(A/N) Sexual themes, not explicit enough to be M rated. Submit your Obitine week requests! Please rand R, let me know what you're thinking!
Touch.
Smooth. Stiff. Ropy. Ragged. Scarred. His skin was warm. His skin was slick with sweat, hovering over her. His body was angled, sharp and jutting against her fingers. His lips were contrastingly soft. His fingers were cutting smooth paths across her as they drug gently forward. He was gentle, moving over, around, and inside of her. His moves were measured, his body restrained, the feel of him all encompassing. The heat coming from him washing over her in waves.
She was soft. Pliant. Open. Inviting. Warm. She was pressed against him, moved around him. Her fingers traced his old scars in quiet movements. Her lips kissed his until they felt swollen; her body pulled him deeper when they came together. She was his balance, dropping soothing touches to old wounds, tracing his muscle lines across his the broad expanse of his body. The warmth she radiated from every part of her the comfort he needed after war, the comfort he sought when she was away from him.
Sound.
He thought of her laugh. It was hard to imagine a noise that could make him smile himself, but there it was, blossoming full and loud in the face of all she said. He listened to her sighs, her gentle breaths as she slept with her heard close to his, reveling in how much joy those simple noises could bring. He almost lived for the times she called his name, her body in the throes of his, their souls, minds, and now their voices, mingling together. For the quiet breaths as their bodies separated. For the soft sound of her falling back into the pillows of his bed.
His accent was distinct in her mind, holding a place of revelry in her words. She could hear his words when he spoke, never faltering. When he wasn't speaking, the gentle tapping of his fingers on the table between them, the speeder seat that separated them, the soft sounds of sleep as his arm came around her in slumber. And he would whisper to her, saying everything that she could want to hear from him, deeply imbued in the passion between them. And eventually, in his almost too-sweet tones, he would cry her name into her skin, letting it mingle with her own sounds until there was hardly a separation between them.
Taste.
His was usually of chocolate, spice, or brief traces of mint. When she brushed soft lips across his cheek, and could feel the blush that would come across it, the small taste of his skin was reminiscent of the soap that his hair always smelled of something fresh and unyielding. When they were finally alone, able to break free from any thought that contained them, his mouth tasted of mint and chocolate. He was sweet, his tongue mingling with hers, trading the sweet taste of his mouth with hers. His skin was salty, the brief sheen of sweat from their exertions lingering on her lips, one of the clearest reminders of their coming together.
When his lips claimed hers in kisses, he knew how she felt from the taste of clear water, and sweetened citrus that clung to her lips. He could think of nothing better, nothing more appropriate than that. Except perhaps her body, where the taste of her, sweet and clean, mingled with his. She tasted of spices, of sweat, of the clean air that seemed to cling to her. She was sweet, a taste that matched the gentle smile she gave as he kissed her gently.
Smell.
Her smell was not of anything floral, as it had been when they were both young and new to each other. Now it was reminiscent of fruit, of spices pervaded her soap, of the unscented shampoo that gave off a clear scent of her body. She was always like that, until after they'd come together, and he could recognize the intoxicating permeation of their coupling. She would smell like him, he like her; their bodies would mingle together, open and inviting. He could breathe her in between the covers of the duvet, letting her overpower him in even the far reaches of his mind.
There was always an air of being well-groomed, of being clean, and prepared to see her. That's the scent she can focus on the most when they're in public, his solid freshness being an easy pillar when they are surrounded by others, one that gives no hint of the things they share together. But then, later, when he's moving over her, bringing them together again and again and again, he gives off the strong scent of man. Of sweat. Of desperation as he moves inside of her, and she, in her own blitzed mind, can think of nothing better.
Sight.
He is modest. Almost embarrassed of himself, and she doesn't know why. When they're in public, he's always fully covered, multiple layers, from the beard that covers most of his face, to the heavy armor that weighs down his shoulders, to the boots that lace halfway up his shins. He looks regal like this, fit as a Jedi, or, as what he could be if they exposed it, a consort of a Duchess. He was still modest when they were alone, his cheeks turning red when she stared at the sculpted lines of his body, the tones muscles and defined abs. At every part of him. She reveled in his body, it was a vision of all she wanted from him, of all she thought she could have from him. The sight of it filled her dreams, her visions, her wild thoughts, always tinged with the remembrance of his faint blush as she couldn't help but stare at him when they were alone. He was perfect. He was hers.
There was nothing he didn't want to see of her. Her hair, far more yellow than any flower, he eyes, as calming as her presence, her body, which, when he had the privilege of seeing all of it, openly exposed to him, seemed to be more than he ever thought he deserved. She was more than beautiful, she was gorgeous and serene, the gentle curves, mingled with the soft edges and slim cut of her body, put forth for him to look at, was more than he could imagine in any fantasy he had had. She was perfect. She was his.