The light in your eyes has changed, but it's you. Alive.
You look up. Your eyes meet his. For one impossible heartbeat, neither of you breathes.
"...Obi-Wan?"
The name barely leaves your lips before your face drains of all color. He whispers your name like a prayer. Like a confession. Like grief finally given voice.
You stare. Your hand rises to your mouth. "I thought—"
The words leave both of you at exactly the same time. Then neither of you moves. Neither dares. Because dreams are cruel, and the Force has shown him illusions before. He cannot survive another.
You take one careful step. "So you're real."
He lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. "I was about to ask you the same."
Another step. "I watched the Temple burn."
"I saw your transport explode."
Your eyes widen, and his chest tightens. "I was on that transport," you say softly.
"You—"
"I wasn't on it when it exploded."
He stares, the reality of it washing over him. "You survived."
"So did you."
Silence. Then suddenly, the distance between you disappears. You're running, and so is he.
He catches you before either of you can think better of it. His arms wrap around you with desperate strength, and you crash into him so hard he nearly loses his footing. Neither of you cares. He has held dying soldiers, grieving children, broken friends—but nothing has ever felt like this. You are real. Warm. Alive.
He buries his face against your hair. You cling to the back of his robes with white-knuckled fingers.
"I mourned you," you whisper.
His eyes squeeze shut. "So did I."
Your shoulders shake. "I searched."
"I couldn't."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know." you hide your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. ''I know.''
******
Later—much later—you are sitting inside the tiny, sand-scoured home he claims on the outskirts of the wastes. The lights are dim. The tea has gone cold, untouched.
You spend hours filling in the missing years. The Temple. The clones. The purge. Friends who never escaped. Names spoken quietly; names that deserve remembering. Every story costs something to tell. Every memory leaves another scar open.
Eventually, the conversation simply stops. Not because there is nothing left to say, but because there is too much.
Obi-Wan watches you across the table. You survived against every impossible odd. He should be grateful, but instead, he feels a crushing weight of guilt. Because all he can think is: Stay. Stay here. Stay alive. Stay with me.
He crushes the thought before it can become hope. Hope is dangerous. Hope destroyed the Jedi.
"...You're staring."
He blinks, pulling himself back. "My apologies."
"You've been doing it for twenty minutes."
"I'd forgotten how observant you are."
"I never forgot."
Silence settles again, gentler this time. Then you ask the question that has been hanging in the air: "Why didn't you look for me?"
"I couldn't risk exposing Luke." The words leave him automatically—years of instinct, protection, and duty speaking for him. Then, more quietly, he adds, "And because... I couldn't survive finding your grave."
You stare at him. His gaze drops to the table.
"I buried everyone," his voice barely exists now. "Master Qui-Gon. The Order. Anakin." His throat closes. "You."
Another silence stretches. He lets out a single, humorless laugh. "I became rather good at grieving."
Something inside you breaks. You move around the table before thinking, kneeling beside his chair and taking his hand. He startles, looking down. You are holding his hand like he is the fragile one.
"You don't have to anymore," you tell him.
Obi-Wan looks down at your joined hands, a broken, humorless laugh escaping him. "You don't understand. I cannot let you stay here. I cannot let myself hope for a life. It is dangerous."
"Obi-Wan—"
"I loved you," he says.
The words are sudden, crashing into the quiet room with the weight of a decade's worth of silence. He looks at you, entirely exposed, the walls he built over a lifetime of Jedi discipline completely shattered.
"I loved you before the war," his voice shakes. "During it. After it. I loved you while believing you were dead." His laugh is broken. "I suppose that makes me rather hopeless."
You don't answer right away. He nods once, bracing himself. "There. Now it's said. I'm sorry."
He pulls his hand back, instinctively preparing to retreat, to put the distance of his duty back between you. Because that is what Obi-Wan Kenobi does. He suffers, and he walks away.
Your hand darts out, gripping his forearm firmly.
"You are an absolute idiot," you say, a tear finally slipping down your cheek, though you're laughing.
He blinks, completely derailed. "I beg your pardon?''
"I loved you too," you say, your voice fierce despite the tears. "I spent three years convinced I was projecting my own pathetic wishes onto a perfect, unyielding Jedi Master. I thought you were just being polite."
A faint, offended flush creeps up his neck, a beautiful flash of the man he used to be. "I wasn't polite to everyone."
"No," you soften, leaning closer. "Just to me."
"Only to you," he admits quietly.
You reach up, placing your palm against his cheek. He flinches slightly at the contact—unused to touch, unused to gentleness—and then he melts, leaning heavily into your hand, his eyes fluttering shut. His forehead comes to rest against yours. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you speaks. The Force, quiet for so many years, seems to breathe again around the two of you. Not loudly, not triumphantly, but with a profound, settling peace.
"I don't know what happens now," he admits, his breath warm against your skin.
"Neither do I."
"There are things I cannot abandon."
"I know."
His voice drops to a bare whisper. "We have both given everything to the galaxy. But if you'll allow it... I would like to stop mourning someone who is still alive."
The tears finally spill over your lashes. "So would I."
When he kisses you, it isn't desperate or rushed. It is gentle, reverent—like returning to a temple that somehow survived the fire. Like finding home after believing it had been permanently erased from the stars.
The warmth of his mouth against yours shatters the frozen landscape of the last ten years, dragging a deluge of buried memories to the surface. You remember the way he used to look during the war—not this ghost clad in coarse burlap, but General Kenobi in his pristine white plastoid armor, dirt-streaked and bloodied, standing over a tactical holotable with that fierce, brilliant focus in his eyes. You remember watching him from across a crowded command tent, his voice a steady anchor over the screams of the wounded and the rhythmic, deafening thud of artillery.
For a decade, that version of him had been a phantom haunting your sleep. You lost count of the restless nights spent on cold, unfamiliar planets, staring up at ceilings of durasteel or rock, listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of foreign worlds. In the suffocating dark of those nights, you had built this exact moment out of nothing but desperate imagination. You had conjured the phantom feel of his hand against your cheek, the specific cadence of his voice, inventing a reality where he survived just so you could breathe through the grief for one more hour. You had memorized the slope of his shoulders and the exact shade of his eyes, terrified that time would erode the image until you had nothing left.
Now, the illusion is gone, replaced by the heavy, undeniable weight of his hands on your face. His beard is rough against your skin, and the scent of him—sand, spice, and the distinct, grounding presence of his spirit in the Force—floods your senses. The phantom of the General dissolves into the reality of the man before you. His hands slide up to cup your jaw, his thumbs sweeping away the tears on your cheeks, grounding you both in the quiet, solid present of this small desert room.
"Obi-Wan," you breathe, the name a plea.
He groans against your skin, his hands sliding up beneath the hem of your tunic. His palms are rough, calloused from years of hard labor in the desert wastes, and the friction of them against your bare ribs makes you shiver, your hips tilting instinctively toward his. The contrast is intoxicating—the legendary, disciplined Jedi Master, completely undone by the touch of your skin.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, though his fingers are already tightening, his thumbs tracing the curve of your waist with a fierce, possessive need. "If this is too much... if we shouldn't..."
"Don't you dare stop," you interrupt, your voice fierce through the dark. You take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, his blue eyes dark, blown out with a desire he has spent a lifetime suppressing. "We've given everything else away. Keep this. Let me keep this."
His gaze drops to your mouth, and whatever restraint he had left finally snaps.
Obi-Wan sweeps you up, the distance to the small, low cot in the corner of the room disappearing in an instant. When you hit the mattress, he follows you down, his heavy body pinning you into the blankets as the years of restraint finally dissolve in the dark.
