Links: Rules for requests | Come say 'hi' or send request here
── Twilight
x OC
Title: Night of the Hunter
Pairing: Edward Cullen x Danica Volturi (OC)
Rating: 18+ mdni (smut, depiction of violence, etc)
Status: Hiatus (I got stuck sorry)
Links: Masterpost | AO3
Title: A Modern Myth
Pairing: Carlisle Cullen x Amelia Moore (OC)
Rating: 18+ mdni , future smut, toxic relationship, injuries, character death, blood,
Status: Re-posting (on going)
Links: Masterpost | AO3
── Star Wars
x Reader
Title: The Kyber Heart
Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader
Rating: 18+ mdni ( future smut)
Status: In Progress
Links: Preview
— Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Title: The Feeling With No Name
Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader
Status: In Progress
— Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
── Superman 2025
x Reader
#001
Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader
Synopsis: Clark breaks up with you because he thinks dating him is too dangerous for you.
Status In Progress
— Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03 | Part 04
#002
Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader (not as a couple tho)
Synopsis: Superman comforts you while you're trying to stay strong when you're living in a dying relationship.
Word Count: 2.7k
Links: Story
#001 - Part 03
Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader
Genre: Established relationship, angst, hurt, breakup aftermath, pinning, some poorly written action
Warnings: None that I'm aware of, let me know if you find any.
Word Count: 2.8k
Links: Masterlist | Rules for requests | Request (or chat) here
— Part 01 | Part 02
Author's Note: okay, so maaaaybe i went a little over my head with this one, i'm not very good writing action, but i wanted to try. i considered writing over 3k for this one to lead into part 4, however i thought it'd be too long for tumblr. lmk what you think.
Practicing normalcy took more energy and discipline than you've ever thought possible. It meant to live with the absence of the warmth you had as if you've been living with a ghost perched on your shoulder. It meant that you now notice how intertwined your life had been with Clark's presence and you never even noticed.
You had to build a carefully constructed routine to occupy the hours of the day when your mind was most likely to wander into dangerous territory; and so far it had been proven to be a poor attempt.
It was impossible not to miss him. It was impossible to pretend life just moved on as if he hadn't been part of it, and time dragged between one silence and another. Days had turned into weeks as you tried to fill all the silences, and pauses until you notice how much of it existed now that Clark wasn't there to fill the gaps.
It was now twelve-fifteen. The horn section of Metropolis traffic was in full, chaotic swing down 5th Avenue. The sidewalk was a dense, moving glacier of wet wool coats, leather briefcases, backpacks and steaming breaths. Wind cut sharp between the buildings and high-rises, carrying the sharp smell of exhaust fumes, and damp concrete.
You walked with a steady, purposeful stride, your hands wedged deep into the pockets of your trench coat. Trying not to think how different walking down this street used to be.
Depending on the day, it could've meant you'd holding your phone to your ear while Clark laughed through a story about Ron accidentally spilling toner on Perry's keyboard when the team was stuck in the office and he couldn't come with you.
Other days it meant arguing good-naturedly over whether to get bagels instead of plain bread for your favorite sandwiches. It meant leaning your head against his arm for three seconds at the crosswalk while the signal changed, feeling the reassuring presence of having him there when he leaned down and kissed your temple with his eyes sharp on the moving crowd.
Now it meant trying not to think about those days, trying to convince yourself that if you ever met him in the same path... It'd be okay.
You pushed your way through a group of tourists that had their eyes on the sky much like some of the people around them. They were always expecting something out of it. It was insane to you how people grew so accustomed to scanning the clouds for grand interventions, eager to witness gods in capes who could swoop down and solve impossible disasters in a flash.
But the sky offered nothing for a quiet, ordinary heartbreak. There was no superhero coming to land on your fire escape and fix the cold silence in your apartment. Looking up was for people who still expected a miracle to save them; keeping your eyes on the pavement was how you've been surviving.
Someone bumped on your shoulder when the ringing in your ear started just before a heavy vibration started below your feet. You saw the glass from of the jewelers store right beside you starting to shake, soon every other storefront glass on 5th Avenue were shaking on their frame dangerously.
A sharp pop echoed in your ears as an artificial vortex of cold wind swept down the packed street, snapping trench coat hemlines, spinning discarded cups, papers and plastic down the curb and up in the air.
Around you, others stopped, ducking their heads, turning their shoulders, or raise a gloved hand to shield their eyes from the blast of air that could sweep people off their feet.
You braced yourself, planting your feet on the sidewalk as much as you could in fear you could be swept away just as easily. While tourists and other pedestrians alike struggled and fumbled with cold fingers for cameras.
"Look!" A tourist pointed into the overcast grey. "It's Superman!"
You squinted and looked up. High above the skyline, a vibrant streak of crimson and blue cut through the low-hanging fog in a flash in much less than a second, clearing a pristine trail through the mist as it banked steeply south toward the harbor.
While some fought to get a picture or a video, you pushed your way through the now immovable crowd. The surge of excitement around you dragged Clark into your mind again.
Superman has been Clark’s beat at the Daily Prophet forever and a day. How many evenings had you sat with him while he labored over his mechanical computer, passionately defending the hero in print?
Clark was the one who insisted in every article he wrote that Superman wasn't an unapproachable deity or a weapon, but simply a person doing his best to help; someone who meant well, who cared deeply for the small, quiet lives on the streets below.
Stepping around a puddle you turned into Mendoza's Deli, a narrow, long-standing sandwich shop squeezed between a shoe repair store and an antique book shop. The air inside was thick with the scent of toasted rye, garlic oil, and the smell of Mendoza's special sauce.
"The usual?" Old Mr. Mendoza asked from behind the counter as soon as he saw you, his heavy eyebrows lifting above his wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Just a half turkey on rye today, Mr. Mendoza," you said, your voice calm and even. "And a black coffee to go."
He paused, his gloved hand hovering over the smoked turkey breast. This was the first time you dared to come back here. For two years, you had come here with Clark and the order would be two sandwiches; one turkey, one pastrami on sourdough stacked so high it looked structurally unsound, and two drinks. You and Clark would seat on the booth by the window.
"Ah," Mendoza said softly. He didn't ask questions. He was a veteran of thirty years in Midtown Metropolis; he knew the subtle, quiet signs of a life that had suddenly shrunk by half. "Half turkey. Got it."
You sat at the small formica counter while he wrapped the sandwich paper. The stool was cold. You glanced at the booth you used to sit with Clark, it was occupied by a small group. A server handed you the coffee, you took a slow sip, letting the bitter heat burn the tip of your tongue.
You were going to be fine, you repeated the thought like a mantra. Life changed for everyone, relationships ended, and just because you love him it doesn't mean he has to love you enough to stay.
By now you ran through endless possibilities of reasons why he did that until you overworked your mind, plunging into the darkest possibilities, some you wouldn't normally associate with Clark.
You overanalyzed those those last minutes in his kitchen. You had deconstructed piece by piece in your memory, until you became confused what was real and what wasn't.
You kept thinking about those two years, wondering where everything went wrong, when did things changed for the worse. You had thousands of questions, uncounted shadows looming in your mind, and still you couldn't figure out why.
"Listen. Sometimes men get scared when things start to get too serious." One of your friends told you over the phone, "that whole it's me it's not you thing... It's a given."
"That's... not what he said." You told her, hearing the shrill attempt to defend him in your voice.
Over and over again you kept telling yourself you knew Clark, you thought he wasn't the type to do that, but now you weren't so sure anymore. Had you really known him at all?
You thought you understood him, but did you? Everything and anything now was a case of study and a game second-guessing; even the smallest things.
You scrapped the burning-hot paper cup in your hand with your nail absentmindedly. How many times you felt left behind by him?
You felt like you held no importance in his life when you were left hanging, waiting... At dinner tables, in the middle of parties, holidays, during family dinners.
How many times have you felt forgotten? For whatever else happened. You understood sometimes he rushed to get a scope on Superman, to get his exclusivity in the matter as he always did.
You never questioned the importance of it because it was his work, you knew that much, you knew when you started dating him how important that was for his career.
But it was beyond just that now that you thought about and you wondered; why were you always so blind not to question anything before?
He kept himself quiet about his life, but almost two years together. Clark met your family, you met his family and yet you ignored when you knew something felt out of place.
"It's a matter to read between the lines," your friend had argued. "What did he said?" She asked emphatically.
You sighed. You couldn't remember anymore what or how he said it. If you read any more between the lines you'd create a whole new story of what happened. If your mind haven't already turned what happened into a new dystopic reality by now.
Your eyes snapped to the door when you heard the bell ringing and a voice that sounded to similar to Clark's. Your breathed out when you saw the two men walking in, they couldn't be more different than him.
You tried to focus on the rhythmic noise of the deli now. The slap of the spatula, the hiss of the espresso machine, the jingle of the front door bell as another person walked in. Trying as you might not to think about Clark again. Being here was supposed to be an exercise to regain some normalcy in your life.
Mendoza slid a brown paper bag, warm and smelling faintly of wax paper and toasted rye, across the formica counter.
"Take care out there," the old man said as you paid and left the usual generous tip. "Weather's turning ugly."
"Thank you," you replied as you turned to leave.
You gripped the paper bag and held the burning paper cup before pushing the door open with your shoulder. The bell jingled as you stepped outside but before the sound was swallowed by chaos even before you closed the door.
You could feel a heavy, repetitive impact coming from south near the harbor. People were running now, you could saw the panic in some and fascination in others as they rushed up and down the street, cars tried to avoid getting stuck in traffic, but you saw it was inevitable, yet people got inside them anyway.
The ground shook violently enough to rattle the sewer grates along the curb. A second later, a low, metallic screech echoed down the concrete canyon of 5th Avenue, followed by the distant, collective gasp of a thousand voices echoing off the glass high-rises.
Emergency sirens rang loud and clear in the air from three blocks down, their high-pitched wails cutting through the roar of the panicked traffic.
"What was that?!" Someone yelled near the crosswalk.
"Get out of the street!" Someone screamed from one of the buildings.
The sidewalk erupted into sudden, disorganized motion. People weren't just walking anymore; they were stopping dead in their tracks, turning back, pulling out smartphones with cold fingers, and jostling past one another.
A man in a tailored grey suit slammed hard into your shoulder as he sprinted toward the corner, knocking the coffee from your hands. The hot liquid splashed over the lid, burning your knuckles before you dropped it, the coffee stained the sidewalk and the paper cup was being swept by the wind and kicked by hurried feet.
"Watch it!" He shouted into the wind.
"He's down near the harbor plaza!" A woman yelled, her voice high and breathless as she grabbed her companion's arm. "Superman's fighting something down by the docks! Look at the smoke!"
Above the rooftops to the south, a thick, dark plume of grey dust billowed into the overcast sky, swallowing the low-hanging clouds. Another dull thud rattled the storefront windows beside you, shaking glass in its frames.
Around you, the crowd surged like a tidal wave toward the disturbance. Tourists, office workers, and shop owners flooded toward the intersection, craning their necks, eager to witness the impossible spectacle unfolding down by the water.
They moved with the frantic curiosity unique to Metropolis, a city that ran toward danger because it believed gods would always win.
You clutched the warm paper bag.
You didn't turn toward the smoke. You didn't crane your neck. You had no desire to watch a grand, terrifying disaster play out over the rooftops. All you wanted was to get back to the boring, predictable safety of your desk, under the fluorescent lights where the world made sense.
And deep down, beneath the noise and the shaking pavement, a sharper realization stung: right now, six blocks away at the Daily Prophet, Clark would already be moving.
He would have dropped his pen, pulled his jacket off the back of his chair, and sprinted down the fire stairs to cover the story, notebook in hand, putting himself directly in harm's way for the sake of his work.
You pushed your way through and didn't stop when you heard the panic and the screams that erupted around you. Someone’s shoulder shoved you hard from behind. You stumbled, your boot slipping in a patch of wet slush near the curb.
An elbow struck your forearm, numbing your fingers, and the brown paper bag tore open as it fell from your grip. You reached down as a reflex, but a heavy leather boot crushed the toasted rye flat into the mud.
People started screaming and running, the pushing and shoving were pure, blind chaos. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes wide in panic when you saw something whistling through the air, and you covered your eyes as debris rained over your head.
"Out of the way!" a man screamed, shoving past you into the recessed doorway of a bank.
You threw yourself into the stone alcove after him, pressing your back flat against the cold limestone pillar, ducking your head as dust swept down the sidewalk like thick grey fog.
Through the cloud, you heard the impact before you saw anything; a heavy, metallic crash that vibrated straight through the soles of your shoes.
When the dust thinned for a second, Superman was there in the street. He wasn't floating or looking heroic; he was planted in the middle of a torn-up section of asphalt, his boots skidding back three feet under the force of a dark, heavy mass of armored steel that had come down with the building.
You recognized the iconic suit while his face hidden by part of the steel supported on his shoulder. The noise was deafening. Screeching metal, breaking glass... Dust was caked into the fabric of his suit, thick as it settled everywhere.
You didn't care about the fight. You didn't care who won or what was being saved. You just needed to find a safe place to let this pass.
You started to move, the bank locked the doors, Superman lunged into air and collided with what looked like a robot.
The heavy alloy construction drove its hydraulic treads deep into the asphalt like roots of a tree, distorting everything else. Clark heard the synthetic voice hissed out through its central speaker grill; a smooth, arrogant timbre filtered through iron and static.
"How heroic of you," the voice echoed off the concrete canyon of 5th Avenue, dripping with quiet, calculated amusement. "Bringing all this chaos right into the middle of these poor, defenseless people."
"I didn't bring this fight here," he gritted out, his jaw tight as he shoved the machine's primary claw upward into the overcast air. "You dragged it out of the harbor."
A low, mocking laugh synthesized through the speaker as the machine's primary optical sensor flared a harsh, crimson red. "Oh well... that's not what people down on the pavement see, is it? Look at them run."
The machine's heavy chest plating buckled open, exposing a high-voltage core that whined with dangerous kinetic energy. Clark heard the targeting optics humming inside the robot's core. The crimson reticle locked onto the narrow alleyway near Mendoza's.
"I wonder, Superman... how will your favorite Daily Prophet reporter spin this in tomorrow's edition? When he realizes you let his little girlfriend get crushed under twenty tons of midtown concrete?" The voice rasped through the comms followed by a venomous laughter.
Clark frowned, a flicker of brief confusion crossing his face behind the mask of Superman. He followed the machine's optical sensor down into the alleyway.
I saw photo of some guy with fire behind on pinterest and had to move all my projects to do this one lol
Listened to Slipknot - Duality
Kinda fits
Dude found out about Burning Man
Vader’s new management style was initially met with some confusion, but it ultimately made the Empire stronger and led to the quiet dismantling of the Rebellion.
clark being too midwestern polite to ever tell kara he hates dog sitting krypto and then is like, i still can't stand krypto but we both hate lex luthor so we are now sympatico but also, clark never wants krypto in his sleek metropolis apartment again
meanwhile, kara does not understand midwestern passive aggressiveness so always assumes clark likes dog sitting
Could you write something about a jealous maul, or what you think it would be like? (Jedi Reader)
jealous!maul x reader: Sabacc & Saddle
explict. bisexual!reader, fingering, ex!jedi reader, one bed trope. takes place after the events of s1 maul: shadow lord
summary: You pay an old visit to an ex to get info on a stolen shipment. Maul isn't happy about it.
word count: 4,263
a/n: threw in the "there was only one bed" trope in there for the hell of it. devon makes an appearance and is over it. hope yall enjoy!
Sabacc & Saddle is the hub for Tratah's industrial and fetish scene, thus the perfect place where Maul could glower behind his cowl and get away with it.
You feel him at your shoulder— a column of stillness amidst the sea of hot, leather clad bodies. It reeks of liquor and dubious bodily fluids from various species. There are dancers suspended in cages, half naked bodies flashing as tantalizing silhouettes by the neon lights.
"You might be invited as a voyeur if you stare too long," you tease Maul. If looks could kill.
Devon sulked and protested on the way here, until you asked her if she wanted to see Toydarians floating around in nothing but codpieces. Now she was happily guarding the speeder, though Maul made a wry comment that he did not want to see that either.
You lean over the bar and the tender clocks you— a Twi-lek female with neon green paint covering the marks of her lekku.
"What're feeling, babe?"
You smile at her. "The Gungan's Wet Dream. Easy on the lime."
She looks between you and Maul, the gestures you to follow her. "Follow me."
She leads you down a familiar dim hallway, walls littered with raunchy graffiti and revolutionary slogans that would make any stormtrooper sweat. You feel the cold ease off of Maul slightly.
The backroom is quiet, the bass a distant thrum rather than something that reverberates through your teeth. The Trogruta at the desk is already on her feet when you walk in, towering over you even without the six inch platform boots.
"Janare," your voice is as warm as you feel.
She crosses the room and takes your face between orange hands— kisses one cheek, then the other, unhurried and you return the gesture.
"Good to see you again, troublemaker," she says.
"Me? You're all the trouble."
"Oh, I know I'm bad, sweetheart," Janare engulfs you into a hug and swings you around. "But so are you."
You laugh with an ease you haven't felt for quite some time. For a few moments, you forget that you're here for information, and that the galaxy is under a Sith tyrant. That is just who Janare is, someone to get lost in.
Behind you, the Force chills around Maul again. You turn your head to see the slight curl of his lip and tension in his shoulders. He doesn't want to be here and is growing inpatient. Which is fair, he isn't here to witness a reunion between old lovers.
Janare sees it, because a life time of reading people grants one a sharp perception even without strength in the Force. She eyes Maul in the doorway for a second too long, and her brow raises in a way that you know means mischief.
"This one's yours?" she asks.
"This one is no one's," Maul says, harsh and flat.
Her grin widens, and you feel satisfaction ripple from her through the Force. "No," she says, never taking her eyes off of Maul. "No. Of course not."
Janare steps back and gestures for you two to sit on the velvet couch. She strides behind her mini bar in the corner and pulls three glasses out.
"What's your poison, big guy?"
Maul crosses his arms and continues to stand next to you, rather than sit.
"Cassius tea," he says, dryly.
"Oh, I'm afraid that's a bit too exotic for us," she pulls out a bottle of Corellian Whiskey. "We're pretty basic around here, if you couldn't tell.”
“Really,” Maul drawls sarcastically.
Janare's amusement grows. She pours two fingers of whiskey into two glasses, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch facing yours. The third glass is left back on the bar.
"Now to what do I owe the pleasure?"
You give her the name and cargo. A gang who stole a shipment of weapons meant for Crimson Dawn and were somehow elusive enough that they evaded capture from the others sent to retrieve it. A tedious mission, but good exercise for Devon. Had it been anyone else, Janare would make them work for the information. But not for you. Never for you.
"That's all you needed?" She waves her hand like she's shooing off the question. "Bay nine, dock fifteen, three nights from now. There's a Trandoshan guard with one eye— tell him I sent you and he'll clear out faster than you can say my name."
"You're a lifesaver."
"Only 'cause I like you," She takes a sip of her whiskey and her gaze drifts, lazy and deliberate, to Maul. "Can't say the same for all present company."
Maul says nothing, but the red waves of aggravation that emit from him through the Force almost make you cringe.
"He doesn't drink, he doesn't sit, he doesn't talk," Janare counts it off on her fingers. "You don't need a guard dog, babe."
"You are lucky that you two are acquainted," Maul seethes. "I do not take kindly to such poor hosts."
Janare laughs. "Oh, her and I are more than acquainted, I promise you."
You flush. "Janare-"
"I don't take kindly to poor guests," she continues, "but I don't go out of my way to threaten them either."
Maul shifts and you can tell that his hand is on his lightsaber. You have no doubt that Janare knew he was dangerous, but she was pushing it. You open your mouth to defuse the situation, but she interrupts you by placing her warm hand on your knee.
"You always have a room here," Janare says, soft and just for you. "If you ever get tired of rude men."
And there it was, another cold burst of rage coming from the man standing beside you. And—
It hits you like a freighter full of duracrete. Is Maul jealous?
No. There's no way.
There's tension between you — attraction, on your end, but you'd long since settled it as one-sided. He's consumed with Devon, with revenge. There's no conceivable way he thinks of you like that.
…Unless he does. Unless that's why Janare's been giving him so much shit.
"We have what we came for," Maul says, already heading towards the door.
You give Janare a bewildered look because you have a million questions on your tongue and no time for her to answer them. But she's watching Maul and smirking, like a tooka cat that caught the canary.
Oh no, you think.
"Stop by again sometime," she says, finally shifting her gaze back to you.
"I will…"
You rise from the couch and Janare guides you out of the room with a hand on your lower back.
"Enjoy the rest of your night, babe," she kisses you on the cheek. "Good to see you again."
You have to trot down the hall to catch up to Maul, who is nudging people out of his way with subtle use of the Force.
Devon's draped across the back seat when you arrive at the air speeder, one foot resting across the console and blaring music that Maul immediately quiets with a wave of his hand.
"Finally," she says, sniffs and makes a face. "Ugh, you two smell like booze—"
She stops and sits up. Those big eyes track from Maul, who flips the switches on the speeder like they personally offend him, to you, sliding into the front passenger seat.
"What happened?" Devon asks.
"Nothing happened." you say.
"No," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Something clearly happened in there."
"What happened," Maul hisses, then pauses, and reels in his tone. "was that we got the intelligence we needed,"
Devon glares at the back of his head for a long moment, then decides it isn't worth it and rolls her eyes.
"Whatever," she mumbles to herself.
You stare at the viewport as the neon smears past, trying not to think that the rage leaking off of Maul might just be jealousy. Three nights until the shipment, and a long ride back to the safe house before that. Wonderful, less than five minutes and Janare stirs your life up into a crisis. Typical.
You exhale slowly through your nose and try to meditate.
Emphasis on try. You've shared many comfortable silences with Maul, but not this one. This one is tense, and even if you were blind to the Force, you could cut it with a knife. He hasn't looked at you once since you left Janare's office, but you are hyper aware of the heat of his arm a hands width away from yours.
You watch the city peel past the viewport in silence, except for the soft snores of Devon who is dozed off in the back. You don't look at how Maul's large hands engulf the controls. You don't look at the cut of his side profile, or how his skin reflects the city lights in shades of blue and purple. You focus on the city, on bay nine, and dock fifteen. Anything that's not the anxiety swirling around in your chest.
Maul's arm shifts next to yours. He inhales, so softly you almost don't catch it, but whatever he plans to say dies on the exhale.
For a Sith, he has a lot of restraint.
The safe house is dark when you arrive. A dusty, utilitarian warehouse meant for short stays like this one— bare walls, moth bitten sheets, and a kitchenette stocked with instant noodles and protein bars. Devon wanders down the only hall in the corner. You hear a door slide open, then another shortly after, and a beat of silence.
"So," she calls out, too much delight in her voice for your liking. "We have a problem."
Both you and Maul head wordlessly down to the hallway to find Devon, leaning against one of the doorways with a smirk you definitely don't like.
"Well it's actually more a 'you two have a problem.' There's only two beds, and this one," she points her thumb behind her. "Is child size. The other one," she points to the bedroom on the far end of the hall. "Is huge."
A quick glance into the room Devon's standing in confirms that yes, it is child's size twin bed. Your heart jolts in your chest. Maul is silent behind you.
"Good luck figuring that one out," Devon says with a tone so smarmy that you know it will land her with ten more laps during tomorrows training session. She probably knows that and doesn't care.
Her door slides shut, leaving you and Maul alone with the heated weight between you two. You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, mumbling something about padawans and apprentices while walking to the other room.
The bed is huge— big enough to comfortably fit the three of you if it came down to it.
"I will sleep on the floor," Maul says from the doorway.
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. "The floor is disgusting," you say, turning to face him.
"I have slept in worse places," he says mildly.
"Maul," you huff. "We're adults. The bed is big enough for two hutts, let's just share it…"
He holds your gaze longer than is comfortable. Then, without a word, he crosses to the far side of the bed to pull off his boots. And that, apparently, was that.
Each bedroom has it's own attached refresher. You wordlessly take turns, and stay a bit longer underneath the boiling stream of the shower than necessary. You are both battle hardened adults. Sleeping next to a team mate is the far least precarious situation you found yourself in— crush notwithstanding. It is fine.
It is not fine. You spent your entire nightly routine debating on whether or not you should wear a bra to bed. Eventually settling on accepting a few nights of discomfort and clipping the garment back into the place. That led you two the second problem: you had no full length pajama pants, only panties and a single pair of sleep shorts that left little to the imagination.
Oh, sleeping next to a Sith Lord with your ass hanging out. You wonder what your Master would think, then remember that they were a hard ass and would tell you to get over it.
Right. You were an adult.
You walk out of the refresher. Maul is shirtless, and you swear you could hear the cackle of your Master's laugh through the Force. You beeline it to your side of the bed, not once making eye contact, while he takes his turn in the refresher.
You lie on your back and stare at the ceiling. Maul walks around with half his chest out anyway, why was it a big deal? There's approximately two Devon's of space between you and his side of the bed. You are an adult.
Yeah, who are you kidding? We're adults is a lovely theory when it does not involve a shirtless Zabrak you have a crush on sleeping next to you. Especially when said Zabrak is easily provoked into jealousy while visiting your ex.
It is going to be a long night.
You've already turned to face the wall when Maul exits the bathroom. You smell the faint traces of herbal soap and think, faintly, that it smells lovely. You feel him climb into bed next to you, careful of the way he keeps himself to the edge, as deliberate about the gap between you as you are. Neither of you say anything to each other. His breath never once drops into the slow rhythm of sleep, which means he was lying there doing the precisely what you were doing. Being aware of you. Being aware of you being aware from him.
Adults. Sure.
The silence is as loud as the ringing in your ears.
And eventually, the day catches up to you— the long hours of hyperspace to this Force forsaken planet, the club, holding yourself together, and it drags you under the veil of sleep.
You don't dream so much as you materialize into one.
You're in the the club— people dancing around you and through you in blurs of color. The music is an impression of something high energy and loud; something you can feel rather than hear. You realize that you're staring at yourself as you were earlier that night— glowing underneath the lights that danced off your skin. You watch yourself smile, and a warmth of want blooms in a chest that's not your own— the word beautiful is said in a voice you recognize as Maul's.
Underneath the want, you feel fear and the certainty that every thing he wants is taken from him. You are one more thing he is going to lose, because he always loses everything within his grasp. Hands, orange hands with white markings, Janare's hands, surface from a smudge of color and travel up your body. The manifestation of you arches into the touch where it lingers on your breasts.
A cold wave of despair overwhelms you into focus. The dream, that began to fade around the edges, sharpens into vivid color, and you surface into your own body. Maul is in front of you now, looking so hurt that you almost don't recognize him.
The hands leave your body as you reach for him. That hurt look morphs into one of surprise as you grasp the back of his neck, and pull him forward. The space between your lips closes to nothing— you feel his lips, the heat of his hands on your waist—
And that's what wakes you.
It's still dark. Your heart pounds in your ears, and the first thing you understand is that the space between you is gone.
At some point in the night, your bodies betrayed the both of you. Maul's bare chest consumes your vision, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare, frozen, face flush from both his heat and embarrassment until you hear his breath catch, because he's awake. Maybe as long as you have been.
You wait for him to retreat like you've burned him. It doesn't come and you don't move either.
"That was real," you say, when your heart finally settles down and you accept your fate. "You were there. I felt you."
You brace for his retreat— for the door to shut and his refusal to speak of this again. But it doesn't come.
"Yes," is all he says, voice impossibly deep and ragged from sleep.
You lean back, just a little, to look at him. His golden eyes glow in the dark, soft, despite the darkness you know it took for them to turn that color. For a moment, you think about how you, a former Jedi, are in bed with the Sith that served Sidious— the one that killed Qui-Gon Jinn. Your predecessors, both his and yours, are probably looking at the two of you in disgust.
And you realize that you don't care.
"You think I'm beautiful," you whisper.
"I do," No deflection, no mind games. What you two share is undeniable. To fight it would be a waste of breath.
"And you were jealous,"
Maul's arm flexes where it lays across your waist. "I did not intend for you to become something that I wanted," he inhales, shakily. "I have only known my wants to be…taken from me."
You have nothing to say, so you close the distance to kiss him. It's dark, so you miss slightly, and kiss his chin. You giggle, mumble a soft "sorry", and kiss him proper.
Maul is still for a second, then his hand is in your hair and he's kissing you back. The slide of your lips is a soft movement, until the restraint breaks and you throw a leg over his hips, rolling on top of him. Maul, you realize, is very noisy, which shouldn't come as too much of a surprise given his verbosity.
He groans as you slide your tongue into his mouth, graze against his, which you realize is a bit rough like sandpaper. The inhales between your kisses fill the room. Maul's muscles are taut between your thighs, and you become vividly aware of how thin your shorts are.
He grumbles when you pull away. You shush him with a series of kisses down his jaw to his neck.
"I think you're handsome," you nip at his skin. "In case you didn't know that."
Maul flips you and captures your lips in another kiss. He swallows your noise of surprise with an enthusiasm that goes straight to your clit. A warm hand slides under your shirt and pauses just below the wire of your bra. You curse yourself for your earlier trepidations.
"May I…?" his voice is wrecked and soft against your lips.
"Such a gentleman," you giggle and sit up enough to release the clasp, sliding the straps over your arms and pulling it out from underneath your shirt.
Maul's hands slide up your torso to your breasts, much like the ghosts of Janare's hands in your dream. You sigh as he rubs his thumb over your nipples, and watch as he drinks you in, like he's etching the sight of you into his memory.
"Like what you see?" you tease. The glow of Maul's eyes darkens. He maintains eye contact as he leans down and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. The gasp that leaves your mouth is whiny, even to your own ears.
"I will make you forget every time her hands were on you," Maul growls. "You will know nothing but my touch."
Your clit throbs, hips canting up to his. What you feel is warm and hard— but his hand is suddenly at your pelvis, pinning you down. It pulls you out of the haze of your arousal while Maul continues to mouth at your breasts.
"Maul…" you moan as he circles your nipple with his tongue. "We shouldn't go further…Not with Devon down the hall."
He kisses back up to your throat, his breath fanning against your skin. "Three days is a long time, my dear," his hand slides down to cup your pussy through your shorts. "I don't have to fuck you. Not yet."
"Maul—"
"Hush," He slides his hand underneath your shorts, humming in amusement when he feels how soaked you are. "Tell me, is this from your friend, or from me?"
Maul's lips drag down your breast again, sucking some of the supple flesh into his mouth.
"You," you whine, and he rewards you with a finger pressing against your swollen clit.
You've spent an embarrassing amount of time fantasizing about his hands. Even felt like some starved maiden during the rare glimpses you caught him without his gloves. You wonder if he ever fantasizes about parts of you in a similar way.
"That's right…" Maul drags his tongue over your nipple, then slides your panties to the side and glides his fingers up the length of your cunt.
He presses your clit and rubs in slow, small circles. You spread your legs, body trembling beneath him.
"Going on about three days," you laugh breathlessly. "Like I'm the one that's being impatient."
That earns you a slap to your clit. You yelp and grind into his hand.
"You started this," Maul kisses you again and sucks your tongue into his mouth. "I will finish it. Now be quiet."
He works at your clit, swallowing all of your cries with sloppy, wet kisses. It's messy the way your teeth occasionally clash, noses bumping against each other, spit gathering in each others mouths.
You grin when one of Maul's fingers slides into your cunt, another quickly following when he feels how greedily you suck him in. They curl and you clench hard enough to feel the ridges of his knuckles.
"L-lower," you mumble against his lips. "Little lower, curl them more…Oh—"
Maul hits that spongy spot inside you in an even, but hard pace. You feel the pleasure pulse from your clit and radiate deep inside you— the squelch of your pussy absolutely filthy. It's melting your brain and you try so hard to keep quiet, but Maul shoves two fingers of his other hand in your mouth anyway.
"Is silence truly so difficult for you?" he taunts, voice just as wrecked as yours. "Bite."
You bite down on his fingers, staring right into his blown pupils as you lap your tongue around his digits.
He thrusts into you violently now, curling his palm so it rubs right against your clit. Your brain melts as the warmth builds and builds, your legs shaking, desperately grabbing onto his forearm as it overwhelms you.
Maul looks wild as he smirks down at you. The hazy look in his eyes somewhere between smug and reverent. That arrogance goes straight to your pussy, and you can't wait to wipe that look off of his face later.
But for now, drool gathers at the corners of your mouth. Your muffled cries pitch higher and higher, the pleasure so consuming that you feel dizzy.
"Go on," Maul whispers. "Cum for me, my dear."
You gush around his fingers as your orgasm tears through you, soaking his hand and ruining your shorts and panties. Your pussy squeezes so hard around his fingers that you push them out of you. But Maul, the bastard, doesn't let up, and rubs your puffy clit in circles as you ride the waves of your high.
You smack at his forearm when it becomes too much, twisting your hips to get away from the over stimulation. He stops and cups your pussy instead, pressing down with light pressure as you start to come down.
Your body jerks with the aftershocks. Slowly, you register a metallic taste in your mouth and realize that you bit down on his fingers hard enough to break skin. You let go and he pulls his hand away.
"Shit— I'm sorry," you pant, but Maul silences you with a kiss.
"I can handle a little bite," he mumbles into your mouth.
Your hips jolt when his hand leaves your pussy, and he maintains eye contact while he licks his fingers.
"You are lovely," Maul hums.
That praise brings heat to your cheeks and you kiss him again, licking the essence of you off his tongue.
It's almost disgustingly sweet the way he takes care of you after. Peeling off your panties and shorts, grabbing a fresh pair for you from your bag and gently patting you dry with a towel. Your brain is too foggy to comprehend what just happened between you two.
Maul climbs back into bed behind you and draws you in, hooking his chin over your shoulder.
"What about you?" you mumble, reaching behind you for his waist. He gently grabs your wrist and splays his fingers over yours.
"Another time," he says into your hair. "Sleep. We have few hours before dawn."
You wake to an empty bed. A look at the chrono on your datapad tells you it was mid morning, which means you slept in. You stretch out with your senses and find Maul and Devon outside, which you expected. For one horrible, anxiety ridden second, you brush up against Maul's presence and wait to be shut out. That he realized in the waking hours that last night was a mistake, and whatever between you two would never be the same again.
But what you feel in return is gentle, chastising, almost as if to say "don't be a fool."
You smile to yourself and make a note to message Janare later.
tag list: @lady-aires@purechickenwing@deluliaa@shitty-pigeon-nest39@p-arapsychology@timeladymorsillon@limousinecatblog@erenstitanweave@thelilypadlounge@lady-bess @ninthqueen @weoweo8@night-erudite @anishinew@kimbasfanfics@lindseybaby@and-bone-appetit @jayleeslasher @aneccentriccatgirl
Pairing: Carlisle Cullen x Amelia Moore (OC)
Rating: 18+ mdni, future smut, toxic relationship, injuries, blood, vampire violence, medical inaccuracies, character death
Tags & Genre: Slow burn, slow build, future smut, medical drama, soulmate, forbidden love, fluff, angst, pinning, longing, love at first sight,
Links: Masterlist | AO3 | Request here | Rules for requests
Synopsis: Dr. Amelia Moore, a brilliant neurosurgery resident living in Seattle with her soon-to-be fiancé and a deteriorating toxic relationship. She thrives on hard work and logic until the rational world she abides by changes when she encounters the hospital's Chief of Surgery, Dr. Carlisle Cullen.To the rest of the world, he's a paragon of perfection; to Amelia, he is a magnetic connection she doesn't understand.
