#And he cries. His entire face scrunches up and his body shakes. So does his voice

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + twenty seven

authors note: none.

cw/tw: angst, threats of violence, csa survivor being triggered

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 13k

Solana gasps when the familiar scent of her husband’s cologne, strong yet subtle, invades her nostrils conjoined with the welcoming embrace of his strong arms around her body. Naturally, she turns around from the counter where she was putting away dishes, a small smile on her face as he rests his hands on the small of her back. 

However, her grin dims a bit when she sees he’s fully dressed. “You’re leaving already?”

Roman nods, explaining, “I need to get back on track. The sooner, the better.” 

His words, logically, make sense. But, they do nothing to abate her nerves. “What if you worked from home?” She then proposes in an almost selling manner. “I called off today anyway, so I’ll be here in case you need something.”

Something being a euphemism for the word anything. In the few days that have passed since the funeral, Solana has continued to stay with and watch her husband like a hawk. Ready to support him in any way that he needs, the memory of him breaking down in front of her, holding her while he cried into her stomach, something she will never forget.

Something he desperately needed.

And something he hasn’t outright spoken about. She gets it. Understands how both major and uncomfortable that had to have been for him. Emotions are tricky and confusing, and for someone who’s used to pushing them away, feeling them all at once can be….an experience.

His thick brows furrow slightly, as he asks the million dollar question. “Why’d you call off?”

Shit.

A couple of reasons. 

Beyond just the obvious of wanting to be physically present and available for him.

One, while her husband was in their home gym, trying to work off some of his still heavy emotions, she sat near the toilet for almost twenty minutes, vomiting twice and afraid of a third occurrence, hence her not leaving. Second, Solana still feels not the best—morning sickness attacking her with all the rage the past two days. Three, she has the appointment today. 

And none of these things can be said to the man before her who looks understandably confused. 

So, she goes with a not entirely untrue answer but not the full truth either. “Didn’t really feel up to it today.” Her fingers scrunch the soft material of his shirt. “Besides, I didn’t want to leave you alone….”

And that is not a lie. Solana has tried her best to keep reminding herself that she can’t be with her husband 24/7, but given how they have been together practically 24/7 for over a week straight, it’s kind of hard not to want that to continue.

She’s anxious at the thought of not being nearby in case he needs something.

In case he needs her.

Roman shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.” There’s a hint of concern etched in his handsome features as he asks, “are you sure you’re okay?” Solana does her best to remain with a neutral expression even as his shifts into something of a frown. “Feel like you’ve been sick a lot lately...”

“Stress,” she answers. Again, technically not a lie. “It’s just been…..a lot recently.” But then, she feels bad because she sees that he feels bad. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I just need to make sure you’re….okay enough.”

Because wanting him to be good is a ridiculous expectation. Not with what he’s just been through. She knows better than anyone how recovery from a major loss like that can take some time. 

A lot of time.

Roman’s still looking at her unconvinced. Like….like there’s something he’s not saying.

Or asking.

And, it’s unnerving, because sitting on a pile of secrets is always stressful enough. Adding in her overtly protective and possibly suspicious husband is even more unsettling and not anything she can tolerate right now.

“I’ll come see you at lunch then,” she suggests, partially wanting to actually check on him mid-day but also needing them to get off this subject. 

It seems to work, as he objects, “you don’t have to do that, Sol.”

“But, I want to,” she counters, lifting her palm to his cheek. “You’ve helped me get to the point where I’m okay….now it’s my turn.”

Solana is unsure what okay will look like for Roman, because everyone’s definition is different. But, whatever it is, whatever it requires, she’s willing and ready to walk with him, right by his side, the entire time.

Roman leans down and kisses her forehead, muttering, “come with me.” He straightens back up and goes to grab her hand, explaining, “I want to show you something.” 

Solana nods and allows him to walk them out the kitchen and past the living room where she sees Dulce sleeping peacefully in her bed. Roman guides them up the steps and into their bedroom only for her to gasp, turning to him with a small smile. “Roman? What is all of this?”

This referring to the more than several set of small to medium black, luxury shopping bags with a foreign word written in calligraphy sitting on the dresser. Moving closer, another gasp when she realizes they’re almost all filled with various sized jewelry boxes. 

“When did you even….” She trails off, grabbing a random box and opening it, mouth dropping at the stunning diamond necklace. “Roman, this is beautiful.” Because it is, and she’s certain every other piece he’s apparently purchased for her is just as stunning. 

He’s moved over towards her, arms crossed as he explains, “it’s handmade Italian jewelry. I wasn’t sure exactly what you’d like best, so I just got it all.” He says it so casually, Solana’s eyes widening at the thought of how much all of this could have cost. 

“How much did you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismisses, pushing some of her hair out of her face. “You’re worth it all.”

His words warm her heart and make those butterflies form as her eyes land on something else. Carefully closing the box and placing it back inside the bag, she’s quick with grabbing the beautiful brown leathered book. “You got me journals!” It’s said with such elation, almost childlike, evoking a chuckle from Roman. The smile on her face widening as she runs her hand over the soft cover. Opening said journal, an engravement on the inside of the front cover catches her attention. It’s written in what she would guess is Italian.

Italian jewelry. Italian leather, most likely. Putting two and two together would indicate these are gifts he got her while he was away in Italy. A realization that makes her heart flutter. He was there on business yet still made time for her.

Always thinking of her.

Moved and now especially curious about the words she cannot read for herself, Solana asks, “what does it say?”

And without even reading it, Roman speaks in Italian, moving his hand to gently cup her face as he translates in a quiet voice, “you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Her heart swells, eyes shutting momentarily to bask in the moment. Love is such a beautiful, sacred thing, treasured and coveted. Something she’s found, so deeply and heavenly, with him.

Always with him. 

And it’s in that moment, as she leans up and kisses him, reciprocating her vow of love, that it hits her. 

Solana knows exactly what tattoo she wants to get for her husband.

—��——

The minute the backdoor is opened and Roman slides in the SUV, he’s met with Dwayne’s hulking frame, phone glued to his ear.

“I don’t fucking care if it’s impossible. Make it possible,” he barks. Roman chuckles. His cousins’s temper can rival his at times, and this aggression and irritation that fills the SUV makes it a bit easier for him to drift from sorrow to business. 

Emotions have always been…..weird for him. Something he’s always possessed but worked tirelessly to push away and suppress, only to ever really reveal and express around one woman before Solana.

Fetu.

She was always his safe space. His anchor. His safety.

Her being gone isn’t something that’s computed, that’s truly set in, that he’s accepted. Or, maybe he has. Maybe it was that crushing realization that not only is she gone but that he didn’t even get to see or speak to her one last time that made him break down in his wife’s arms.

Years.

It’s been years since Roman has cried. Not since the day of the funerals where he refused to leave the gravesite of his deceased family. Where he cried and apologized profusely for hours for not being able to save them.

For failing them and not being strong enough to do so.

That….that was the last day he’d allowed himself to shed a tear.

Until now.

It was both a strange, liberating experience. One he never wants to experience again but also…..needs.

Two opposing forces that make little sense and account for a shit ton of cognitive dissonance. 

The only thing that does make sense is his wife.

Solana.

That is the one thing, the one person he needs. Now more than ever.

And she’s been nothing but his rock throughout this whole thing. Even when he tried to push her away and ice her out, she stayed. Supported him. Helped him. Cared for him. Loved him. 

He wasn’t lying when he told her he couldn’t have made it through this without her.

He couldn’t.

At all. 

And as nice as being with her, not having to think or focus on anything but himself and all of his heavy ass emotions has been, it couldn’t last forever. 

Because as much as he still feels not okay, he’s gotta pull it together. 

One way or another. 

“Yeah….that’s what I fucking thought,” Dwayne snaps, pulling Roman from his thoughts, before snatching the phone from his ear and smashing the red end button. “Fucking incompetent pieces of shit.”

“Do I want to know?” Roman asks, even though he really wants to substitute want with need. Right now, essential information and problems is all he wants to tackle this day. It’s bad enough his Wise Man is out sick.

Paul is usually the buffer and filter for all the bullshit, something Roman truly has little patience for on most days, even more on a day like today.

“Naw.” Dwayne shakes his head. “I got it.” He turns to his cousin as Roman signals for the driver to start driving. “How you doing?”

A dumbass question in Roman’s mind, but he doesn’t say as such. “Fine.” He’s not, but as easy as Dwayne can be to talk to sometimes, if Roman is going to talk to someone about feelings and shit, it’s going to be his wife.

And, well, her. 

Maybe. 

“Bullshit,” Dwayne calls him out, lightly shoving his shoulder. “But, getting back into the swing of things might be helpful for you. You like yelling at people.”

“I shouldn’t have to though,” is the easy counter. “People should just do their fucking job.”

Dwayne gestures to his phone. “That’s what I just told this dumbass.” Roman snickers and shakes his head as his older cousin clears his throat and suddenly asks, “that wife of yours talk to you?”

Roman easily hides the way his shoulders tense at being asked about Solana. “About?”

Dwayne’s expression shifts into something a bit more serious, and this isn’t lost upon Roman. “About what went down with Rikishi?”

“Yes.” The answer to that is easy and simple. Solana did technically tell him something happened between her and his older cousin, but she did not say specifics. And he knows that was for a reason. “Now tell me what really happened.”

————

The conference room is already filled with the expected persons by the time Roman and Dwayne arrive. All but two chairs are occupied as Jimmy, Jey, Solo, Rikishi, and Matteo wait with various expressions. The sons and father seem to be engaged in quiet conversation while Matteo keeps to himself, preoccupied with the phone in his hand.

That dynamic is about all that Roman can make out as he marches right into said conference room, Dwayne not too far behind. The men are barely able to finish standing when Roman marches right over to Rikishi’s chair, grabbing him by his collar, snatching him out the chair and shoving him against the nearest wall. 

Roman is somewhat cognizant of the voices of shock and protest around him, but it doesn’t make a single fucking difference.

He’s seeing red.

Muscled forearm barred against Rikishi’s fat neck, he finds joy in the way the older man’s eyes are bulging and the almost desperate way his chubby fingers try to push him away. “If you ever in your fucking life raise your hand to her again, I’ll kill you! You understand me!” Roman relishes in the absolute fear emanating from the man before him. Good. “Don’t you ever fucking disrespect my wife!”

By now, Roman is a bit more cognizant to the hands grasping at him, trying to pull him away from his target.

“Ayo, Uce, what the hell you doing!” Jimmy’s voice makes it past the thick wall of anger that fills and consumes Roman as he thinks about this fucker having to audacity to try to hit his wife.

Over Roman’s dead fucking body will anyone disrespect Solana. Especially his family.

“Get the hell off him!” Roman is finally “pulled” away from a now gasping, coughing Rikishi. It’s truly Roman’s decision to let go, because ain’t no way in hell not a man in that room could stop him from killing this son of a bitch right now if he wanted to.

And a part of him does. He really does. But, it’s hard to tell how much of that desire is fueled by his grief vs logic. 

But, it’s when Roman realizes both Jey and Solo are standing in front of a reddened face Rikishi, while Jimmy tends to his dad, that he really gets pissed the fuck off. They have the audacity to look like they’re ready to jump him. “What ya’ll about to do, huh?” Roman challenges, ready for whatever. As he always is. “Ya’ll ain’t about to do shit!” 

And maybe, just maybe, they are. Doesn’t matter. He’ll kick both their asses and make their daddy watch. 

Jimmy then moves over after helping Rikishi to his feet. “Roman, what the hell are you even talking about?”

Chin jutted in Rikishi’s direction, his answer is cold and direct. “Ask him.”

Another harsh cough followed by an unexpected answer as he moves to the side, no longer completely obscured by the protective wall of two of his sons. “She hit me first. Did she tell you that?”

At that answer, both Jey and Jimmy look slightly taken back. Solo just continues to glare at Roman, who’s tempted to knock him out for that disrespect alone.

“She did,” Dwayne suddenly chimes, him and Matteo simply watching the scene unfold without a hint of interference. For now. “But, this was only after you made fun of her being abused and basically told her she was useless because she hasn’t produced an heir yet.” Just hearing it again has Roman’s eyes closing and hand fisting at his side. Rage. “Regardless, you know the rules. We don’t put our fucking hands on women.” And then an almost knowing comment/question. “Or have you forgotten?”

It’s a simple question, but it feels like there’s a story there. The way anger flashes in Rikishi’s face and eyes, something similar to what’s painted on his twins faces. Roman, however, is redirected from wondering if there was more to said comment by Jimmy and Jey switching their focus back to their dad.

“Dad, did you really do that?” Jimmy is the one to ask, shaking his head. “Tell me you ain’t say that shit.”

Rikishi doesn’t hesitate to defend himself. “The girl was out of line.”

“Aye,” Jimmy is the one to cut him off. “Her name is Solana, alright?”

“Just let him talk,” Jey interrupts. “Two sides to every story.”

“Not when it’s a man trying to hit a woman,” Jimmy counters. “Making fun of her trauma and shit.”

Jey is also not backing down. “Look, we weren’t there, alright?”

“But, I was, and I saw exactly what went down,” Dwayne reminds, crossing his arms. 

“And if I may,” Matteo suddenly enters the conversation, Jey only looking more irritated than before. “Under no circumstance should a man try to hit a woman. Ever.” 

Jey doesn’t hesitate to try to put Matteo in his place. “Aye, look, this don’t involve you, alright. This Bloodline business.” 

“I suggest you lower your voice.” Matteo’s own voice takes on an icy tone as he so chillingly threatens, “I’d hate to have to spill your blood in front of your family. On this otherwise lovely day, too. A shame.”

Matteo’s very real threat only further incenses Jey. “I know you not fucking threatening me.” He steps forward, Solo reaching to restrain his older brother. “Man, I’ll knock your ass out!”

Matteo smiles. “I look forward to seeing you try.”

Jey points to Roman, “you better get your fucking boy, Roman.”

Roman couldn’t care too much about that. “Tell your fucking dad to keep his hands off my wife.”

“Man, you overreacting! He ain’t even touch her!”

Roman growls, “just because you don’t give a fuck about your bitch of a wife—”

“What the hell you just say?” At that, Jey’s very paltry sense of resolve breaks. “I told you, you not gon’ keep disrespecting my wife, or we gon have problems!”

Roman goes to move toward Jey, never ever scared when both Matteo and Dwayne go to restrain him. “If you gon do something, do it!” It takes a great amount of strength from both men to hold back an irate, borderline unhinged Roman. “I’ll whoop you and your daddy’s ass, and if Solo keeps looking at me like he’s lost his goddamn mind, I’ll kick his ass too!”

“That’s enough!” Jimmy finally cuts in, also going to restrain Jey, standing between an almost standoff. Rikishi, Solo, and Jey vs Roman, Dwayne, and Matteo. “Everybody just needs to calm down!”

“Your anger is misplaced, Uce.” Rikishi sounds, Dwayne still holding onto Roman’s arm while Matteo has loosened his grip in favor of focusing on the other three, waiting to see if they’ll do something. “Especially considering I was the one who tried to plead on your behalf just this morning,” he taunts almost, as if trying to get under Roman's skin even further. 

And, it partially works. 

Roman doesn’t need anyone to do shit for him.

“Plead for what?” Dwayne is the one to ask, recognizing verbalizations are a much better alternative to the physical melee that’s on the horizon if de-escalation doesn’t start. And fast. 

Rikishi straightens up, adjusting his tie, almost as if he’s trying to act like his life didn’t just end suddenly and violently. “The Elders have grown tired of waiting for the Tribal Chief to produce an heir.” Dwayne tightens his grip ever so slightly, feeling Roman try to inch away from him. “You and your wife are to conceive by the end of the year….or else.”

It’s almost an instant thing, several sets of eyes all on Roman, most of which trying to anticipate and navigate his next move.

Meanwhile, Roman’s mouth shifts, his nose snarled as he finds himself shouting, Dwayne again having to hold him back from lunging. “Or else what!”

Rikishi’s voice is eerily calm as he answers in an even voice, “they will make you divorce Solana and take a new wife of their choosing this time.”

————

There’s an emptiness she feels sitting in the patient room, waiting for the nurse to walk in. Roman’s absence is noticeable and heavy, and she hates it. Hates that this is yet another thing that she has to keep from him.

That she’s chosen to keep from him, because at this point, these are choices she’s making. 

She chose to not tell him about her potentially being pregnant. Chose to not tell him once the pregnancy was confirmed. And chose to still not tell him even as she sits at her first OB-GYN appointment.

And yes, all of that may be for good reasons, for her wanting to protect and be mindful of where he is mentally and emotionally.

Still, it doesn’t negate the fact that it sucks.

And that it hurts.

It hurts a lot. 

Following a small knock and opening of the door, Solana looks up from her lap and wipes away at her blurry gaze, offering a small smile to the nurse who’s just walked in. “Hello.”

She’s young, probably close to Solana’s age, her scrubs revealing a slim, lithe figure. Her dark hair cascades down her shoulders and frames her features nicely. She’s a stunning woman. 

A woman, however, who fails to reciprocate Solana’s kind gesture. Not right away, at least. Awkwardly clearing her throat, she greets, “Mrs. Reigns. I didn’t—they didn’t tell me it was you…..give me just one minute?” The nurse doesn’t wait for a reply, just leaves a confused Solana sitting in the patient room wondering just what the hell is going on.

She’s just about ready to step out into the hallway when the nurse returns, quietly closing the door behind her. “I’m so sorry.” 

Solana has to ask, nails nervously tapping against the bed. “Is….is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she answers. Quickly. Too quickly. “Shit, no.” Closing her eyes for a few seconds, she walks over to Solana and offers one of the wildest introductions ever. “My name is Sasha, and I know you don’t know me, and I’m probably crazy as hell for even telling you this, but I—I used to sleep with your husband.”

Solana’s shoulders slump at the same time her chest tightens. “W–what?”

Sasha’s eyes go wide as she shakes her head and explains. “It’s been months. Like not since the beginning of this year, but I—I was one of the ones…..” She presses her fingers to her temples. “God, this is so messed up. I’m so sorry to do this to you. I tried to see if another nurse could handle you, but everyone is busy and…..fuck.”

Fuck is most definitely the right world. Of all the places. Of all the nurses. Solana just so happens to get the one nurse who used to be one of her husband’s fuck buddies.

Go fucking figure.

“I haven’t spoken or done anything with him in months. I swear.” She then lifts her left hand to show off a beautiful engagement ring. “Funnily enough, this is actually my last week working here. My fiance—long story— and I are from the same town, and he just got a job back home, so we’re moving next week.” She adds in a bitter tone, “kinda wish it was this week now.”

With the absence of Solana’s voice, Sasha proceeds to fill the silence. “Mrs. Reigns, I really am sorry. I know I had no business still sleeping with your husband after you two got married, but we’d been….intimate on and off for years, and he was just someone—”

“Please,” Solana finally speaks, voice low and soft. “Please don’t. I—I get it.”

Because with the shock worn off and the discomfort waning, as irritating as this is, it doesn’t necessarily matter. 

This Sasha woman was Roman’s past. Solana knows that she’s his present and future, so from that logic, what reason does she have to be upset?

At least with Sasha.

She does, however, have a reason to be nervous.

Hand naturally falling to her stomach, she says in a much more desperate voice than she’d like, “you can’t tell anyone—”

“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes widen once more as she shakes her head. “Outing the Tribal Chief’s wife’s pregnancy is a sure way for me to go missing, and I’d actually like to make it down the aisle.” Sasha visibly tenses, suddenly asking in a lowered voice. “Wait, is he he—”

“No.” That’s it. That’s the only answer Solana can bring herself to give. And it seems enough, Sasha nodding before the two settle into an awkward silence.

“Is it okay if…..if we get started?”

Solana nods, still a bit boggled by the whole situation but recognizing that it’s not the priority. 

“Of course,” she agrees. 

All things considered, Sasha is the epitome of professionalism. She asks her questions, takes down the information given to her, draws Solana’s blood and directs her to the bathroom where the pregnant woman gives a urine sample, all while maintaining a calm, friendly disposition.

There’s nothing, surprisingly, awkward about it. 

And that’s appreciated. Shocking, too, given who she is and who she was to Roman. 

It’s only when she’s wrapping up her portion that she clears her throat again. “I hope this doesn’t come across as an inappropriate question and feel free to tell me to mind my damn business, but can I ask why Roman isn’t here?”

Solana is tempted, almost ready to take Sasha up on her suggestion to tell her to mind her own damn business, but there’s something so genuine about her question. A sadness in her voice and sympathetic look in her eyes. It seems to come from a place of genuine concern. 

Solana finds herself answering honestly. “He doesn’t know yet.”

Sasha makes an ‘O’ with her mouth. “I’m sorry. I should have never asked. It’s just….with how much he must care about you—”

“What makes you say that?” Solana knows the words to be true. Knows that Roman cares about her. Loves her. But how and why the woman in front of her knows this is what makes her slightly suspicious.

Sasha sighs, answering almost nervously, “a man like Roman Reigns doesn’t just cut off his entire roster of women in exchange for one if she doesn’t mean something to him.” She shrugs, adding on, “and I mean, look at what he did to Sam’s uppity ass.”

If not for the confusion, Solana would maybe chuckled a bit. She’s not heard one good thing about Sam from a single person. Not one. “What do you mean?”

“Girl, you didn’t hear?” Sasha sucks her teeth, smiling a bit. “He had Nia whoop her ass. Well deserved, in my opinion.”

Solana gasps. “What?”

“Yup,” Sasha pops the ‘p.’ “Had her break that bitch jaw.”

Solana sits there stunned, briefly struggling to understand the reasons why only for it to come to her so easily.

The night of the fight. 

Sam’s cruel words to her in the bathroom. 

Solana told Roman. Roman said he’d handle it.

Clearly, that was how it was handled. 

“You be careful with that one though,” Sasha advises, expression shifting to something a bit serious. “She was always delusional believing Roman was gonna marry her ass. And a couple weeks ago, I saw her drunk in a bar lamenting about how much she hates you and can’t wait to—her words, not mine—give you exactly what you deserve.”

The words should bother her. Maybe even trigger a sense of concern. Solana recognizes that would be a normal reaction, especially given the world that they live in. However, concern and even fear are not the emotions that rise at Sasha’s information.

Anger.

Anger is the only thing she feels. 

Solana isn’t the same woman Sam cornered in the bathroom and talked down to.

She’s changed. Grown. Is better in so many ways and stronger in so many more.

So, Sam can try some shit if she wants to.

Solana is ready this time. 

“I’m not scared of her,” is all she says, hand falling protectively to her stomach. 

“I can see that,” Sasha says with a small smile, tapping on the screen a couple more times. “Well, I think that’s all I need from you. Dr. Sharmell will take over the rest.” She pauses. “Like I said, this is my last week here, so Alexa or Jakara will probably be your nurse moving forward, but I just wanna say congratulations. You seem like you’re gonna be a great mom.”

Eyes watering, Solana can only mumble a quiet, heartfelt, “thank you.” 

Sasha doesn’t say anything else before walking out the room, leaving Solana alone for not even five minutes before there’s a knock on the door followed by an entrance.

“Mrs. Reigns?” An African-American woman with smooth brown skin, a wrinkle free complexion and pearly whites. Her smile is amenable and her disposition warm. She walks over, extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Sharmell. I’ll be your OB-GYN. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Solana can only reciprocate the smile and gesture, shaking the older woman’s hand. “Thank you. It’s—it’s nice to meet you too. You….you can call me Solana.”

She looks a bit taken back but nods. “Solana, it is.” Moving over to the screen, she double checks a couple things that Sasha had already asked. Asks a couple more questions, mostly regarding if there’s been any concerns regarding the pregnancy thus far. The answer is no.

Solana prays it stays that way.

“Okay, well, I see you had a pap smear at the beginning of the year, so I won’t do one of those again. The labs I ordered are standard procedure just to make sure your levels are good, and from what I can see based off your hCG levels, it does look like this is a multiples pregnancy.” Solana has no major reaction to this, as it was already hinted/told to her by Dr. Michaels. “But, let’s do an ultrasound and double check, okay?” She gives Solana a look that’s of a questioning nature, like she wants to make sure this is an okay trajectory.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she answers in a quiet voice.

However, it’s when Dr. Sharmell starts to move the machine around that Solana notices something that zaps the comfort and calmness she was experiencing up until his point. “Wait, is that—do we have to do a transvaginal ultrasound?”

Just saying it aloud makes her stomach twist in all of the wrong ways.

Dr. Sharmell nods. “Based upon the date of your last menstrual cycle, you should be right at 10 weeks, and internal ultrasounds are best practices for pregnant women still in their first trimester.” Solana’s discomfort must be written all over her face, prompting the older woman to ask, “are you okay?”

Sniffling, Solana wipes at her now tearing eyes. “I’m sorry, I just—” She takes a deep breath, reluctantly sharing, “I was raped as a child and…..I just….things down there…..”

And this is why Solana would give anything to have Roman here with her, because she knows his presence, holding his hand, having him here reassuring her that she’s safe would help her be able to tolerate the exam.

But, he’s not here, and the thought of being penetrated, even if for medical reasons, is something that has her heart racing and anxiety spiking. 

Dr. Sharmell is nothing but sympathetic as her face morphs into something almost solemn. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” She shakes her head. “I can do a pelvic one instead. It may not show everything, but it’ll show enough for now. Okay?”

Solana can only nod and close her eyes as Dr.Sharmell shifts gears, handing her a sheet to cover up her lower half. Solana then proceeds to raise up the hospital gown to expose her belly. The gel is cool, a nice, chilling sensation to help settle her nerves. But, it’s when the doctor makes a sound that she opens her eyes and shifts her focus to the screen. 

“I was right.” She shoots Solana a small, comforting smile. “Twins.” Eyes continuing to water, Solana looks in awe as Dr. Sharmell points to the screen. “This is Baby A.” Her finger travels around as does the transducer roaming her belly. “And this is Baby B.” 

So early on in her pregnancy, it’s hard to make out anything significant like arms, legs, and a head, because none of those have developed just yet. However, none of that matters, because they’re still her babies.

Her children. 

Confirmation that they’re alive, growing, and healthy.

It makes the tears spill over, the emotionality of it all overwhelming her in a sense. 

He should be here.

Roman should be here, experiencing this with her. 

But he’s not.

And all she can seem to think about is how this is wrong. 

All so wrong. 

————

It’s not a good time to be doing this.

Not in the slightest. Roman knows this, has the wherewithal to see and know that he’s not in the best place to even try to be open to something he doesn’t even want to be doing in the first place.

But, he also knows that he needs to. That he needs to do this. Whether he wants to or not. 

It’s not about him.

It’s about her.

It’s about doing what’s best for their marriage, and truthfully, if she can find it in her to do it, then so can he.

Marriage…..

Roman’s fist forms at his side as he rolls his shoulders while trying to settle the anger growing again at Rikishi’s words he has no doubt came directly from the Elders.

There’s also lingering feelings towards Jey and Solo, toward their disrespectful, borderline challenging behavior. Unacceptable on all fronts, thus he regrets nothing except maybe not reminding them both why they answer to him and call him Tribal Chief.

However, that’s minimal compared to Rikishi and his actions both today and toward Solana.  

But, while a part of him wants to believe that the son of a bitch was just trying to fuck with him with his statement about the Elders, a result of his anger and pride at being attacked, the logical part of Roman knows that’s not the case.

He knows Rikishi isn’t lying about that much.

It makes sense. Roman sensed there was some shit they were planning before Fetu had passed. Sensed that they were up to something, and this is clearly it.

It’s not going to happen though.

It’s one thing for Roman to reconsider ending his marriage to Solana for her own safety. It’s another for those prehistoric fuckers to try to tell him he needs to end his marriage to her.

Over his dead fucking body will that ever happen.

Roman will kill them all before he lets them take her from him.

Murder is obviously the last resort. Maybe. But as of right now, he hasn’t got another plan. A less violent way to handle this, but he’ll figure it out. 

He always does.

Even though the solution is rather simple, something that is very much a possibility now that their marriage has been consummated. 

Many times.

Many….many times. 

And in full transparency…..Roman had started to wonder. Her sickness. The fatigue. The vomiting. 

Started to wonder if maybe, just maybe…..

And then he pushed it away. Has pushed it away, because stress would also explain all of that as well. But beyond that, he knows that if it was that, Solana would have said something. 

And, she hasn’t, thus it’s not even worth thinking about further. 

So, until then, he’ll come up with a plan.

But, not right now. 

Now he’s got a whole other issue he’s sort of—not really—ready to tackle.

Because Roman’s already paper thin patience is waning by the second every time he glances at the clock on his phone to see another minute pass. Three. She’s three minutes late. And for some people, that would be insignificant, but not for Roman. Because every minute of the day is precious for him, spoken and accounted for with tasks to be completed.

So every minute wasted waiting on her is deducted from the total time he has in a day to get everything done, thus, he’s already got one strike against this woman before ever even meeting her.

Thankfully, a text from Solana manages to briefly pull him from his growing frustration and temptation to just leave.

Solana: You’re not getting back until late, right?

Roman: Yes. 

Roman: Why? You alright?

Solana: Yes. It’s just Bayley and Naomi are “making” me go with them to dinner tonight, but I don’t want to not be there when you get home….

Roman: Solana, go. I’ll be fine. 

Because he will. Emotionally, he still feels…..not great, but he doesn’t feel as numb and overwhelmed as he’s been the past few days. Even beyond that, his wife has been by his side this entire time, putting her own life on hold to focus and cater to him. And he’s grateful. Immensely. But, she needs to also focus on herself.

His feelings about Bayley and Naomi are still…..not the best, but he knows what they mean to Solana, and she needs this.

So, he wants her to have it.

Solana: Are you sure?

Roman: Positive

“Well, shit.” 

Roman looks up from his phone, instantly irritated because why the fuck is someone talking to him when he’s trying to text his wife?

And he’s even more annoyed at the sight of the red headed woman wearing jeans, boots, and a white short sleeved shirt that shows off the tattooed sleeve on her right arm. Bag over shoulder, cup of coffee in one hand, and keys in the other, she scoffs. “Yeah…..Gail wasn’t kidding when she said she had a challenging referral for me.” 

But, it’s when she speaks again that his scowl drops. Roman asks, “you the therapist?”

She shrugs, answering, “that’s what my clinical license says.” Turning away from him, she prompts, “come on. Sorry I’m late. People don’t know how to fucking drive.”

There’s a lot to process in this moment. The lateness. The almost unprofessional attire. The profanity. 

What in the hell did Gail sign him up for?

Nevertheless, Roman follows this woman into the office once she unlocks and opens the door. And again, another culture shock. His wife’s therapist office is the traditional cool tones, plants hanging near the window, some mental health shit on the wall and whatnot. And this….person still has that, but there’s nothing neutral and traditional about her setup. The sofa is red, a kaleidoscope of colors plastered everywhere from the rug to the pillows to even the tye-dye curtains that are pulled back with a bright green tie. And it’s the framed poster on the wall above the computer that reads, “feelings are weird and uncomfortable and shit’ that makes him chuckle.

One thing he can give her is that it’s nice to not have that…..therapy shit shoved down his throat.

Not when he’s already extremely uncomfortable with this whole thing.

“Make yourself at therapy home,” she encourages, going to hang her bag on the hook behind the now closed door. Roman sits down, still on edge but feeling less annoyed. “Name’s Lita, by the way. Not sure if Gayle mentioned it.”

“She didn’t,” he answers, watching how she walks over and plops down in her chair, grabbing her coffee off the desk where she’d placed it while getting the room set up.

“Well, it is,” she shrugs. Taking a sip, she then informs, “I’ll call you Roman.”

Instantly, the irritation is reappearing. “Did I say you could call me by my first name?”

Lita gives him a look, asking in an even voice, “do you seriously expect me to call you My Tribal Chief?” She chuckles at her almost mocking tone, mumbling before snagging another sip. “That’s not happening.”

Roman finds himself asking, both rhetorically and literally, “what the hell kind of therapist are you?”

Because while his only experience with this profession has been through Solana, through Gail and even Stratus, the differences are stark. These women are day compared to Lita’s night.

“The kind who works with people. Not titles.” Reaching to place her coffee on the small table beside her, she explains. “The Tribal Chief is what you are. It’s not who you are. Who you are is Roman Reigns, and that’s who I’m interested in working with.” She gestures around her room. “In this space, you’re just a person, and something tells me that’s not a space you get to be in a lot in your life.”

He’s quiet. For a couple of reasons. The main one being that he’s having a bit of a hard time finding a point of disagreement. Her delivery is absurd, borderline disrespectful, but it’s not….it’s not entirely wrong. 

“So how’s this shit supposed to work?” He asks, allowing himself to lean back on the sofa, muscular arms crossed over one another.

Lita shrugs once more. “However you want it to work.” And before he can push back on her vague ass answer, she supplies, “my approach is I don’t make you do anything. I help you get to a point where you want to do things.”

“Like?” 

“Actually work on and process shit.”

“That’s probably not gonna happen.”

Lita chuckles, standing up and walking over to her desk. Roman watches her pull open a drawer where she grabs a notebook and pen. She then walks back over and reaches said items to him. “Here. Take these.”

Roman looks at her with disinterest but still accepts said items. “Alright, I want you to write down why you’re here right now. I’m not gonna see it, not gonna read it, not even gonna keep it. That’s for you. I just want you to be honest with yourself and preferably me, but we’ll get you there.”

Roman looks slightly confused but still understanding of what she’s asked of him. Lita grabs her coffee and falls back into the chair. “Get to writing.”

A scowl reappears. This demanding shit is gonna have to most definitely be addressed. 

Roman doesn’t get demanded.

Even though he most definitely finds himself writing shit down.

Control my anger/blackouts (around my wife—I don’t care about anyone else)

And that’s it.

“Done.”

Lita lifts a brow. “Seriously?”

“What?”

She scoffs, “you head the two biggest criminal organizations in the world and only need less than a minute to list things you want to work on?” She shakes her head, directing,“try again.”

Roman is irritated. This smart mouth of hers is getting old. “I don’t need—”

“I said try again,” Lita says in an almost softer voice. “Remember, be honest with yourself.”

There’s something both triggering and eye-opening about that latter statement. Honesty is something Roman has always valued, but when it’s directed toward and about himself, there seems to be difficulty. 

Solana….she’s helped a lot with that, and he’d probably feel less hesitant and more forthcoming if it was her he was talking to, but as great a support system his wife is for him, he knows he can’t put it all on her.

The same way, deep down, he knows he can’t continue to bottle shit up like he’s been doing.

Roman swallows before starting to list without thinking, refusing to allow his brain to interfere with what weighs his heart down when he strips back all the thick layers of protection.

Feeling guilty about Fetu’s death

Feeling guilty about my family’s murders

Feeling guilty about surviving

Feeling guilty about Solana’s attempt

Feelings towards my mom

Feelings about fatherhood someday

Not feeling good enough for Solana

Feeling like I have to be perfect to be loved

Being codependent with Solana

Matteo

Other shit

Roman can list it, but that’s it. Talking about or even thinking about what he wrote down is just….it’s too much right now.

“Done,” he mutters, taking it upon himself to fold up said paper that he stuffs in his pocket. 

“Good.” Lita nods. Standing up once more, she moves over to a bin near the bookshelf, pulling out a red, familiar box. “Now let’s play a game.”

“A game?” Roman is disgusted all over again when she walks over, holding the biggest box of fucking Uno he’s ever seen. “Do I look like a child?”

“Technically, there’s a child in all of us,” she counters. Roman watches her pull the massive stack of cards out of the box. “Now this is actually feelings Uno.”

“Feelings Uno?” It keeps getting worse. So much worse. “What the hell is that?”

Rolling her eyes while she expertly manages to shuffle through the giant cards, Lita explains, “Red is anger. Blue is sadness. Yellow is joy. And Green is a free for all, meaning you get to decide whatever emotion you want it to be on your turn. You play a card and then talk about whatever emotion goes with the card color.” The steps are clear and to the point, but Roman is still struggling with the fact that this woman seriously wants to play a whole ass game with him. “Considering it’s only our first session, I’ll take it easy on you. You only have to answer when you play a red card.”  She smirks, equally distributing cards to the both of them. “Something tells me anger won’t be too difficult for you to talk about.”

She’s not….not entirely wrong. 

Roman asks while looking over at his colorful cards. “You stack?” Playing a game is truly preferred than talking about….feelings and shit.

“You trying to talk about several different upsetting events at once?” She asks, laughing a little when he rolls his eyes. “No. No stacking. This time.” Leaning over, she plops the first card down for their pile. “And to show you I can sometimes be one of those overly nice therapists, I’ll go first.” Roman watches her lay down a matching red card, sharing so casually, “well, I felt angry as hell when I came home from school when I was thirteen and found out my abusive, piece of shit dad had not only offed himself but took my mom and little brother with him.” 

Silence. Almost everything about this woman in the less than twenty minutes that he’s known her has been unexpected, but that has to take the cake. The casualty in her voice is a stark contest to the weight of the confession. It has him partially stumped, cause what the fuck does one say to that?

He goes with the only thing he knows and can think to say in the moment. “Why the hell would you tell me that?”

There’s a bit of a shift in her countenance. Her voice softens as she explains, “it’s important you know when we’re working together and I say that I understand life can be a shitshow, I’m not talking about fucking Starbucks messing up my order.”

He doesn’t comment on her disclosure nor her follow up comment. He just lays down his own red card, sharing, “felt angry at my mom when she told me one time that my half brother was the son she wanted, not me.”

Lita makes a sound. “Parents are just wonderful, aren’t they?”

Roman says nothing, the two of them easily falling into this space of sharing and not really elaborating. Just putting it out there, building some strange form of rapport that feels almost natural to him.

And it’s through this process that Gail’s comment regarding this whole therapy thing returns to him. “I have someone in mind who will either be a perfect fit for you or the worst referral I’ve ever provided.”

And strangely enough, Roman is leaning toward the former of those two paths.

————

Solana has always felt deeply aligned with the saying, “if it ain’t one thing, it’s another.” Always felt that perfectly described many of her life experiences. It’s something that’s waned drastically since being married to Roman but has still popped up from time to time.

And sadly, this is one of those times.

Because now not only is she sitting on a letter given to her by Roman’s late aunt that she requested only be given to him when the time was “right,” a pregnancy that now her husband’s ex fuck buddy knows about before him, but now another letter addressed to Solana.

From her mother.

A letter Solana has never seen before today when she was trying to reorganize her library/art room after Roman canceled their lunch date, citing being unable to escape meetings.

She believes him, of course. It’s just that it would have been preferred to this.

Yet one more thing for her to work through.

In all actuality, it should be easy for Solana to just open the damn letter. Read it and get it over with. But the weight of it, the amount of pages she can feel through the envelope, and the fact that it’s in a separate letter instead of a journal, has her concerned.

Solana’s mom always wrote to her in journals, so the fact that this is not in a journal…..it has her worried.

Which is why it remains untouched, laid out on the bathroom counter with Fetu’s letter along with the sonogram photo she received just earlier today. Both pulled from their respective hiding spots in her art room/home library.

Solana is trying to figure all this out while doing her makeup for dinner. A nice, necessary distraction as she spends a little extra time covering up the bruise. The darkness and hyperpigmentation have gone down tremendously, which she’s immensely grateful for. Especially given the fact that Roman hasn’t commented on it in a while. She knows he sees it, can see the slight cringe he still does at the sight,  but his guilt seems to have dwindled moderately, which is deeply appreciated.

Even if it’s because he’s battling a different type of grief now. And it’s staring at the envelope from Fetu that Solana allows herself to really think about if the right time is now. It would be so easy to just give it to him, to not have to have that weight on her shoulders. And maybe she should have done it sooner, done it during his week of depression and dissociation.

But, she was just so worried that it could somehow make things worse. That it was too soon. 

And, it still feels too soon. Solana isn’t entirely sure what the right time is…..but, it doesn’t feel like now.

Maybe….maybe in another week or so. Besides, Fetu trusted her to give Roman the letter, so the older woman must have trusted her judgment….right?

What is and has been the right time for some time now, however, is this pregnancy. Solana can’t keep hiding this from him. He deserves to know. He always deserved to know, and while her intentions were always good, that doesn’t negate the fact that she’s in the wrong.

She needs to tell him.

And, she will.

Tonight.

It still doesn’t sit right with her to spring this on him while he’s still trying to process such a massive loss. But, it’s even more not right to tell his doctor, to attend these appointments, to be ten weeks along, almost three months along and him still be in the dark.

It’s not fair.

He doesn’t deserve that.

And as if on cue, her phone dings with a text from the man of the hour himself.

Roman: I love you

Such simple words that put the biggest, deepest smile on her face. She is quick to respond with reciprocation.

Solana: I love you, too. ❤️

Solana: Everything alright?

She taps her nails against the phone screen, staring at the three dots as he types.

Roman: Yeah.

Roman: Just wanted to say it.

And a sigh of awe leaves her, imagining him saying as such instead of texting it. A softness in his voice and gaze reserved only for her. 

Solana: Well, I’ll never get tired of hearing it. ☺️

Solana: I’m getting ready to head out.

Roman: Okay. Text me when you get there.

Solana: Will do.

Feeling slightly better at having some sense of direction moving forward as well as an unexpected, sweet exchange with her husband, Solana sends a text to Bayley and Naomi to let them know she’s on her way. Eyes glued to the phone, she isn’t paying much or enough attention to the fact that two items slide off the counter and onto the floor as she grabs a single envelope.

Bautista serves as her guard again, not that she has any issue with that. Solo is fine, has been fine, for the most part, since his apology at the gala, but Bautista….there’s something different about him.

Despite his intimidating, frightening presence, there’s a warmth in the older man that vastly contrasts Solo’s coldness. Not to mention his sage words regarding just who she is and the power that title gives her has truly been groundbreaking. It’s something she plans to never forget.

The drive leans on the side of shorter rather than longer, Solana walking into the restaurant, being escorted to the back where Bayley and Naomi wait. As soon as their eyes are on her, they’re standing up, each pulling her in for hugs.

“We’ve been so worried about you,” Naomi whispers in her ear, followed by Bayley’s hug as she straight up asks, “Solana, what the hell has been going on?”

But, it’s only after the waitress comes, takes their orders, and she texts Roman that she’s arrived that the words start to spill out. 

A heavy sigh leaves the mouth of the Tribal Chief’s wife as she sits down in the chair, placing her purse in the other empty chair. A quick glance to the left reveals Bautista sitting at a nearby table. Not too close but close enough where he could act if something were to go down.

“I know….I know I’ve been distant.” Distant seems like not a strong enough word, but it’s the best she’s got in this moment. “And, I’m sorry that I’ve been worrying ya’ll. That wasn’t my intention. There’s just been a lot going on.”

“Like what?” Naomi presses. “Solana, we don’t want to overstep, but the last time we’ve seen you was at training where you had a black eye. That was over two weeks ago with intermittent contact since. You’ve gotta give us something here.”

And Solana knows this. Knows that both of the women sitting across from her only mean well. From day one, they’ve been nothing but kind and supportive. Have only sought to help her as she reclaimed her voice and her life.

She owes them that much.

“I’m gonna tell you guys something, but you can’t say anything to anyone. Not a soul.” She focuses on Naomi. “Not even Jimmy.”

Bayley nods immediately. “Of course.” 

Naomi seems a bit reluctant. “I don’t like keeping things from my husband,” she admits. And Solana can’t and won’t fault her for that. “But, I can see this is important to you, so you have my word. I won’t say a thing.”

And Solana trusts it.

Trusts them.

Closing her eyes, she starts to answer, “Roman had…..he had a nightmare the night of his fight with Drew. Drew said something to him, and it messed with his head. I won’t say what. It’s not my place.” Because it isn’t. Nor is it relevant to the conversation at hand. “It was a bad nightmare, and I was trying to wake him up and when I finally did, he woke up swinging and accidentally hit me. He had no idea what he was doing, and he felt awful afterwards. He even…..he even compared himself to my dad and brother.”

The shocked expressions on their faces match the disgust Solana feels at Roman even being in the same sentence as those two men, let alone the same category.

“So yes, he did technically hit me, but it wasn’t intentional.” Solana finds herself adding, “and that’s why I got so upset, because for all that Roman is and can be, I was frustrated that you guys believed he could ever do something like that to me.”

“You’re right,” Bayley sighs, shaking her head. “I think we just saw the black eye and assumed it was because of what happened with Drew…..” She stops herself, correcting. “It was wrong though, and I’m sorry.”

“We both are,” Naomi agrees. “But, not for worrying about you.”

“Never that,” Bayley chuckles, lifting up her phone with a small smirk. “You’ve had the newbies hitting us up nonstop wondering if we’ve heard from you.”

“Girl, got us all in a group chat and everything called SOSlana.” Naomi proves this by pulling up her phone and sharing her screen where Solana can sure enough see the name of the group chat.

It makes her laugh. A much needed thing. “I know I need to catch up with them too, but ya’ll deserved to speak with me first.” Cause as amazing as Melina, Cam, and Mickie have been, Bayley and Naomi were there first.

The loyalty goes a lot deeper.

“Maybe we can reschedule the girls trip for all of us. Like in two weeks?” Bayley suggests. A glance at Naomi provides a nod of agreement. “Solana?”

Hesitation. On one hand, she’d like to say yes, but on the other, she just doesn’t know. Because something tells her when she tells Roman about the pregnancy tonight, he’s about to be a hell of a lot stricter regarding her outings. And she understands it fully. Understands why her being the pregnant wife of the Tribal Chief means a different layer of protectiveness.

“Let me run it by Roman first,” she finally answers. “He’s….he’s going through something right now, and I need to be there for him.” Not a lie. The absolute truth. 

“Yeah, Jimmy’s been acting kind of off too. I think something’s going on with the Bloodline.” She shakes her head and transitions into elaboration. “Just earlier today, I overheard him arguing with his brothers and dad.”

“Which brothers?” Bayley beats Solana to the punch by asking a very valid question.

“Jey and Solo,” Naomi answers. Solana does her best to maintain a neutral expression, but it’s hard. There’s something almost unsettling about that, though she can’t put her finger on the why. “It didn’t go well. They all ended up basically marching out the house, slamming my doors and everything.”

Curious, Solana can’t stop herself from asking, “did Jimmy tell you what the argument was about?”

A pause. A noticeable pause. “Not really. I’m sure they’ll get it together though.” As Naomi takes a sip of her champagne, Solana does her best not to look or think too deeply about the obvious deflection.

To be fair, Solana is firm about her boundaries regarding certain things discussed between herself and her husband. 

Why can’t Naomi get the same grace? 

Solana is grateful for the arrival of the food, appreciative of the diversion of topics, because Naomi is certainly right. Something is most definitely going on with the Bloodline. A major loss that’s mostly impacted Roman but Jimmy and Jey as well, most likely.

But, Solana can’t and won’t comment on that.

Providing her girls with some insight regarding a bit of what’s been going on is a nice distraction for Solana. Laughter is always good for the soul, and being around her sisters never ceases to bring about a healthy amount of that.

The merriment makes it hard for her to not imagine what their reaction will be to finding out she’s pregnant. The way they’ll absolutely gloat and squeal, especially when they learn that she’s having twins. The baby shower that they’ll plan is destined to be one for the ages. 

And she looks forward to it all. 

But first….. first she must talk to her husband. 

It’s about an hour into dinner when Solana feels her bladder screaming at her to be emptied. “I’ll be right back,” she excuses herself, taking her purse with her for good measure. Mouthing bathroom to Bautista, Solana makes her way to the back, pleased to see that the stalls are all empty. 

There’s such a weird relief at no longer having that pressured feeling, expelling her bladder like she didn’t use the bathroom shortly before leaving the house. 

Frequent urination.

It’s one of the symptoms Dr. Sharmell mentioned she might start seeing soon at this point in her pregnancy.

She wasn’t wrong. 

Flushing the toilet and walking over to the sink, Solana attempts to toss her purse on the counter only for it to go tumbling to the floor, some of the contents falling out. Cursing quietly, she washes her hands first before bending down to stuff the items back in her bag, grateful her phone wasn’t one of the tumbled objects. However, it’s something else that manages to capture her full attention. 

The envelope with her name written on the outside.

Slow hands reach for it, trembling fingers tracing over her name so beautifully signed, her mother’s penmanship something worthy of all the jealousy. But, jealousy isn’t what Solana is feeling in this moment. 

Curiosity is.

A growing feeling gnawing at her that whatever is contained within this envelope needs to be unveiled and read. Needs to be freed after so many years of confinement. And, it makes no sense how Solana went from avoiding doing such a thing to readying to do it in the public restroom at a restaurant.

She knows it’s not the best decision, that it’s bound to make her emotional, make her cry. 

And yet…..the right timing.

Roman is grieving and about to find out that he’s a father. There’s so many layered, complex emotions in that alone that she’s truly lost as to how he’s supposed to manage that and helping her sort through whatever emotions will follow the reading of this letter. It also seems unfair to put that on him when he’s dealing with so much.

But Bayley and Naomi…..they could. They could be her sources of support. They’ve been wanting to be said sources, and maybe, just maybe, it’s time to take them up on that offer.

Solana releases a deep, shaky breath while rising to her feet, taking her purse off the floor with her. Walking over to the door, she turns the lock and moves back over to the counter. Leaning back against the counter, Solana takes one more efficient breath before still trembling fingers carefully pry open the letter. Solana unfolds several sheets of paper.

And she begins to read. 

My Dearest Solana,

If you are reading this letter, then I am no longer living. I wish with everything in me that is not the case, and everything will go according to plan, so that what I am about to write will be told to you from my lips instead of read from this letter.

But, I cannot be naive. I must be realistic and prepare for all outcomes.

Solana, what I am about to tell you is going to be difficult, and you may never forgive me, may even hate me, but please know I never ever intended to hurt you, my sweet girl.

I was 23 years old when I met “Xavier Miller”. He claimed to be in Mexico on sabbatical from work. Said he was a “businessman.” I believed him. I believed everything he told me. All the false hopes he put in my head about bringing me to America and helping me get into medical school so I could become a doctor. Believed him when he said once we got settled, he’d pay for my parents to get passports so that they could visit. I believed it all. He was charming and handsome and kind, and I wanted so deeply to be in love that I fell for it all. 

After three months of us knowing each other, he proposed. I said yes. My parents did not agree. They believed we were rushing things. They were right, but I was too naive. I listened to my heart and only my heart. I fell in love with this man who promised me the world, promised to always love and take care of me. 

I spoke very little English, but he promised to help me learn once we moved to the States. He was adamant about me coming to America with him, said it would open up more doors, specifically helping me achieve my dream of being a doctor. 

And, I was determined, so I married him and came to America.

The decision will forever haunt me.

Our first night as “husband” and “wife” was the first time he raped and beat me. I woke up the next morning bruised and bloody. It was only then I saw the real him for the first time. He told me I would never see my family again, and if I ever tried to contact them or leave him, he would kill me. That same morning is when he informed me of who he really was.

A mafia man.

And right then and there, I knew my life was over.

I will not further traumatize you with details. But, it was...horrific. 

I thought once I gave him a son, which is what he eventually told me he what wanted from the very beginning—a “stupid woman” he could “control” and “breed”--- that he would lessen his cruelty. And, he did, to some extent. 

He allowed me to start volunteering at the hospital, which was truly only because he wanted me away from Wes. He said I would make him “soft.” The same hurtful thing he says about you. 

But, this ended up changing my life, because it was through volunteering that I met someone. His name was Darnell, and he was a medical student doing clinical rotations. Again, I do not wish to sully you with the details, so I will just say it.

I started an affair with Darnell, and I regret nothing, Solana. He was the first man I ever really loved who showed me what it meant to truly be loved by a man. It was dangerous for both of us, and I tried to break it off, tried to tell him what could happen if we were ever caught, but he didn’t care. He wanted to help me find a way out, because he loved me, and I loved him.

But then everything changed when I found out I was pregnant. Initially, I was distraught. Xavier was still raping me, trying to get me pregnant, and the thought of having his child again sickened me.

But, when I went to my appointment and learned how far along I was, I realized that the time I conceived was when Xavier was away on a business trip.

He wasn’t the father.

Darnell was.

And, I was so happy, so overjoyed, my love. You have no idea. 

Throughout the pregnancy, Darnell and I tried to come up with plans. Tried to figure out a way we could escape. Me, Him, Wes, and our babies.

I was pregnant with twins.

But, the closer the time came, the more fearful I became that even if we somehow escaped, Xavier would find us and kill us all. He always threatened to kill me if I tried to take Wes from him. 

So the plan changed to one that broke my heart and Darnell’s, but we agreed it was the safest thing for us to do. We were able to have some of the hospital staff assist us with this plan, which made a world of difference.

It truly did.

When I gave birth to you, I gave birth to your twin brother as well. A brother who Darnell took, while I kept you. And, I told Xavier, who did not come to the hospital until the next day, that my boy didn’t make it. 

He was livid. So angry that he forced the hospital to give me a hysterectomy.

He said I would not “fail” him again.

The plan was for me to wait until you were older, at least one, and then we would try to make the move, but what I didn’t expect was for Xavier’s cruelty towards me to increase. He became significantly worse to the point where it was impossible for me to do anything without him knowing. He refused to allow me to volunteer at the hospital, which cut me off from all the people who were going to help me reunite with Darnell and my other child.

And instead made my life even more of a living hell, but now he was subjecting you to the same treatment.

He always blamed you for the “death” of your brother. That’s why he’s always hated and resented you. Because you “lived” and the boy “did not.” He never wanted daughters. Only sons. 

Solana, I know this is a lot. I know that I am putting so much on you, and I am so sorry, my love. There is just so much you need and deserve to know, and I just have to make sure you know one way or another.

It was selfish of me to keep you. I should have let Darnell take the both of you, but I always wanted a daughter. Wanted to have a piece of him with me as well. But, my selfishness subjected you to all kinds of horror, and I’m so so sorry, mija. 

But, Darnell is your father. And, you have a twin brother. And if all goes to plan tomorrow, you, me, Wes, your real father and your other brother will finally be able to be a family. You’ll have the family you always deserved but I deprived you from.

And words cannot express how sorry I am, my sweet Sol. Because the fact of the matter is that I was being selfish. It was selfish and wrong of me to not let you go with your father, to keep you in an abusive household with an abusive man.

It was wrong, and I am sorry.

But…

In the event something goes wrong, I just needed you to know the truth. Because if something happens to me, I need to make sure you at least know where you really come from.

And that’s not Nina Miller and Xavier Miller. 

It’s Darnell Adams and Alma Escobar.

My name is not Nina.

It’s Alma.

Alma Escobar. 

Xavier made me change my identity when I came here to avoid my family finding me. And, it worked, because Xavier also lied about his name when we first met. He made it up. It was all a part of his plan to get me in America and make me his slave. 

It’s why my family was probably never able to find me. They were looking up one name that never existed and another name that would never exist again.

But, that brings me to my next part. 

My mother’s name is Paloma Escobar, and my father’s name is Ricardo Escobar. I have two uncles: Bernardo and Tomas.

If I have the chance and this plan works, I will finally take you and your brothers to Isla Mujeres to meet your family. You deserve that much and so much more. 

Again, this is so so much to drop on you, mija, but I don’t have much time. 

Solana, that is why I have always called you “my Sol.” Because phonetically, Sol sounds like “soul,” which is what my real name really means. YOU are my soul and an extension of myself, just infinitely better.

Never forget, my amazing girl, that you are smart and beautiful and kind and have such a pure soul. You must never forget any of that.

And one day, you are going to grow into a beautiful young woman, find a kind young man who loves and treats you the way you deserve, and you will be an amazing mother. 

And that, my love, will be your happy ending.

I pray to God that I will live to see all of this, be around for all of it, but if I am not, know that I loved you infinitely in this life and will continue to love you infinitely in the next.

Forever your Hummingbird,

Alma 

Breathing.

A simple, easy thing that’s suddenly impossible for Solana. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t compute any of what she’s just read. Only one sentence of so many shell-shocking revelations circulates in her head, thudding against her consciousness.

Xavier wasn’t her father.

He wasn’t her father. 

There’s so many things embedded and included in this confession of sorts, but that’s the one thing Solana can’t seem to pull away from.

The man who was responsible for the murder of her mother and her attempted murder was not her real father.

The man who was responsible for her rape was not her real father.

The man who almost beat her to death and threatened to finish the job was not her real father. 

The man who she so desperately wanted to love her like fathers should love daughters but never could. And not just because he was incapable of love. No. It was because he wasn’t her real father.

Solana almost stumbles to the ground, one hand going behind her to hold onto the counter to keep her upright.

This….this was a mistake.

She should have never read this letter.  

Ever.

Feeling on the verge of a panic attack, she releases the papers and places a hand over her chest, closing her eyes, and working to regulate herself. She manages to pull from the coping skills learned in therapy as she tries to find some anchor of sorts to keep her grounded instead of drowning in the panic that threatens to overtake her.

Too much.

It’s just too much to process.

Too much to sit on. 

She just can’t.

Solana is sniffling, silent tears running down her face as she places her other free hand on her belly. She can’t fall apart. Not right now. Not like this. And not with the babies growing in her belly. 

They need her to pull it together. To be strong. 

Needing a reminder of sorts, she digs through her purse with wobbly hands for the photo that depicts the two tiny lives growing inside of her. 

There’s only one problem. 

The sonogram photo isn’t in her purse.

Solana’s glossy eyes scan the floor to see if she somehow missed it, only for that to come back a deadend given the emptiness of the pristine tile. 

Solana frantically digs through her purse once more realizing the photo isn’t the only thing missing.

So is Fetu’s letter.

And now yet another massive weight is dropped onto her chest with the terrifying realization of what she’s done.

“Oh no….” Trembling hands fold back up the sheets and stuff them back into the envelope that she shoves in her bag. Solana’s legs can’t move fast enough as she unlocks and rips the door open, making her way over to that table where Bayley and Naomi are laughing. 

It’s when their gaze lands on her, however, that the laughter dies down. “Solana, what’s—”

“I have to go,” she interrupts, unable and partially uninterested in offering the truth as to why. Because she can’t. She can barely fucking think straight right now, let alone try to explain the magnitude of what just happened.

What could happen if she doesn’t get home. 

Fast.

Bayley is the one to push. “Wait, Solana, you can’t just—”

“Please,” she begs, eyes watering. “It’s….it’s Roman. I have to get home.” Not a lie, just an answer that probably insinuates a severity that does not equate to the actuality of the situation. Or, maybe it does. “I’ll….I’ll explain later, but I have to go now.” 

Naomi and Bayley share a look, clearly not liking this sudden shift in energy, and Solana can’t blame them. However, she can’t focus on that right now. Not when her world has just been turned upside down.

“Okay,” Naomi concedes with a sigh, “but at least text us when you get home.”

“I will.” That much Solana can promise. Hopefully. “Thank you.” Both women only answer with a nod as Solana gestures to Bautista. “Come on.”

Wordlessly, he gets up and leads her out of the restaurant. 

Solana is a nervous wreck the entire drive home. Knee bouncing, heart racing, intermittent tears. This is not how she expected this day to go. It’s almost too unbelievable to be true.

There’s too many things for her to sit on and sift through. Her pregnancy. Fetu dying. Her mother’s letter. Now this?

Solana wipes at her eyes. It’s just all too much. And the fact that trying to call Roman only led to the phone ringing two times before going straight to voicemail only makes things infinitely worse.

Roman has never sent her to voicemail before. 

The drive to the mansion is really only a matter of fifteen minutes, but it feels so much longer. Torturously longer.

The SUV is barely in park before she’s whipping the door open and running towards the house, heels in one hand because she can’t have any sort of interference. 

“Roman!” She calls out his name the minute she steps foot inside of their home only to be met with silence.

And for that brief second, there’s relief. A respite from all the heaviness as she rushes up the stairs, ready to grab the letter and photo off the bathroom counter to hide them again before he gets home.

Before he finds out the two major secrets she’s been sitting on without her being able to tell him herself.

But, that’s a short lived fantasy, one that’s killed the moment she’s standing in the doorway of their master bedroom.

“No….”

Solana drops her shoes at the sight of her husband sitting on the side of their bed, facing the door, papers in hand, a now opened envelope beside him along with a photo.

The sonogram.

Her heart breaks.

“Roman, I—”

“Solana.” 

Never.

 Never has she heard her name leave his mouth with such anger and disgust. The same anger and disgust that’s written all over his handsome face as he asks, point, blank, period, “what the hell is going on?”

[kennys-parka-jacket]

stan crying 💔

[gamblersdoll]

can u write dom tomioka smut pretty please ofmgnhsjd.☺️

(demon slayer)

cw/tw: spanking, dominance flood, name calling, porn with a little plot.

“the hell did you think would happen, slut.” it wasnt really a question, yet it sounded like one. to be honest, all you really did was make it known that you had no under garments on, nipples pebbling up and camel toe prominent.

“fuck– sorry, baby!” you cried, being on your knees was hell. even though they dug into the bed, they got sore. “dunno what i was thinking—“

a hard slap to your ass came, “i dont know what you were thinking either, some nasty whore shit.” he says, venom somewhat seeping in his words. his face only scrunches up, disapproving look on his face. “did you need attention, whore?”

“n—“

“so why do that? hm?” he retorts, his angling his cock deeper into your walls. “fucking cunt is just sucking me in. now tell me the real reason.” he puts a knee up, getting a deeper angle and thrusting into that gummy spot.

“i ca—“

“swear to fucking god if you say you cant.” he threatens, pressing the lower of your back into the bed and hovers over you. “say that and ill get your throat and your ass.”

“i needed—“ you try to say, but he cuts again. shit, he was pissed.

“you needed this cock?” he asks, pulling himself and slapping it against the round of your ass. you try to wriggle yourself back to get full again, but he holds you down. “cant even lie to me, slutbaby.”

you clench on and around nothing, the name burning itself into your whole entire body. you did need him.

“beg for it.” he commands, pulling the back of your hair and taking a finger to trace your entrance.

“please tom—“

he slaps your ass again, but harder than usual. “try that again. start the fuck over.”

“please baby..” you pitifully say, trying to recover from the spank and slide him back inside. he scoffs, yanking your hair back so you can introduce your back to his chest.

“thats the best you got?” he asks, hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing. he throws you back down to the mattress, bottoming out into your walls. “have to teach you how to beg properly next.”

you moan, his mean cock bullying into that foreign spot that only felt good with him. “baby– shit im so sorry!”

“oh, i bet.” he replies, eyebrows furrowing together and biting his lip. “fuck— how good does this feel? tell me and youll get what you wanted.”

“so good, baby! need it so bad!” you whine, drool dribbling from your mouth onto the sheets of the bed and legs shaking. “make me feel so good!” you started babbling, tomioka always making you do that with his girthy cock.

he cums into your walls with a growl, gripping the fat of your ass and breathes heavily.

“dont do that shit again, or its your ass next.”

[peachesofteal]

No cause now I’m imagining the moment Ghost and Soap show up at Darling’s apartment and her mind is hazy from the fever and she still doesn’t really trust them so she will not let them take her baby and they have to convince her so that they can take care of both Darling and the baby. And she finally does and then Soap and Ghost are surprisingly good at it and it’s adorable to see two ginormous men cooing over a tiny tiny human. Darling is so torn because they love and want to take care of the both of them but they betrayed her and she doesn’t trust them. Does she let them stay or make them go?????? 😭😭😭

-🥔

Love this. 🥔

18+ Mature themes / baby trap au / takes place after this

Simon's fist is heavy against the door. He knocks so loudly, Johnny swears it rattles his teeth. He knocks again, and again, until they're both exchanging worried looks as they listen to the sound of a baby crying just beyond the door.

The lock clicks, and then the door opens to reveal you on the other side, crying baby in your arms. Your entire body is trembling, and Bee wails against you, little face scrunched up in misery. You both look poorly, and fear eats away at Johnny little by little. What would have happened if you hadn't called? How sick are you? How sick is Bee? What's going on?

They both try not to stare at the baby in your arms. Your baby. Their baby.

Their sick baby, in the arms of her sick mother. Living in this shit flat too far away, alone. With no one to care for them.

"Darling?" Simon whispers softly, and you blink at him. Like you’re confused. Like you’re surprised.

“Hey.” Johnny says, forcing himself to stand and speak casually. “You called us?” Your face shifts a little, nearly scrunching up like Bee’s, and then you shake your head.

“No I… didn’t think, I didn’t t-think… I did?” The words are slow, thick and sticky, and they can practically hear the rattle in your chest from here. You’re really sick. How long have you been sick like this?

Johnny’s about to protest when Simon holds his hands up, open palm and easy. 

“Well, we’re here now. Will you let us help?” You shake your head, the refusal adamant, and Johnny swallows his discontent. You need their help. You need them. You called them. Why won’t you let them in?

“You’re sick. You called, said you both ‘ave fevers.” He gestures to the baby against your chest and you cradle her head protectively.

“No.” You croak.

“Look at me,” he pleads. “Look. Look, everything’s okay. We’re here to help you. Please, let us help you.” He holds his phone out, turning the screen towards you, your eyes squinting at the brightness of the screen before focusing on his call log, the incoming call from a blocked number clearly displayed at the top. Something fractures across you, some weight that’s been weighing on you, and you shuffle to the side, opening the view for the of the hallway, and a little kitchen.

Simon leads him across the threshold without a second to lose, and you cough as they slide by you. You stand away from them, warily, still aware but focus slipping as you shudder. He wants to reach out and feel your skin, press the back of his hand to your forehead to feel just how warm you are, the sweat soaked hair at your nape obviously displaying your ill state.

“Alright.” Johnny runs a hand through his hair, and tries not to tug at the roots. “Let’s get you together so we can get you two to a doctor.”

"She ne-needs to go to hospital." you explain, pointing to the half packed backpack with a shaking hand. "But I don't..." Bee cries against you, and you pat her back helplessly, eyes lost as they swim with tears. "I don't feel good, I feel fuzzy, and I c-can't navigate the trains like this."

"Alright. We can-"

"I didn't know what to do." You cry, and Johnny's heart twists in his chest, the sight of you so distraught, eyes glassy with fever, lips dry and cracked. He thinks you probably need to go to hospital too, with the way you're swaying slightly, how your cough sounds, your head drooping forward like it's too heavy for your neck.

“We can help. We can get you both to hospital-“ you cough again, taking care to point your face away from Bee, cutting him off before swiftly shaking your head.

“I don’t need it.”

“Don’t need what?” Simon cuts sharply.

“The hospital. Just-“ your lungs wheeze. “jus’ Bee.” Not bloody likely. You bounce her gently, but your eyes clench shut and you blow out a breath before sticking a hand out to still yourself against the counter.

“Darling, you need a doctor.” Simon counters firmly, and you cover your mouth again, to cough.

You wobble on your feet, swaying slightly before lurching just a little to the left, practically into Johnny who swears in alarm, arm coming around your shoulders to steady you.

“Johnny.” Simon directs, motioning to Bee before coming around to your other side, shifting your weight into him as if you were a rag doll. “Take the baby.” There’s no time for hesitation, for him to be nervous or unsure. There’s only a moment before Bee is nestled in his arms, unhappy face gazing up at him, like she knows.

She’s beautiful, even though she’s upset, and sickly. Still beautiful, like her mum. Perfect, angelic.

Their daughter. He’s holding their daughter, in his arms. Their precious, adorable, sweet child that is every bit of you that he had imagined. Such an incredible thing, born from such an awful decision.

And she’s running a temperature.

High temperatures are bad for babies. Fevers are worse for babies than they are for adults or even older children. The warning from a baby book he read a while ago, what feels like forever ago, blares in his mind.

Your head hangs limply against Simon, and Johnny reaches out to finally try to get a gauge of your temperature. When he makes contact, he grimaces.

“She’s burning up.” You grunt something in reply, but it’s nonsense. “So is the wee one.”

“Okay. We’re going.” He nods to the backpack, and Johnny manages to loop an arm through it while keeping a crying Bee tucked against his chest.

“Shhh, shhh.” He tries in vain to hush her. “‘s alright, little love. We’ve got ya. Mum’s right there, she’s right here.”

There’s a throbbing ache inside Simon’s head. He thinks it’s probably from the way his jaw is clenched so tight, or how his muscles are so tense they feel like they’re going to shred apart while he helps you walk through the front doors of the hospital.

They put you in a wheelchair, a small comfort Simon is grateful for, and wheel you into a room while they follow step by step behind. Bee cries in Johnny’s arm, and he tries to soothe her the best he can, but it’s fruitless.

She wants you. She wants her mum.

A nurse gets you into a gown in the bathroom, and then somewhat settled into a bed with a monitor on your finger before asking Johnny for Bee.

"Where are you taking her?" You protest, distressed when he hands her over, and Simon tenses while the nurse gives you a sympathetic look.

"She needs to go down to peds, just to see the doctor." You shake your head, and cough, the force of it shaking your body. Johnny winces.

"No, she… she needs to stay with me."

"She'll come right back up, when she's done. We'll have a bassinet for her, so she can sleep in here with you."

"N-no she can't. She can't... she has to stay with me." The monitor that seems to be measuring your heart rate picks up, the beeping steadily increasing while your eyes dart around the door wildly, panicked. The nurse opens her mouth to probably explain, again, but Simon sits down by your leg, careful not to touch you, but holding your gaze with a firm look.

"One of us can go with her, darling. Right?" He raises an eyebrow at the nurse, who nods. "See? And we'll stay with her, we'll make sure she's back up here in no time." You look from him to Johnny, who nods seriously, and he watches you loosen a breath from your chest. In the awful yellow light of the hospital, you appear more tired, more sickly than before. It unsettles him, and seeing you distressed physically hurts, because he can’t comfort you, can’t hold you, can’t tell you that you’re alright, that they’re here.

“Alright.” You sniffle weakly, eyes sad and heavy with exhaustion. He exchanges a glance with Johnny, one that says ‘you choose’, and then he’s following Bee and the nurse out the door, while Simon watches you fight sleep.

“You can rest, darling.” He encourages, and you gnaw on your lip while you watch the disappear down the hallway. “I’ll wake you, when she’s back.” It’s an assurance, one he knows you need while your eyelids droop, your sleep imminent.

“Okay.” You whisper, leaning your head back on the pillow, and shifting a bit so you’re tucked just slightly onto your side.

We’ll watch over you, he thinks. We’ll watch over you both.

Bonus: after you and Bee get discharged, the guys take you home and you actually let them help you with Bee and eventually, take care of you too. A little bit.

[cherryredstars]

Hi Cherry!! I love love loovveee your work and I was wondering if you could do another punk!reader x miguel one shot? I never really see any punk type readers and I would just love to have a reader that looks scary and punk/alternative ya know? Stuff like piercings, colored hair maybe, just stuff like that.

I LOVE YOU THANK YOU!!!!

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x gnPunk!reader

Warnings: Piercings, Fluff

A/N: Hi, love!! I hope you enjoy!!

Unedited

More Punk!reader

You can sense him laughing at you.

You squint your eyes open, relieving them from their scrunched up state. Miguel's lips are thinned as he tries to contain his laughter, the hold he has on your hand loose. You glare at him, and his eyes twinkle at you as you lay on the piercing table. You are so going to twist his nuts after this is over.

"This isn't funny." You hiss at him, turning your head away to not look at your body piercer as they prepare their equipment.

Miguel finally lets his chuckle out, rubbing his thumb soothingly against the back of your hand.

"It's just..." He starts off, a smile breaking on his face. "I've never seen you so scared before."

You huff, rolling your eyes. "Just because I'm scary, doesn't mean I don't get nervous every now and then."

Miguel's smile softens as he shakes his head, squeezing your hand tight. "I know. But I would think you would be used to this by now since you have so many piercings already."

Your mouth puckers to the side, humming in reluctant understanding and turning towards him slightly. "Yeah, but they still hurt."

Miguel hums back, smiling again when you freeze up as your piercer turns to you. You look at Miguel with wide eyes for a second before they turn back into glares.

"You better not let go of my hand Miguel O'Hara, or else I will make you cry like you've never cried before." You threaten.

Miguel nods obediently, tightening his hold on your hand as you move to lay straight and close your eyes. Your piercer chuckles at the banter, pressing down on the area that you want pierced to make sure there aren't any irregularities since the last time they checked a few minutes ago. Miguel sees the uneven rise and fall of your chest as you wait in anticipation, eyes scrunched tight.

"Promise, I'll even kiss it better when we're done." He reassures you.

You both silently agree to ignore the fact your voice was slightly pitchy the entire time you threatened him.

------------------------------------------

"Does it really take that long to read instructions?"

You're growing impatient, sitting crossed legged on a chair in the kitchen. You're wearing your go-to hair dying shirt, unwashable bleach stains and hair coloring marking the area around the collar and shoulders. All of the necessary tools to redye your hair sit on the counter closest to the two of you. Miguel is wearing the included gloves in the hair box kit you picked up from the store, the material straining as they're just able to fit his large hands. In his gloved hands are the hair dye box and the large pamphlet of instructions. By now, you would already have half of your head done, but Miguel insisted on helping you since he did promise at the bar that one night.

He's ready both the instructions on the box and in the pamphlet three times. In both English and Spanish. You cross your arms as you raise your brow at him, glaring at him.

"I've done this millions of times already, Miguel. But those fucking things down. I'll walk you through it." You groan.

Miguel ignored you, eyes squinting as he holds the paper closer to his face as he rereads. He's even got his fucking glasses out.

"Yeah, but I've never done this before. I don't want to damage your hair or something." Miguel argues as he flips the paper over to read the back, eyes skimming the paper in confusion until he realizes he's actually reading French.

"I don't know if you can tell but," You pause picking at a lock of your split-ended hair. "My hair's already fucked up. You literally can't fuck it up any more than it already is."

Miguel sighs as he puts the directions and paper back on the counter, finally beginning to mix the products together in the bowl included. He shakes his head as he does so, walking over to you so you can see if he's mixing it right. You smile at the sight of his concentrated face, tilting your head up when he's built up the courage to start applying it to your hair. You shiver slightly at the initial coldness, closing your eyes so it doesn't get into your eyes. Miguel is gentle as he applies the product and parts your hair to make sure it's spread evenly. Every now and then he stops to ask you for advice when he gets to a tricky patch of hair or is confused on how to part something.

But eventually, talking double the time it would if you did it yourself, Miguel steps away from you. Your eyes open slowly, seeing the look of pride on his face as he examines his work. You smile at the sight, reminding him to set a timer so you know when to wash your hair. While you wait, you help him clean up, making sure to look in the mirror to see if Miguel missed anywhere beforehand.

When you do wash your hair, the results turn out amazing. The color is vibrant and just how you imagined, and Miguel fawns over how amazing the new color looks on you. He even offers to take pictures of you for your Instagram, and you smile as you pull him into the frame, snapping a picture of you with your newly dyed hair and Miguel's excited face resting on your shoulder. When your friends and family start commenting and asking about who your new hairdresser was, you can't help but laugh.

Sorry, they're only reserved for me.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Promises

written for @steddiemicrofic

prompt: one || wc: 1,111 || rating: T || cws: hurt/no comfort, cheating, custody and divorce, panic attacks, child tantrum

Thanks to the lovely @carolperkinsexgirlfriend for the edits!

“Max, go get your stuff.” Steve’s voice comes out sterner than he means to, but he’s exhausted after a long day of running errands. He doesn’t want to stand in the middle of his ex’s entryway and try to explain to their ten year old why her weekend with Daddy is over.

“But Dad,” she whines, “why can’t I stay overnight at Daddy’s again?”

“No, Max, ok? I’m sorry, but you have school and you still have homework to do. Now can you please go pack up? Auntie Robin is in the car waiting for us.”

She grumbles, holding back tears. “Why can’t I stay here? I want to live here and sleep here and Daddy can take me to school. Dad, I promise I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says, stepping into the living room with Max’s bag over his shoulder. He squats down in front of her. A bittersweet smile wobbles underneath his scrunched up nose, and Steve can tell he’s barely keeping it together. “We don’t want to keep Dad waiting, alright? He’s tired, just like you, and you’ll both sleep better in your own beds, right?”

Max throws her small arms around Eddie’s neck and buries her tear-stained cheeks into his messy hair. He squeezes her tight, and Steve sees his body heave with a shake that Eddie tries to pass off as a sigh.

Steve’s resolve starts to crumble. He turns his back on the scene, pretending he can’t hear their quiet declarations of love and promises of next time. Pretends he doesn’t know Eddie’s looking up at him, silently pleading for forgiveness. A look filled with all the empty words Steve’s heard before.

“I miss you,” Max cries “I want you to come home.” A tear slips down Steve’s cheek and he quickly wipes it away.

“I miss you too, Honey.” Eddie chokes around another sob. “But Daddy’s going to stay here for a while, ok? I know it’s hard but everything’s gonna be alright, I promise.”

Steve coughs, hopelessly trying to dislodge the lump clogged in his throat. Except Eddie takes it as a cue of impatience. He doesn’t say anything though, just stands and guides her to the door where Steve’s still pretending not to notice.

“Come on Max, let’s go home.” 

“No.” Max says, voice hard with conviction. “I’m not going home with you. I’m staying here with Daddy. Forever.”

“Max,” Steve responds, trying to match her tone, “I’m done arguing about this, we need to leave.”

“Why is Daddy even staying here?” Her face and neck are painted with angry red splotches, and Steve can spot a tantrum bubbling up. Normally, gentle understanding and praise calms her down. But how can he even begin to answer her? How does he explain to her that her Daddy hurt him beyond repair? 

The only consolation Steve got on the worst day of his life was that Max wasn’t home to watch her Daddy stumble in through the front door sobbing at nine in the morning, reeking of booze, stale cigarettes and strange lavender perfume. At least she didn’t have to listen to Eddie’s desperate apologies between bouts of vomiting, or Steve screaming at him to get out while he threw Eddie’s acoustic down the stairs.

Steve loves his little girl, so of course he won’t tell her the truth. He’ll even lie to her, no matter the consequences, to make sure nothing taints her relationship with Eddie. He’s always been an amazing father, and what happened doesn’t change that.

She starts shouting again. “He should live at home with us! Why don’t you let him come home, please? Dad, I swear I’ll do anything you want!” 

Thankfully she’s facing Steve, because he looks past her at Eddie, who’s soaking his sleeves in tears. Steve’s watched Eddie cry more in the past three months than he has their entire marriage.

“No, honey, please let’s just talk–”

“No, I hate you! I hate you! I wish I lived here with Daddy instead of you!”

She quickly turns around, snatching up her pack from the floor where Eddie had placed it. Steve’s head rings with the violent slam of the door closing behind her. His mind’s filled with static, and he wonders how his life came to this.

Since he kicked Eddie out, Steve’s constantly reminding himself that he made the right decision. He’s been cheated on in almost all of his relationships, and he always gave them a second chance. Everything would go back to normal for a while before the relationship eventually soured, leaving him devastated. 

He refuses to keep giving people who hurt him another chance.

If they really loved him, they wouldn’t have hurt him. If Eddie really loved him, he wouldn’t have been tempted.

Eddie vowed to love Steve, and only Steve. Forever.

A lie. Another broken promise.

But now her words leave Steve cut open and bleeding out in the middle of his ex's new apartment. He collapses under the weight of it all, knees buckling to the floor. As the panic sets in, he’s wrapped up in a warm embrace, ringed fingers combing through his hair and soft shushes in his ear. 

They fall into routine. Eddie tells him when to inhale and exhale, a hand gliding up and down his back. Steve climbs further into his lap, seeking an old comfort he’s yet to replace.

“Angel, you know she didn’t mean it.” He tries so hard to whisper, but Eddie’s voice cracks around the nickname and there’s tears on the back of Steve’s neck. “We’re not our parents. Even if– though. Even though we aren’t together, we’ll still love and support her no matter what. You’re the best dad, Angel, I promise.”

Steve catches the golden shine of Eddie’s wedding band as it passes across his forehead. The image of his own matching silver band stuffed in the back of his nightstand makes him feel sick.

“You’ve always been good to us,” Eddie continues. “We’re so lucky to have you. We– she loves you so much, Angel.”

He wonders if tonight, like every night, he’ll slip the ring as he lays in bed. Or if he’ll be able to fall asleep without dusting his pillow with a small puff of Eddie’s cologne. 

Steve misses him– misses them. They’re supposed to be a family.

Nuzzling his nose into Eddie’s neck, he inhales deep and greedy until the lightheadedness leaves him tingling. Shaky lips press against the top of Steve’s head on a ragged exhale, as the soothing hand in his hair tightens, holds him in place. 

Steve cries and wonders if he could survive one more second chance.

[a-writing-otter]

WIP Wednesday - Chapter 4 of The Redemption and Subsequent Death of Bill Cipher

Bill’s entire body is clenched as he stares down at Ford. The hand holding to the knife is aching with how hard Bill is holding onto it, wanting nothing more than to throw it down, but knowing he’ll hurt Ford likely if he just drops it.

“Are you awake?”

Bill can’t even begin to form words to answer Ford’s question, just barely managing to give a stiff nod in response.

“Okay.” Ford’s words are easy, calm, and the only thing keeping Bill from spiraling out of control. “I’m going to take the knife from you now.”

And just as controlled, Ford pulls Bill’s hand down slowly, then uncurls his trembling fingers, and puts the knife down on the end table. The action proceeds to make all of Bill’s ability to stand rush out of him. Once again, his legs give out from under his body, but rather than falling to the floor or collapsing on the stairs, Ford guides him to the bed beside him.

“You’re okay. It’s okay,” Ford soothes and Bill realizes his face is in Ford’s chest with Ford’s arms tight around him. “It’s okay.”

Once more, Bill tries to open his mouth, to say literally anything, but the only sound that manages to escape is a sob. All at once, he seems to realize he’s got tears streaming down his cheeks and his entire body caves as he bawls into Ford’s chest.

Not once during this episode does Ford let go. Ford swings Bill’s legs up onto the bed, settles them in so that they’re lying together while he holds Bill’s head with one hand, rubs his back with the other. The crying doesn’t stop and Bill is… is [disgusted] with himself, this pitiful, sniveling display. However, no amount of disgust is stopping him from unraveling in Ford’s arms as he finds himself clinging to Ford’s chest as his shoulders shake and he gasps and cries for minutes on end.

Then all at once, it dries up. His gasping sobs peter off, even with the tears still slowly coming, but Bill now just frozen. Ford is still petting his hair, still rubbing his back, and maybe that’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“Feel better?”

Bill still can’t quite find words, so he shakes his head in the negative and Ford’s hands don’t stop.

“Take your time.”

Bill isn’t sure how much longer they stay like that, but the position becomes uncomfortable and, more than that, this deep shame takes root in him. Bill finally starts to pull away to sit up. Ford does let him go, but sits up with him and only then is Bill able to take full inventory of the damage to Ford’s face. His hands go up, thumb streaking across the mess of blood that’s on his cheek and likely in Bill’s hair now.

“I— I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

Ford takes his hands and holds them in his own. The look on his face isn’t angry or judgmental, it’s surprisingly… soft. His thumb rubs over Bill’s knuckles for a second as he makes a shushing sound.

“I’m okay. You’ve done far worse to me before.”

And that more than anything else seems to shut Bill up, his mouth closing with a click of his teeth especially when the bastard has the audacity to [smile] about it.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Frankly, no, because he doesn’t like this flighty fear he’s feeling in his chest, this nausea that’s been reoccurring for nights. He just wants to run, to go to another universe and not have to deal with problems there.

But he can’t, so he doesn’t, so he gives a little nod.

“Has this happened before?” Ford asks when despite his nod, Bill remains silent. Bill nods again.

“Have you hurt anyone else?”

Bill shakes his head.

“Do you usually wake up?”

And, again, Bill nods.

“It only happens in your sleep?”

Another nod.

Bill seizes up when Ford reaches out again, pulling him to his chest. He wants to stay scrunched up and uncomfortable, this should be uncomfortable, but— but Ford is warm and he’s sturdy under Bill and his body traitorously gives in. His head fits against the crook of Ford’s shoulder and when Ford adjusts, lays his head on his, Bill almost sobs again.

[collectivecloseness]

Wait wait wait so the others basically admitted they’re in love with you now with those last two posts as a canon, considering the whole we’re a family thing and here’s why we’re keeping you so like how would them trying to start their relationship with you go down now? Cos like you said I don’t think that would be a smooth transition

Duuude you are so big brained bc this is definitely something I wanna talk about so thank you!! Bc bc exactly right?? They’ve finally basically admitted ‘hey we all love you (to the point Nancy snapped and kidnapped you) and want you to be part of our family forever <3333’ so like, a lot of adjustments for you to make! Based on these two asks.

Yeah they’ve all basically admitted their feelings, but you’ve all been so caught up in... recent events, that there’s not really been any kind of honeymoon glow, or really, any kind of proper love confession at all. Not even really a talk about it.

I’m imagining Eddie makes a move first. It’s the first few days, and you’re at least calmer around him than you are Nancy - and then Steve really tried to hug you the first full day so that didn’t help him - and overall Eddie more calm and understanding the first few days. Especially because he yelled at Nancy in front of you, so you’re hoping Eddie might be your way out of here. Considering he seems less on board with the whole kidnapping you thing.

And you singling him out a little as the one you haven’t screamed at for being alone in the room with you, makes Eddie feel a bit more reassured. He shouldn’t.

At first he tries to kiss you on your forehead, as he sits side by side with you on your bed, but you immediately lean far away from Eddie when he does that. You pull back, explaining with a quiet shock about how that is not it, not right now. But that’s when Eddie tells you “I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s ever told you that. Something Eddie has been waiting to say since he first met you. Something he’s been dying for you to know because it’s the most important thing in his world, you are. Eddie is so in love with you, like he’s never loved anyone before, and he’s finally told you it. You’re the first person he’s ever told that he loves, because he’s been so so afraid of being rejected and called a freak and being unloveable his whole entire life.

And then you grimace. You scowl. And you look sick. You back up even further away on the bed, as you look into Eddie’s doe brown eyes as if he was disgusting, as if he was stupid, how dare he, as you tell him the epitome of ew, no, never. Not now. And after this, not ever.

Eddie finally tells you he loves you for the first time... and that’s how you react.

Eddie leaves your bedroom crying.

Especially after the demobat attack he survived, the other three could never imagine Eddie being in pain and you not being there for him. You didn’t leave his hospital bed ever. But now you’re the cause of it. Eddie is shaking sobbing into his bed, absolutely ruined.

He wails so loudly as he chokes on his cries, his body fiercely trembling, especially as he keeps a vice like grip on his pillow. So hard his nails are getting through it and digging painfully into his own palm. That vulnerability and love in Eddie’s eyes, shattered, replaced by teary darkness. When they’re not scrunched up in torture. Eddie is absolutely heartbroken. Howling out genuinely pained sobs as they all try and comfort him, but nothing is working. They know barely anything would, not without you, but they know they love Eddie too, and will keep trying to help him through this, as hard as they fucking can.

They feel how devastated Eddie is. It’s wrecking them to feel his pain like this. And they know they’d be pretty much the same too, if you’d reacted the same way to their faces.

Steve has to get a vomit bucket ready because Eddie is gagging on his groans and sobs. His arm clutching his stomach, but no one can get him to say if he feels like he’s gonna be sick. Eddie pretty much pleads your name out, rambles terribly about everything that’s happened, or just keeps crying harder and harder.

It’s breaking their fucking hearts.

Robin is on the bed with Eddie, and Steve is swiping his hair back from his forehead, especially because Eddie’s so worked up he’s sweating like a sauna, even as he shakes fervently, while Robin tries to rub his arm, his back, anything that usually works. Nancy also feeding him water, letting him squeeze her hand so he doesn’t break his own knuckles from clenching so tightly, all of them trying to get him through this.

But at one point during all this, Eddie basically throws Nancy out of his room. Upon his sobbing, fuzzy, brain he remembers, through her soothing hand strokes and caring blue eyes, that she’s the reason this is all happening. He tells her to get out with a “This is all your fault!”

And the others stay with Eddie, they don’t go to Nancy. Because not only is he in such need of their care and comfort right now, but he’s also correct. And they know it, they may have partially forgiven Nancy enough to move on, but she’s not out of the water yet, this is still early days. And if it wasn’t for her, you nor Eddie would be suffering; even if she’s upset at being rejected by Eddie so clearly, Eddie’s in way more pain than she could be right now. Again, remembering what it was like being by his side after the demobats... they all really can’t stand seeing Eddie so hurt, including emotionally. Robin and Steve stick together, and that’s by Eddie’s bedside right now.

Nancy does leave, she shuts her mouth, after apologising once again, and she leaves. Closing Eddie’s bedroom door, her eyes apologetic to Steve and Robin, except they’re not looking at her eyes anymore by the time she’s in the doorway. Nancy goes to her room, gets her stuffed childhood toy to muffle her noise, and she cries and cries too, because she knows it is. This is all her fault. She has hurt poor Eddie, and you. She’s hurt her entire family.

Eddie is in pain for days after. Weeks really, the others can see it still affecting him. The first night Steve stayed in his bed and Eddie had cried even throughout sleep.

The whole morning he was a sniffling shell of himself. Eddie completely broken by how his love confession to you had gone. Even during those two weeks Eddie still walks a little slower, keeps his head bent down, doesn’t talk like he normally does. He is wrecked.

But Steve convinces him to get back on the horse the first afternoon after your rejection. He brings Eddie to your room, both of them bringing you a meal, and a couple of new books, talking idly about the bookshelf they’re going to build you in here. You have the same disdain as usual towards all of them, but no special hatred towards Eddie. You look at them the same.

Eddie does feel a little better after he and Steve leave your room. But he’s putting his hand to his chest to find his breath again, before Steve can even finish latching your second lock. Steve was right though, it was good to go back today, and Eddie did feel slightly better. Even if your words, your face, your reaction still lingered in his heart and mind for several days more.

Eddie tried to be better around you, the same soothing rock you needed right now, sensitive to you like always, but he allowed himself to be more melancholy around the others, as he actually felt. He didn’t need to hide from them. You were the one he and his partners all needed to be strong for, at this point in your lives.

Eddie did not appreciate when Nancy tried to get him to eat one time during this period though. Robin was guiding Nancy out of the room before Eddie could go on about how dare she after everything she’s done, again.

Nancy steers clear of Eddie for a couple of days respectfully. All of them, really, because she knows they’re still upset at her putting not just you, but all of them in this situation.

Nancy was upset with herself too, she could handle it. She knows she just has to deal with the cards she’s dealt herself, and she just tries to breathe in, and breathe out, as she thinks of how they’re all working towards building a better future for you, and for all of you as a family, together.

It’s not just Eddie though. They’re all living with the knowledge that at least they’re free of keeping that particular secret from you, that side of them, you know they’re in love with you now.

But they were also quite close with you when you all were just ‘friends’. So surely at least they can try and bring back some of that normalcy, maybe the familiarity again would even help you, right?

Robin tries to give you a side hug one of your first days in, and you nearly bite her arm. Not even in an affectionate way. Steve checks on the teeth scrape mark once Nancy’s locked your door, and he’s got Robin calm enough to sit down in the bathroom with him, but it’s a super minor scrape. As if in the last second you didn’t want your mouth to touch her, and you backed off.

Steve doesn’t exactly say this, but he is talking as he checks out Robin’s bicep, and without really thinking as he goes, and with their platonic soulmate mind meld, Robin immediately also comes to this conclusion. She almost wishes you actually did bite her. Maybe also then, she’d feel just a fraction of her guilt resolve. With you able to take out at least something on her, like truthfully you deserve. Robin’s spending a half hour shaking into Steve’s hug in that bathroom, just not because of her injury.

Steve, poor lost romantic Steve, tries to go in for his first kiss with you. He takes it slow, Steve’s fingers are gentle on your chin as he lifts it, but of fucking course that doesn’t work out either.

He immediately backs off, of course he does, but he does try to stick around and profusely apologise to you afterwards. Even when Eddie’s trying to drag him out so he doesn’t get hit by another book. Steve will take it, all of what you want to throw at him, but he sincerely feels the need to apologise to you for even going towards taking that step when it’s exceedingly obvious now that you clearly didn’t want that.

He’s crying to the other three next, guilt wracking him. Which is why he took leaning in slow, just so you could move away if you want. But he hopes you know he’s safe. That they all are. That part of the reason he wanted to stay and apologise, but also because you deserved one. He really didn’t want to screw things up. You weren’t as terrible with him as you were with Nancy, something Steve tries to skirtingly explain because Nancy’s right there rubbing his knee throughout his sniffling conversation with them, but he just doesn’t want to make things worse with you.

To be fair, none of them could imagine living in a world where these were your reactions to their genuine gestures of love. It was like living in their worst nightmares. But they created this nightmare, and it was something they were forcing you to live in. And unfortunately, they couldn’t wake up and go drive to see you and hang out like normal afterwards anymore. There was no relief. They had created this.

None of them are forcing their touch on you, not at all. They’d probably turn on another if the caught them doing so! But after weeks of you screaming at any one of them trying to just touch you in any way, it is very draining on them.

Not that you exactly care about them being drained. They kidnapped you.

Nancy takes it much slower. She doesn’t try to kiss you first or envelop you in a hug or curl up thigh to thigh or anything with you very quickly. But she is constantly telling you how much she loves you. And that might be worse for you.

She’s declaring “I love you.” Over and over again. It’s done in so many ways, serious and desperate, panicked and repeated, somber and reminding, genuine and heartfelt, craving and lovesick, caring protectively and apologetic, every way. Sometimes multiple times in a go, sometimes only once as she makes a serious remark, but Nancy is constantly telling you those three big words.

To you it’s on par with psychological torture. You know this isn’t why she’s saying it, Nancy’s not trying to break your mind irreparably, she’s just that lovesick. But even her saying it in an apologetic way, not only does it not at all make up for any of it, but it just plain makes things worse. You hate when she says that. And Nancy is the main one who won’t stop telling you.

Don’t even get me started on them always knocking while you’re in your en-suite, to check you’re okay. And are still there/not planning anything.

Even if it’s them worrying you’ve been on the toilet so long do you need some medicine? Or if you’ve fallen asleep in the bath? Do you want dinner now or in half an hour? If you’re injured, trying to get your permission to come in so they can help you with any bathing stuff - not to see you naked, genuinely to help you out, especially if you’re hurt, and also yes because maybe there is some trust and also domestic bliss and care entangled in there.

You thought about breaking the mirror in your bathroom. Actually more than once. But that would only be useful as potentially a distraction, but mostly a weapon, and you’re still unsure if you want to really hurt them, or hurt yourself, just to try and escape. Also, you don’t want loads of things taken away from you, that they might deem potentially dangerous, that will make you feel even more restricted, imprisoned, dehumanised. Because you’re already aware you are struggling.

If they started making lists of what could potentially be a risk that’s in your room, if you ever created a big enough incident, then you’re sure, knowing them really now, that they’d find enough things to remove from your presence. Enough to are you finally slip over the edge. You already got lamps and water glasses/ceramic crockery restricted, you don’t think going without a mirror to see yourself is going to help your mental health here. Nor your fight to get out of this family, this future you have right here...

You actually think about potential lists. The glass in your watch, without telling the time you will definitely go nuts. The wires in your tv, the wood from your bedpost you could carve/bludgeon with, your favourite bedsheets that could make a rope, even the fucking windows. And you know if you’re thinking of those things, the four out there have thought of a dozen times more. You’d rather stay sane, have belongings to make you feel like an actual human being, and fight back once you’ve got a viable plan.

They eventually will start being desperate enough to get you to accept their simplest touches again though. They want to build everything back up with you, because right now your relationship with them is just getting drastically worse and worse.

No more slapping Robin because she caught you when you nearly tripped. No more yanking actual tufts of Eddie’s hair out because he forgot his place and touched yours softly. No more pinning Nancy to the floor and screaming in her face wildly and threateningly so much that she gets democreature flashbacks while under you, just because her fingers brushed yours while passing you the water bottle you dropped. No more chasing Steve with scissors because he accidentally leaned into your thigh too much when sitting next to you - Nancy really should have considered it when she bought you that art set to try and make things up to you and make you feel a bit better.

They want to really start seeing some positive changes within you :). They don’t want you to feel this way anymore, they never have! With what they’ve got, they really are trying to help you out as best they can. Forgoing losing you.

They soon, one by one, will start laying by you when you’re asleep, without waking you up, just to be near you. Cleaning up your face after you cry, even if you try to wriggle out their hold, if nothing else is working why shouldn’t they try showing you how much you mean to them and they care for and love you, helping you take that first step because you’re scared to. Holding your arm to help you when you’re unsteady on your feet, even if they’re the ones getting shoved to the ground by you after that.

They want you to find normalcy in their touch again. So after a few weeks, they really will try reintroducing you to their loving physical touch. Just taking it softly and sweetly and slowly at first.

These are positive steps. They’ll work together so they’re more like a caring and authoritative source and not overbearing or scary. Like finally letting a kid go as they ride their bike or something. They are all helping you, even if you’re worried, but you’ll very quickly learn that you’re okay. You did it, and all went well, you’re not hurt, nothing bad happened, it’s just like before.

The four are trying to show you over and over again that they are safe, that they would never ever want to hurt you. You used to have their touch because they loved you, and you in a way loved them, it is still a nice thing. That would never change, okay? They just don’t want to go without your touch much longer. Not only do you need to get back on the horse, but they’re desperate to just be able to have that with you again, in any way at all.

They need you. But they also don’t want you to go so long without any human touch, it is so so bad for you sweetheart, they know you need them too. They’re gonna take things soooo gently and step by step with you, but not in a clinical way, in a genuine one. They’ll help you through this, it really doesn’t need to be a big hurdle, they know what’s best for you.

And you know, in your heart, and in your trembling body that hasn’t felt touch unless it was briefly scratching at another in a while, that they’re right too. It will help keep you feeling like you’re still somewhat as normal as before. That love, that genuine human connection that really has not changed from them for you, if not been discovered as slightly twisted, is still there, and all four of the people you are closest to are still here, to do everything for you.

You really do need some of that, some of your every day back. You’ve got a deficit of some things, you don’t want a deficit of love, of someone to be your rock for you whenever you can’t right now, of touch that will ground your mind body and soul. The catharsis of someone to cling onto, the fact you’re able to have someone hold you, the touch you used to give and receive constantly that you didn’t realise you could be stripped of, the genuine connection that makes you human. That reminds you more and more of who you are.

Not only that, but that you can still be that same person, the you you aren’t close to forgetting just yet, not just a few weeks in. But that you can give into humanity and love and stay the person you are - not knowing that thinking this, you already could be changing. But you’d rather change, than lose yourself completely. You don’t want to lose love, you don’t want to lose something so basically human as touch, you don’t want to change into someone frightened of it, when you know that your friends don’t want to hurt you. They want the same thing you do, and that’s for you to not lose yourself here.

And they will all hold your hand, every step of the way if you want <3333

[tickletastic]

Intergalactic Slime Whiskey

Fandom: Star Trek AOS

Ship: Hints of Spirk

Summary: Intergalactic whiskey will never taste like Earth whiskey. Jim knows that, and Bones certainly knows that.

A/N: to the anon that requested Star Trek or Top Gun <3

“Jim, it would be illogical to allow Doctor McCoy to chase us for any longer,” Spock says, hand in Jim’s as he lags ever so slightly behind him. “I do believe that Doctor McCoy will reach us eventually.”

“You don’t understand, Spock,” Jim says, panting as he continues to run, Bones hot on their trail, “I finished his Earth whiskey, his whiskey from Earth.” 

“Captain, whiskey can be ordered or acquired from any of the neighbouring planets,” Spock says, slowing down. Of course Jim slows to accompany him, of course he does. 

“You don’t get it, Spock. That stuff is aged on Earth with Earth wood. Bones hates the taste of whiskey aged with the artificial stuff,” Jim explains, noticing Bones to be getting closer and closer as they run through the hallways of The Enterprise, “we won’t be back on Earth for another year, Spock.”

“I believe that humans would say you are ‘screwed,’ Captain,” Spock comes to a complete stop, and of course, Jim stops too. He’d say it’s to protect Spock from Bones’ wrath, but of course, it’s not that simple.

There’s only a mere five seconds between them stopping and Jim being potato-sacked over Bones’ shoulder, unsure if his punishment will happen in his quarters or Bones’, but then again, they’re kind of the same at this point in their friendship. 

As he’s carried away, batting at Bones’ back for hopes of mercy, he sees the cute, lopsided smile on Spock’s face, looks into his knowing eyes. “Spock, you traitor!”

Jim spends the entire two minute journey trying to make Bones as uncomfortable as possible, squirming, pleading, and throwing his fists against his best friend’s back. Nearly the moment the door to Bones’ quarters opens, he’s being thrown onto the couch, landing with a punched-out ‘oof’. 

“Bohones nohoho, c’mon!” Jim pleads, putting his hands up in between the two of them as Bones straddles his hips. 

“I’m not even touchin’ ya, kid,” Bones says fondly, reaching a hand up to ruffle Jim’s hair. 

“Stop! Juhust let me go! Ihihi’m sorry!” Jim reasons, shaking his head to dismount Bones’ hand. 

“No way, kid,” Bones feigns a frown, “that Earth whiskey ain’t goin’ to make up for itself, I’ll have to drink that intergalactic slime shit for the next year because of you.”

“Ihihi’m sorry! I’ll request we go back to Earth early!”

“I’d never let you jeopardise a mission, Jim, especially the first five-year expedition in Fleet history,” Bones sighs, “but I would let you suffer for it.”

“Bohones NOHOHOHO!” Bones’ hands finally go to work, latching onto Jim’s hips, going in for the kill as soon as he starts.

“No- I- Ple-“ Jim tries to get something, anything out, but he’s overtaken by his own hearty laughter, his entire body shaking as he starts to burn pink to his ears. 

Bones can’t help but laugh along, shaking his head at Jim’s adorable reactions, “you did something pretty bad, kid. I ought to just stay here the entire time.”

Jim’s eyes shoot open, shaking his head urgently, “IHIHIHI’D DIHIHIE!” 

“Well, then tell me where to go, Jim.” Bones smirks as Jim goes impossibly more red, a sheepish expression on his face. 

“AHAHAHANAYWHERE EHEHEHELSE!” 

“Not an answer,” Bones says, drilling in. 

Jim shrieks, arching his back but only making the tickling worse as a result. “AHAHA- I- TUHUHUMMY!”

“Better,“ Bones chuckles, hands going up to Jim’s tummy. His tickling becomes incredibly soft, spidering over Jim’s stomach in the way he usually likes when he’s trying to sleep. Now, however, the soft tickling is a thousand times more flustering than it is peaceful. He giggles like a child, his head back and his nose scrunched.

“Nohoho!” He hiccups, trying to bat away Bones’ hands. 

“Ready for another spot, kid?” Bones asks, pushing Jim’s hand away. 

“Plehehease stohohop!” Jim cries.

“Alright, neck it is then.” 

Jim positively screams when Bones scratches at his collarbones, trying to put his head down but only succeeding in trapping Bones’ fingers. He hiccups, snorts, and begs, but none of it is enough to stop Bones. 

“I CAHAHAN’T I CAHAHAHAN’T!” Jim screams, kicking out and hands going everywhere. 

“Alright, alright, kid. You’re too damn cute and too damn ticklish for your own good.” Bones’ hands slow down, going back up to Jim’s hair to scratch his head, dismounting Jim to put his head in Bones’ lap.

“Ihihi-“ Jim starts, opening his eyes, “I ahaham sorry, Bohohones, reheheally. I thohohought it was the stuhuhuff from the last planet, I shohohould’ve read the label.” 

“No worries, Jim. It’s just liquor,” Bone says, his hand wandering slightly and nicking Jim’s ear, causing an adorable snort from the blonde, “I’ll drink the gross stuff with you, but you’re buying me a bottle when we get back next year.”

“Would that make me an enabler?” Jim says, stray giggles still flowing as his eyes slowly shut. 

“Oh hush, go to sleep, you damn infant.” 

Jim giggles, and within minutes he’s asleep in his best friend’s lap, head pushing closer to Bones’ hand on his head even in his slumber. 

[waywardxrhea]

Part Forty-Six: This Means War

[slow burn romance between Steve Rogers and SHIELD agent Emma Baker]

Warnings: 18+, contains humor, fluff, mental health, family trauma, romance, angst, language, violence.

installment list

Word count: 2.3k

The team returns from the Time Heist.

Emma's heart picks up its pace and her hands shake the entire time the teams are gone, even though it's less than a minute of her time. When they land back on the platform, Emma does a quick headcount and sees that someone is missing. Her eyebrows scrunch in confusion and her heart begins to race as she tries to figure out who.

Before anyone else notices though, Bruce is asking, "Did we get them all?"

Rhodes laughs and asks, "You're telling me this actually worked?"

In the meantime, Emma heads up the ramp and notices that Natasha is the one missing from the ranks and Clint is visibly distraught. She can't manage to get any words out to ask what happened though, her mind already going to the worst with a sense of dread flooding her body. She doesn't have to ask though because Bruce takes the words out of her mouth, asking him, "Clint, where's Nat?"

When Clint doesn't respond, Steve and Bruce's faces fall and Emma's hands start shaking once again. Not having it with this silence, Emma asks once again, "Where is she, Clint?"

"She's gone," he finally whispers.

Bruce loses feeling in his knees and falls at the words and Emma holds herself up on the railing, shouting, "Bullshit Clinton! Where is she?"

"She's really gone, Emma..." he mumbles weakly. "She made the decision. I tried to save her but she wouldn't let me..."

Emma opens her mouth to say something but can't find the words to say at the loss of one of her best friends in the world. Steve tries to offer her his embrace, but she pushes past him and runs outside, not wanting anyone to see her break down. Being blinded by tears, Emma doesn't see where she's running, but she ends up at the little pier by the Compound's lake. As she sits on the ledge, her mind is taken back to all the deep talks she and Natasha had at the lodge with their feet dangling in the water. Sobs overwhelm Emma as she tries to picture a world without Natasha Romanoff in it and hates every moment of it.

After a few minutes alone, there's a presence beside Emma. She knows it's Steve when he sits beside her and wraps an arm around her to hold her close. "It's not fair, this wasn't supposed to happen..." Emma whispers through her tears. She chokes on her tears as she cries, "No one was supposed to die! Especially not her!"

"Shh," Steve tries to calm her down by playing with her hands as they both cry. "It isn't fair I know, but..." he can't even finish his sentence as he himself is overcome with emotion at the loss of his dear friend. Try as he might to be optimistic through this, at the moment he can't, he's just as upset at the loss of Natasha as Emma is.

Soon enough, the rest of the group joins Emma and Steve on the dock, no one knowing what to say. After a few minutes of silence, Tony speaks up, asking, "Do we know if she had any family?"

Emma tells Tony quietly, "The only other family besides us that she had got snapped away by Thanos. We tried tracking them down a few times but couldn't find them. Granted, they could also just be really good at hiding seeing as they're all professional spies, but..."

"God, Yelena's gonna be so upset..." Clint whispers, just loud enough for Emma to hear while running his hands down his face.

"What are you doing?" Thor asks Tony which earns a look from everyone.

"I'm just asking a question," Tony tells him.

"Yeah, no, you're acting like she's dead. Why are we acting like she's dead?" Thor retorts, getting closer to Tony. There's a hint of desperation in his voice as he continues, "We have the stones, we can bring her back. Isn't that right, Cap? So stop this shit. We're the Avengers!"

This statement sparks a bit of hope in Emma until Clint tells him, "We can't get her back. It can't be undone...it can't."

This crushes Emma's hope once more and she buries her face in Steve's chest as a fresh batch of tears starts falling from her eyes. While Emma is crying, Thor is laughing and says to Clint, "Look, I'm sorry, and no offense, but you're a very earthly being and we're talking about space magic here. I think I know a bit more than you do and the word can't seems a bit too definitive yeah?"

"Look," Clint says, looking at Thor with tears in his eyes and guilt in his heart, "I know I'm outside my realm of knowledge here, but she still isn't here is she?"

"That's exactly my point, with the stones we can-"

"It can't be undone," Clint interrupts him. "Or at least that's what the red floating guy had to say about it. Maybe you should go talk to him! You grab your hammer and you go fly and talk to him!"

"Clint," Steve says in a weak voice trying to stop the fighting.

Clint nods and lowers his voice, but when he speaks again, it breaks, "It was supposed to be me... She sacrificed her life for that goddamn stone, she put her life on it, on us making this work!"

At these words, Bruce picks up one of the benches and heaves it across the lake and into the trees across the property. Once he does, he mumbles, "She's not coming back... We have to make it worth it. We have to."

Steve looks up at him and responds, "We will."

So they get to work. Within hours Tony, Bruce, and Rocket have a fully functioning nano gauntlet to affix the stones to so they can bring everyone that was snapped away back.

While this is an amazing feat, Emma can't help but not share in the enthusiasm. Ever since everyone got back without Natasha, all Emma's wanted to do is curl up in her bed and cry, but Steve insists on keeping busy so she doesn't get into a bad mental space. She knows he's right, so to appease him, Emma documents the work as the three build the gauntlet. She uses her drone to document but keeps it in stealth mode so as to not distract them as they work.

As Tony is working, he asks Emma, "So, where'd you get that new drone huh? Replaced mine with something better?"

"Not replaced, just upgraded most of it," Emma replies monotonously as she types on her laptop to document their work as she films.

"You know, that really hurts, Newsie," Tony tries to tease to lighten the mood which only earns a pissed-off look from Emma.

"Now's not the time for snarky remarks, Stark," Steve tells him as he walks into the lab.

He makes his way over to Emma and kisses her temple before giving her a hug from the side. "Looks like you've been doing some good work," he tells her.

Emma looks up at him and says, "And it looks like you've been crying, love. What about keeping busy?"

"You got me there," he admits quietly as Emma stands up to give him a comforting hug which he gladly relaxes into.

"Hey you two, it's done," Bruce informs them from across the lab.

They gather near the gauntlet and Rocket asks, "Now...who's gonna snap their freakin fingers?"

"I'll do it," Thor volunteers while walking over quickly about to grab it.

"Wait, Thor, wait," Steve tells him while holding out his arm. "We need to think this through. Those stones did damage to Thanos, who knows what they'll do to us."

"Oh, so we're just sitting around waiting now?" Thor asks.

"I think that we should discuss this first," Scott says as he walks into the room.

"Look, just standing around looking at the gauntlet isn't going to bring everyone back, and I for one am ready to do that. I'm the strongest Avenger, so this should fall onto me." At this statement, a short verbal argument ensues between Thor, Tony, and Steve which is stopped by Thor getting emotional and adding, "Just let me do something good. Something right."

"Thor, it's not just the fact that that glove has enough energy to light up a continent, you're just in no condition to withstand it and I just want to look out for you buddy," Tony tells him.

"What do you think is coursing through my veins right now?" Thor asks.

Rhodes looks at him and asks, "Cheese whiz?"

Thor gives Rhodes a look and whispers, "Lightning."

"Lightning won't help you here, pal," Bruce informs him. "It's gotta be me. You heard what Steve said. We saw what those stones did to Thanos, they almost killed him. None of you would survive the power of them all at once."

Steve speaks up and asks, "Well how do you know you will?"

"I don't," Bruce tells him. "The radiation's mostly gamma though, it's like I was meant to do this."

He sighs, picks up the gauntlet, and examines it for a few moments before Tony asks, "Are you ready?"

"Let's do it," he replies.

"Okay remember, we bring back everyone Thanos snapped away five years ago. Don't change anything from the past five years."

"Got it," he replies as he engages the gauntlet so it'll conform to the size of his hand.

As Bruce gets ready to snap, the others are all suited up in their combat attire, everyone except Emma who hadn't had the energy or heart to go find one of Natasha or Maria's old suits to wear. To compensate though, Emma asks SAM to have the drone form a forcefield between her and Bruce just in case anything happens.

Tony gets FRIDAY to close off all the windows and doors in the facility in case of damage and Emma's heart rate picks up as the time grows closer. Steve takes Emma's hand in his unoccupied one and squeezes it as she grabs onto the dog tags around her neck with the other hand, hoping to see Sam soon.

Bruce gets the gauntlet on his hand which makes all the colors of the stones and their energy begin to course through him, knocking him to the floor with their power. He groans in pain, so Thor shouts, "Take it off!"

Steve drops Emma's hand to hold it out in front of Thor, telling him to stop before asking Bruce, "Are you okay?"

When he doesn't answer, Tony adds urgently, "Talk to me Banner."

At this point, Bruce's whole arm is lit up with power and his clothes are burning, but he manages to get out, "I'm okay!" After a few more seconds of struggling, he finally manages to snap his fingers, falling to the floor temporarily unconscious from his effort. Everyone gathers around him quickly to make sure he's okay, Tony cooling off his arm with a mixture of water and medication from his suit. "Did it work?" Bruce asks quietly.

Thor replies first, saying, "We're not sure yet. It's okay though, I'm sure it did!"

As the doors and windows are revealed once more, Scott starts to walk to the window to look outside while Emma offers to head to the kitchen to make Bruce some tea and get him some food after what he just endured.

Across the room, Clint answers his cell phone which is ringing with a call from his wife, so before Emma can head out of the room to get Bruce's refreshments, she looks over to Steve with hope in her eyes. Even though Emma's mind is still clouded with the loss of Natasha, the knowledge that Sam, Maria, and Wanda are back gives her the strength to smile a bit as she says, "That means they're back." Her voice breaks as she holds onto Sam's dog tag as if her life depends on it.

Steve smiles and nods, but before he can say anything in response, a large shadow that is looming above them in the sky starts raining down an onslaught of blasts, destroying the building quickly. As the blasts tear the building apart, Steve doesn't have time to reach out to protect Emma before she's already out of sight.

The blasts and the impact from the rubble knock Steve out temporarily, but he's roused when Tony finds him. "Hey, if you lose this thing one more time I'm keeping it," Tony tells him as he gives Steve a hand up and hands off the shield that got lost in the blast.

Steve looks around and whispers, "Emma..." Panic fills his mind as he looks at his mangled-up surroundings. Knowing that Emma was only wearing street clothes, he knows it will have taken a miracle for her to not have gotten injured... This time as he shouts her name hoping she isn't too far away, a sense of dread starts to fill his body and he kicks himself for not pushing her to wear something more protective.

"Steve, calm down," Tony cautions while putting a hand on his shoulder.

Panicking, Steve unintentionally snaps at Tony, shouting, "You know damn well you would be doing the same thing if it was Pepper, Tony!"

"You got me there pal, but right now we have bigger fish to fry. A large purple fish that's out there waiting for us," Tony tells him.

As he says this, Steve looks down at his feet and sees Sam's dog tags on the ground and he falls to his knees. "Oh my God, Emma...no, no, no..." he whispers as he picks up the chain.

She can't be gone...she can't.

Tony's jaw drops slightly at what he's seeing, but he puts a hand on Steve's shoulder and says, "That doesn't confirm anything."

"That's what dog tags are for Stark, to identify the dead..." Steve whispers, his voice breaking. He lets a few tears fall before his anger sets in at the situation. He tucks the necklace away into a pouch on his belt and grits his teeth as he starts to make his way to Thanos, saying, "That son of a bitch is gonna pay for this..."

next chapter

taglist: @mrsevans90

[moririki]

⤷ MORE THAN YOU'D BARGAIN FOR

DENJI X READER -> 1.7K
when it comes to a fool blinded by love, it sure hurts to have the short end of the stick

REQUEST -> ✰
CONTAINS -> angst, friends with benefits‼️, happy ending bc i'm weak like that, denji not knowing how to process emotions, very loose college!au cos i'm lazy, makima being slightly antagonised because fuck her, mentions of sex but nothing super explicit i don't think
MORI'S THOUGHTS -> thinking about denji's hands. i want to learn how to animate manga panels now so i can do a csm edit. also the writing style got kinda boring im SORRY

HEARTBREAK WAS ALWAYS BOUND TO HAPPEN IN THESE SORT OF RELATIONSHIPS. anyone with a pair of eyes and ears could give a clear answer to the question "who does denji like?" and no matter how much you wanted that answer to change, it would never be you.

even when the blonde boy had been so insistent on his heart belonging to another, he still had urges. so under the influence of one too many bottles of alcohol, it was a fairly easy decision for both of you to fall into bed together. more than once. more than you'd care to admit.

being with denji was nice. he was funny, sweet at times and vulgar during the others, and you found yourself repeating a mantra of don't catch feelings for your friend during your time together. and truth be told, it was hard not to, even when you and denji had finished your business and the topic of conversation always seemed to make its way back to makima.

it left a bitter taste in your mouth when denji acted like nothing had happened between the pair of you in other settings. the bitterness turned sour when you realised that there was no reason for him to have to either, and you cursed yourself when you realised you had done the worst thing possible and gone and fallen for your friend who so clearly wouldn't like you back.

but there were times where you thought that you just might have a chance.

even though your cursed your heart for fluttering and rearing its head each time so willingly at denji's mercy, you couldn't help but take every offhand action of his as a ray of hope. with the way his hands engulfed yours to anchor himself as he thrusted into you, the way his lips left urgent kisses on your lips as you panted beneath him, the way he whispered sweet nothings into your ear as you cried out in ecstasy.

and even when you were lying next to each other in his bed, catching your breath. you would turn to look at his face sometimes, only to see him staring at you already with a look in his eyes that could only be described as wistful. but you were a fool to think that you could ever upseat makima in denji's eyes.

false hope could only get you so far.

with his breath tickling the back of your neck and his large hand rubbing patterns into your hip, this false hope really had gotten you somewhere. but all good things must come to an end. words that you dreaded to say weighed heavy on your tongue, but you dragged yourself along, lifting them just enough to feel them escape your lips before you could really stop them.

"denji, what are we?"

you felt the hand that rested on you go still, and the arm that was poised as a pillow for you went rigid. hell, the boy that was holding you so close to his chest had practically stopped breathing, and you felt your eyelids slide shut in a bitter defeat before you heard another word. it's not like you needed them to understand how he felt, anyway.

"we're friends, aren't we?" his tone was so controlled, so even and level and unlike the denji that you knew and, dare you say it, loved. it sent another shot tubneling straight through your heart, and you were glad that you were currently facing away from him. you wouldn't be able to handle seeing the look on his face as all of your tentative hopes were crushed under his heel. all you wanted to do was curl in on yourself and maybe try to cry away the numbness that was invading your body from the chest outward.

you raised a shaking hand to push denji's own off of you, and you felt the mattress underneath you creak as the boy shifted in confusion at your behaviour.

"y/n?"

your kept your back turned to him as you got out of his bed, pulling on your own clothed and scowling in frustration when you couldn't find your shirt anywhere. you were seconds away from letting the first droplets fall, and you did not want to let denji see.

you snagged some random material of a shirt off of the bedroom floor, yanking it over your head and turning to face denji with a face that you hoped wasn't too scrunched from holding back your tears.

"we're not just friends and you fucking know it."

you didn't have time to register his wounded facial expression or the pleading calls of your name that he cast towards your retreating figure, but you grabbed your shoes before leaving his dorm, shutting the door behind you a little too forcefully and storming off back to your own room.

you must look insane, padding along the halls with no shoes as angry tears streaked down your face and you tried your best not to audibly sob. by the time you had made it back to your room your eyes were streaming, and you flopped on your bed with little regard for anything else other than crying your eyes out.

truth be told, after that fateful night and the best cry of your life you felt much better. you knew where you stood, you had your feelings sorted out, and you knew that a little distance would really help you to finally move on from your friend.

now, if only denji would stop calling and texting you like nothing had happened.

you felt like you could scream when you saw a notification from him, asking if you wanted to study for the test that you had next week. you bit back the petty urge to ask him if he wanted to study with you as just friends, instead opting to turn your phone off and bury your face in your pillow once again.

matters of the heart take time, after all.

on denji's end, things weren't looking much better. he brushed off his confusion at your actions and words when you had left so abruptly the other day, only to find himself staring at his ceiling trying to decipher his feelings and what the hell you had meant.

he likes makima. and he has, for a while now. he could count on one hand the amount of times he had interacted with the girl who sat in front of him in the lecture hall, and every time had been met with this strange giddy feeling in his chest. though it was rare, he knew that feeling.

but the one he felt right now was so, so, different. when the door clicked shut behind you, it felt like a piece of him had up and left along with you. the very reason that he had accelerated things so far in your relationship was because of how right things felt with you. the slightest graze of your fingertips across his chest didn't light any fireworks in his mind, but it's like warmth perforated his skin and was injected straight into him from you.

truth be told, that feeling was the most addicting he had ever felt. and when he heard that air of finality right after the door shut behind you, it didn't take long for denji to realise just how cold everything felt without you.

but he still liked makima, right?

that giddy feeling in his chest he got from her was enough to fill the you-shaped hole, right?

you not talking to him wasn't what made his heart hurt, right?

he only realised just how wrong he had it when he talked to makima for the fourth time ever. she had turned in her seat, even smiling at him and asking for a pen, and all that came to mind was how much he missed your smile.

hell, he missed everything. the sound of your laugh, the smell of your hair. the way you fit against him and said his name. and that's when he realised this you-related feeling was.

longing.

there was a knock on your door. and another. you groaned, rolling over to check the time to see that it was three in the morning.

by the time you had cracked your door open you saw a flash of blond hair and a face all-too-familiar, you knew it was too late to slam your door shut. denji's face perked up, and you already knew that you were done for.

he lifted his hand, revealing a pretty albeit crumpled bouquet of flowers. you almost giggled to yourself, guessing that the mastermind of that romantic gesture was most likely denji's roommate aki. but it was appreciated, nonetheless.

"what do you want, denji?" you were painfully aware of just how much of a mess you looked right now- eyes still red around the rim from how many self-pitying tears you had shed over this entire situation.

denji's mouth and opened and closed, and you sighed against your barely open door which still had a chain on it.

"i'm not in the mood, denji."

"no, no, it's just that i wanted to say that i've finally figured out what we are." it appears tgat your friend finally found his voice. you looked him in the eye again, trying not to let the hope in your heart build itself too high. "we're way more than friends, y/n."

you felt any resistance crumble at those words, and the sheepish smile on your face grew.

"so, can i come in?" you smiled at denji, shutting your door to undo the latch before opening it again, wide enough to let him back in to your life. consider him a weakness of yours.

the first thing denji did when he crossed the threshold of your door was wrap his arms around you, dried tears and crumpled flowers and all, and bury his face in your hair. the only words he had to offer was a mumbled i miss you into your skin, and you felt your body melt against him like it had so many times before.

when you finally broke apart, you couldn't help but wonder.

"so, what are the flowers for denji?" the boy before you blushed, his eyes flitting off to the side. he raised a hand to the back of his neck, taking a breath to summon some courage.

"i was hoping... that i could take you out on a date. or be your boyfriend. something like that."

"what?" denji was still bright red, though his eyes were locked onto yours.

"you heard me." you smiled once again, taking a step forwards and effectively closing the distance between you two.

"i would love to."

take a look at the menu - ,, ⚖️ ·˚ ༘ ꒱

[b4nka1]

Hey so!! What about emotional hurt/comfort with Kakashi? Hurt reader in particular? Maybe if you don't mind specifics they have an issue with being told they break everything they touch their whole life and he comforts them about it? Also do you do nonbinary/trans readers

hi love! i didn't exactly get what you meant by break but i will write it metaphorically AND literally here. and i'm sorry, i have very less experience with nonbinary or trans readers to write in their pov. i write for gender neutral readers, and i'd be glad if someone explained trans and nonbinary terms to me so that i can write more content for all my readers <3

warnings: angst, major character death!

again, you lost another comrade. a close one. you worked with her for quite a long time and you both grew attached to each other, but she ended up doing while coming across an akatsuki member.

with slumped shoulders, red, teary eyes and a heavy heart you went back home, dropping onto your bed the moment you stepped in. burying your face in your hands, you cried out, loud. your sobs echoed through the entire room, your hitai-ate coming off lose and falling onto the bed.

that put you under depression. it was always your comrades who died in the hands of akatsuki. your touch was considered lethal at this point, no one wanted to work with you anymore. whoever did, ended up dead in the hands of the akatsuki.

the loud sobs turned into quiet whimpers. soon the atmosphere fell quiet, and you took the hitae-ate into your hand, and stared at the konohagakure's symbol on it. maybe you weren't fit to be a ninja. maybe you were meant to be just a civilian. maybe you weren't meant to be born into the namikaze clan. maybe your uncle minato trained you for nothing.

a million thoughts ran through your head, and you hadn't noticed when the window opened and an intruder walked in.

"yo!" a voice echoed and you screamed, not sensing the sudden presence. kakashi put his hands up in defence, and you calmed a little.

"what are you doing here?" you asked him with a slight frown in your voice. "i just came to check up on you- wait, have you been crying?" he asked with concern, stepping closer to you, which only made you step back.

he stepped closer, and you stepped back, till your back hit the wall, and till his figure was towering over you. "darling," he started, pressing his forehead close to yours and you swore your heart jumped a beat and pink flushing your cheeks and ears.

"please don't touch me...i don't want anything to happen to you as well...all my comrades died in the hands of akatsuki, even asuma. i wouldn't be able to handle the pain of another comrade of mine dying..." you trailed off, making kakashi scrunch his brows in worry.

kakashi was your best friend, a comrade, nothing more. why was he calling you darling? why was he so close to you? why are your foreheads touching? before anymore questions ran through your head, he gently cupped your cheek.

"it's not like that. what makes you think that touching you or you touching me would kill me? it's all bullshit, the villagers have a sick mind if they think that. death is in everyone's fate. it comes when it wants to. it is unstoppable. your touch in fact, does things to my heart..." he trailed off, holding your chin in his hands.

your hands raised, wanting to cup his cheeks, but you stopped midway, shaking your head and pulling them away. "kakashi, these hands have only held weapons, killed numerous people, have been stained with blood that isn't mine. and you're too precious to me to be held by these filth of hands...please, no." you looked down, tears building up in your eyes again.

kakashi sighed, taking your hands in his and he pressed your palms to his cheeks. "not to be selfish, but if anything, they're made to hold me, convince me that you're there with me. convince you that you're not alone and you have me." he smiled, kissing your palm softly.

the second day after the incident, there kakashi laid, half his body buried under the ground as he ran out of chakra while protecting choji, dead. you saw this just before you heard your neck being snapped by pain, leading you into darkness forever with your beloved.

[jangofctts]

As You Are (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence and injuries, light choking, brief thigh riding/grinding, vaginal fingering with them metal fingies, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (dont be a dick, wrap that stick), fucking on sam’s couch

a/n: ok hi this fic is very self indulgent bUT YKNOW WHAT WHO CARES EKJHEJHKEJH this is my first fic for marvel and AH I hope I did Bucky justice. ENJOY YALL

This had been a terrible idea. 

Right from the minute you tailed after he and Sam to the Baron’s extensive vintage car storage. Bucky had explicitly withheld any and all information regarding this little excursion to protect you but of course you’d shown up—none too jazzed about the little stunt Bucky pulled regarding the Baron. Fair. 

You were right—Bucky should have called but that overwhelming guilt of dragging you into another one of his problems stopped him from pressing that little call button. He never wanted to be the reason you ended up back on the run again. Though judging by the way things were going, it was more than likely you’d be in prison by the end of the week. 

Luck had your back in that sort of regard—too bad it could never rescue you from your own stubbornness and grief regarding that damn shield. 

You’d taken a devastatingly hard hit from Walker—a fractured orbital, a split lip and a dislocated shoulder. All preventable—if only Bucky kept better track of you before you showed up in that warehouse alone. Left to fight the shadow of what was once a symbol of hope for some—another man playing dress-up in something that will never belong to him. 

It was just their luck Bucky and Sam arrived in time—preventing you from becoming another red stain of violence splattered over that shield. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not afraid of much—but fuck. Seeing you crumpled over the concrete floor, all bloodied and struggling to raise a hand to protect your face… It was the same feeling as injecting his veins with a pure shot of adrenaline and anger shrouded in fear. He promised Steve he’d look after you… 

And as Sam carried you out of that warehouse you had the gall to tenderly tell them that you were just fine—as if your mouth weren’t full of blood and a face blooming with patchy bruises. The jealousy that sparked through Bucky’s chest when you clung to Sam’s chest did nothing to help that dark festering pit inside his ribcage he’s attempting to suture back together.

Bucky clenches his jaw. At least you’re asleep now. Curled up against the window, holding your injured arm in a way that limited the turbulence from jostling it. It’s the first time Bucky would describe you as fragile. He know’s you’re anything but that—stubborn mostly—yet most of all brave. It’s what Steve admired most about you—what Bucky loves most about you too. That vibrant spark flowing through your blood and how you’re not afraid to shout along to your favorite songs despite the odd looks you get. Bucky envies how self-assured you are, how you’ll never lose yourself because you know just where you’re headed. He wishes he still had that sort of drive instead of all this uncertainty and guilt clouding each muscle and fibre in his body.      

Bucky doesn’t realize the jet has landed until Sam stands and and places a large hand over your shoulder. Your face scrunches as you whine and curl further into your seat. “C’mon, kiddo.” You grumble something inaudible. “You want me to carry you?”

The delicate plates of vibranium clink together as Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, jealousy flaring hot and bright. He quickly stands, too fast to be considering anything less than awkward. Sam’s brow quirks. “I can do it.”   

“It’s cool, man,” Sam says as he scoops one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “I got her.”

Bucky bristles. Whatever. 

It’s not like you and him have anything together. A one sided plague of affection that you’ll never know about—he wants to tell you. Fuck, the words burn through his tongue and collect like ashes between his teeth and yet they are never voiced from self sabotage. There’s no possible way to voice how you’ve haunted his thoughts and his dream since the moment his eyes met yours. How he’s memorized the lines of your smile and the sweet sound of your laugh, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. Bucky would know you deaf, blind, numb, in this world or any other twisted reality. 

He had said that he wasn’t afraid of much, but that’s not entirely true. Eternity, oblivion, crowded rooms, being alone too long. And you. You terrify him. You have the power to pluck at the very strings of his soul and unravel him completely until he’s no more—and you don’t even know it. Bucky Barnes is less afraid of dying than he is of loosing you but that fear never once provides him the courage to tell you. You may not be a scribbled name in his book, but he still hopes that one day he’ll earn the chance to strike his cowardice and put to rest the wretched ache in his heart that he feels for you. 

He wishes he told you in Wakanda, after the Blip, Riga, and right this instant. He watches Sam carry you out of the jet—what’s a little more time?

                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The sun is beginning to melt into the horizon, turning the expanse of water into molten gold and shimmering blues. The hazy humidity from the late afternoon heat collects at the back of Bucky’s neck and the light breeze does nothing to cool. Bucky sighs and swipes at the bead of sweat creeping down his forehead with the back of his hand—he glances up. 

A ghost of a smile creeps across his lips. You’re exactly where he and Sam left you three hours ago. Surprising to be quite honest—you never did like to stay in one place for longer than ten minutes. You’re a pain in his ass, simply said.  

But now—now you’re haphazardly splayed out on the lawn chair you were forced into, a juice box loosely held in your good hand while the other still remains in the sling. He can’t tell if you’re asleep—Steve’s sunglasses do an excellent job of hiding your eyes. Yet as Bucky wanders closer, your head rolls to your right in greeting. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know,” you grumble, lifting the juice box to your mouth. Your lips purse around the plastic straw. “And before you ask—yes, I have a very important job I’m currently overseeing.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “What—hogging the lawn chair?”

“No—“ You huff. You gesture with your juice box at the large cooler your sandaled feet are propped up on. “I’m the booze master. God of the ale, destroyer of sobriety—“

“Alright, Booze Master,” Bucky interrupts with a snort. “Why don’t you bestow upon me a beer, your majesty.”

You tap your index finger over your chin as a lazy smile fixes itself over your lips. “Granted.”

You slide your legs off the cooler and with a pained grunt you shift forward. Bucky shoots his arm out and steadies you back against the chair by your shoulder before you get any further. Your face pulls into a grimace.

“I got it, kid. Relax.”

Bucky pops open the cooler and fishes out a beer and pops the cap off between his left index finger and thumb. You watch with a frown, “I could’ve done that for you.” 

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes a seat on the cooler. The bitter fizz floods his tastebuds as he takes a sip of his drink, a tangible silence blanketing the space between you. He gets it—people like he and you can never settle for complacency. As if the rest isn’t deserved despite the bloody knuckles and the shattered glass that slices through skin—the bruises and the broken bones. None of it is enough—not worthwhile to preserve yourself when other’s so desperately need your help. 

Or maybe it’s penance. 

Bucky sure as shit finds himself swallowed by the black maw of guilt each and every day. Battling the never ending shadow of doubt that clings to his soul like glitter to a an old carpet. Bucky believes it’s safe to say that you’re the same—every good deed you do added to the imaginary scale weighing against the bad despite it feeling hollow and insurmountable. Paying in blood to equate the amount you’ve spilled. A hopeless battle you both insist on fighting. 

Bucky sighs through his nose, bends at the waist and collects both your ankles in his left hand. You let him lift them both and settle your legs over his knees. You shiver, an eruption of goosebumps rushing up your skin at the cold metallic shock of Bucky’s vibranium thumb scrapinh over your bare flesh.

Bucky’s lips tilt down ever so slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” you rush to say before he has the chance to flee. “S’just cold.” 

His hum reverberates low in his chest as those cerulean blue eyes fall to his hands. You clench your jaw until your teeth ache as his left thumb continues to stroke over the delicate skin covering the joint of your ankle. This is…new…

You’d been close with Steve and Sam, and by proxy Bucky—in some weird adjunct way. Compared to Sam’s teasing bumps of the shoulder and that infectious laugh far more addicting than the golden liquor of the sun, Bucky is frigid. Still attempting to shake off the whole Winter Soldier thing that’s molded onto his bones like stubborn permafrost. Touch had always been tricky with him—even a friendly pat over the back or a simple tap to the harm had him tensing under the touch—muscle and steel bunching to prepare for a harsh blow that would never arrive. Never from you.         

Bucky rarely sought out your physical comfort—you were always the one to initiate those friendly touches even if he was the type to just sit and ignore you like a grouchy old cat barely clinging onto that ninth life. The first time he breached that fragile barrier was in Wakanda—something in Bucky cracked and split into a cavernous ravine of nebulosity. Stitches shred apart then stapled back together as he grabbed your arm and wrestled you into a bone-crushing hug. You didn’t need to ask to realize he cried the entire time, gripping your shirt like a lifeline while he shuddered and sobbed into the crook of your neck. To him everything from the rain to silk sheets felt like shrapnel and the stars tasted like old blood and the past of things long gone—yet you were familiar. 

A comfort for the much needed healing of the scattered pieces of a man. You don’t mind helping him pick up the tidbits and reattach them with veins of silver. It’s the least you can do. 

The second time occurred after the loss of Steve. Some part of you had been wrenched out with his departure and he never bothered to return it. It doesn’t matter anymore—the hollow ache had been soothed with the Winter Soldier clutching you to his chest until you drifted off into a fitful sleep. A tether to a new reality you both partake in. 

Which brings you to now. There’s no cathartic reasoning behind his touch…it’s simple…a risky leap of faith into unknown territory. Bucky’s eyes lift to meet yours—curiosity swimming in those icy irises. You don’t mind—in fact you quite like the calloused warmth of his hand and the opposing chilly metal one tentatively exploring your exposed skin. 

“You have a scar here,” Bucky murmurs, skimming the thumb made up of flesh and sinew over the mottled skin occupying the crease of where the top of your foot meets your ankle. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I fell on barbed wire.”

“Clumsy,” he chides, quirking a dark brow. 

Your shoulders bounce with a huff. “I was like—twelve when it happened, James.”

His mouth quirks in a half smile, quite liking the validation of his name in the way your mouth speaks it. He wonders if you know the weight of granting you that leeway of calling him that. Shit—he doesn’t care what you call him, everything sounds lovely when you say it. 

There’s another silence—holding your breath until something splits and shatters into a million pieces. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t want anything more than just friendship with Bucky but fear of rejection is a tricky thing. You take the easy way out and offer him the chance of something more on a silver platter. 

“Bucky?”

His fingers whisper up your shin as he inclines his head.              

“I’m tired. Drive me back to Sam’s?”

“Sure thing, doll.” 

                            -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bucky holds the door open for you as you stumble in, escaping the hazy southern heat. He disappears into the kitchen as you make a beeline straight for the couch, sighing loudly once the plush cushions meet your back. You lazily lift your head once you hear his familiar footfalls nearing. 

With him he brings two Otterpops, one blue raspberry and the other cherry. Once he hands it to you he takes a seat on your left, close enough that his thigh and shoulder bumps against yours. “Don’t tell Sarah’s kids that these were the last ones.”

You roll your eyes and promptly stick the Otterpop into you mouth. “‘M ain’t no snitch.”

His low chuckle reverberates through his chest. The silence that follows isn’t an awkward one as you enjoy the cold treat—it’s filled with the humming cicada bugs outside and the breeze through the wind chimes. Comfortable with the normalcy—just a couple of regular old people enjoying life for a suspended amount of seconds.  

Once you finish the Otter Pop, you crumple the plastic up and rest it on the coffee table. He does the same—hints of the blue syrup sticking to the cracks of his plush lips. You force yourself to avert your eyes. You cheeks heat with a flush as you rush to occupy your mind with anything but wild fantasies of Bucky’s mouth. You lean forward again, pointedly ignoring the way Bucky’s eyes track your movements as you shuck off your sling, the prickle of unused muscles and bruised ligaments rushing through the limb. You wince as you slowly roll your shoulder. 

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw clenches. You sigh—he’s still blaming himself for your injuries. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not everyone has freaky healing powers, Buck,” you snort. You rush to appease him when he frowns. “It’s getting better though. Still can’t sleep on it—but eh.” 

“I’m sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you tell him he’ll never believe you. That’s something only he can fix. Doesn’t stop you from telling him anyway. “Stop blaming yourself for my idiocy. I made my choice and paid the price for it.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to his hands. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. Steve told me to look after you.”

Your heart constricts within your chest like a fist. You inhale and reach out to rest your hand over his wrist. “Funny—he told me the same thing about you.”

It surprises him—his dark brows furrow as his mouth parts, but nothing comes forth. Grappling with the right words that fit with what he feels. He’s still learning how to give his soul a name that fits. Learning how to take the dark, twisted bramble of his heart and make it into something that doesn’t ache each time it beats. He’s still learning how to look himself in the eyes, point to himself and say that there’s nothing frightening in there. Not anymore. No more. 

You suck in a breath and muster up the embers of courage. Here goes nothing— 

You cup Bucky’s cheek, the scrape of stubble welcome against your warm palm as you gently turn his face to look at you. His eyes drift to yours when the mumbled syllables of his name tumble from your lips. His eyes are framed with dark circles of wildflower bruises, his small smile a moonbeam stark against battered skin. You’ve dreamt so many times of swallowing it whole and pressing him close enough that your heartstrings become entangled with no hope of separation. But that’s something for him to decide. 

You drop your hand cradling Bucky’s jaw, but before your hand completely falls Bucky surges forward. His large hands rush to cup your face, swallowing your noise of surprise as his plush lips fall onto yours. The syrupy flavor of a Blue Raspberry Otter Pop he stole from Sarah’s freezer lingers on Bucky’s mouth, mixed in with the smell of old leather and cracked cardamom. Bucky nips at your bottom lip, tugging once and then rolling it between the blunt enamel of his teeth. Despite all the bad jokes regarding his age and senior citizen status—fuck he’s a damn good kisser. Compared to him you feel clumsy, sloppy, but no matter how hard you search for his distaste he doesn't seem to care in the slightest—if anything he’s pulling you closer. 

Bucky’s kisses may taste like the middle of June and a first love, but desperation lines every action like a wound with jagged edges. It’s a slow process learning to be free, but one day he’ll transform into starlight—and instead of a kiss like fire, it’ll be like touching your lips to a constellation’s aureate mouth.   

When Bucky pulls away, sucking in air and resting his forehead on yours, you catch a whiff of his hair. Freshly washed and smelling a bit like Sam’s shampoo. Your lips quirk. You’ll make sure to keep that a secret from Sam.

You pull back just enough to meet his eye, resting your palm over his vibranium hand that still cups your cheek. “Am I the first person you’ve kissed since the stone ages?”

His lips pull into a cheeky smile. “Maybe.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, skating your palm down the front of his shirt, the heat of his skin near searing through the fabric. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do, huh?”

Bucky’s lips smother your small moan as he drags you into another kiss. You can feel his smile as he murmurs his agreement between desperate kisses and the enticing warmth of his tongue skimming along yours. The next time you part for air, Bucky drops his strong hands from your face to instead wrap them around the curve of your hips. He tugs you over his right thigh with ease and breathes a gentle sigh of your name, beginning to pepper kisses over you cheek and down the slope of your jaw.

Bucky reaches your ear and carefully nibbles the cartilage, his voice a warm scrape in your ear. “I want you.”

It’s such a simple phrase…and yet…it tears through you and pools like a heavy weight right to your center. “Then take me.”

Quick as a strike of a match, you’re tipped backwards, cradled right between the arm of the couch and the back of it. Heat rushes through each limb and gathers in your cheeks as Bucky’s vibranium fingers skate up your chest and curl around the column of your throat—that hardened soldier he’s tried to bury bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. You don’t care. You gasp into his mouth as he squeezes ever so slightly while he pushes a firm thigh between your legs. Shit—this is how you’re gonna die—grinding on Bucky’s muscled leg while he’s got a hand around your throat. 

What a way to go.    

With his other hand he grips the meat of your thigh and pulls you higher, grinding the rough material of his jeans covering his crotch into yours. You whine and arch into him. You need more. 

You both stay here for a good while up until it feels like you’re ready to burst at the seems if you don’t have him now. Bucky is no better—cheeks flushed as he fumbles with the zipper to relieve the noticeable bulge straining against it. Impatient and needy, you shoo away his hands and do it yourself, easily sliding your warm hand down his navel and over his boxers to palm at his cock. Bucky’s hand twitches around your neck, a sweet groan filling the air when you softly squeeze him through the elastic.

“Fuck, you’re gonna…” Bucky trails off and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. “Gonna make me cum in my pants if you don’t—don’t stop.”

While the thought is tempting, you want this to last just a little bit longer. Rush after the glorious high of just being near him, his kisses, everything about him. Bucky grunts at the loss of your hand and mouths a wet trail of sloppy kisses up your neck and returns to your lips. When you part he sweeps a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind your ear. He smiles softly.

“Can I try something?” He breaths. Before he can even tell you what his idea is, you’re happily nodding along. “Wanna taste you. Been thinking about it ever since Wakanda.”

Oof. His words shoot straight your center. “Bucky—why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

His mouth quirks. “You make me nervous.”

Rolling your eyes you plant a kiss on his forehead and grant him his simple desire. Bucky sits and slides to the floor, close enough that he’s still able to hover over you. You lift your hips as Bucky tugs your shorts and underwear down and off your legs. Besides the general anxieties of being half naked in front of an incredibly attractive man and performing something so sinful on a friend’s couch—there’s a strange stroke of pride that alights through each of your vertebrae. A powerful man willingly dropping to his knees to please you. 

Bucky shoots you a smile and slides his hands around your ribcage, bends forward slightly and captures you mouth in a deep kiss. He parts and nips down your jaw and over your throat, sliding his tongue over the marks he leaves with his teeth as if to soothe the slight sting. You whine and arch into him as he slides lower, leaving an obvious trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake until he reaches the collar of your shirt. Bucky moves his palms under the fabric to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples that peak through your bra. You suck in a shaky breath when Bucky catches the pebbled bud between his forefinger and thumb, the hard vibranium of his fingers scraping over it. A low hum rumbles through his chest as he leans forward to playfully nip at your collarbone.

“I wanna see you naked.” Bucky admits as he slips his hands out of your shirt. You shiver as those chilly metal fingers gently come to rest on the outside of your bare thighs. 

“Not here, Buck,” you sigh. “T-they—fuck—they can come back any minute.”

Bucky quirks a brow, eyes dropping between your legs, then back up with a smirk. His plush lips part, yet before he can disprove your silly point—that your bare ass is already out and taking off the shirt would barely make a difference—you interject. 

“Shut up.”

His shoulders bounce with a chuckle. “You have such a way with words, y’know that?”

You make a noise low in your throat and reach out to sharply tug his ear. He easily bats your hand aside, hooks his hands under your ass and hauls until you’re all but hanging over the edge of the cushions. You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core as Bucky lowers himself and wedges his shoulder between your thighs. He slides his hand over your calfs and wrestles them over his broad shoulders—earning a perfect view of your pussy. You’re already wet—worked up and running on borrowed time. You roll your head back onto the back of the couch and clench your jaw. You don’t want to rush him but Christ—you really don’t want Sam or Sarah to find you like this.   

It feels like ages before Bucky’s lips touch your belly and then your navel with his warm tongue. With a grunt he shoves your shirt up to your breasts and circles your bellybutton with the tip of his tongue—his enhanced strength easily pinning you down as you jerk and giggle.

Bucky picks up his head and grins. “Try and hold still, doll.”

No sharp retort comes to mind. Fuck—he’s already got you so expertly wrapped around his finger. 

Bucky hums, satisfied with your weak nod and continues on.  

Bucky’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver that rushes through your body. They tickle towards the apex of your thighs and settle close enough to reach your aching center. He pauses for a moment and while you know he’s there, you curse when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They gently work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction as your body adjusts to the feel of flash and vibranium. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. 

Unsatisfied with simply touching you, Bucky shifts his weight to better reach your core. “Fuck—you’re so pretty.”   

There's a moment just before Bucky swoops down, face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, warm breath fan across you inner thighs. Anticipation grips your heart with an iron hold, and then— Bucky licks a broad stripe from the base of your cunt all the way up to your swollen clit. His mouth is molten, tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his hair. Bucky grunts against you as you drag him closer by the short strands—greedy for any and all touch he gifts you. Bucky’s mouth slips around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as a quiet moan wrenches free from your vocal cords.  

He trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your soaking entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your cunt, skips over it completely to catch the wetness before it leaks over the couch. Bucky opens his mouth wide and groans in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. Desperation lingers on his tongue and all you are is the honey sweet taste of salvation. 

“Shit—Bucky,” you cry, throwing your hips forward in search of more friction.

It's perfect. So fucking delicious. 

You tense as the vibranium tips of his fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The chilly digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. With a self-satisfied grin, Bucky thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that makes everything ache with desire. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and imperceptible metal plating dragging along your walls pure torture. Fuck—he’s going to be the death of you—

Bucky’s mouth dips down a second time and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than a fucking freight train. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Bucky continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Supernovas implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jet fuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Bucky murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 

Your brain swims in hazy bliss as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it damn near hurts. You're too sensitive. Nerves rubbed raw and still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. Bucky is all too happy to remain between your legs—takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his hot tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a vibranium razor against bare flesh. Your thighs shake around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves. You cry out as an orgasm floods through you veins, rupturing each cell in your being with molten pleasure. Your core pulses around Bucky’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease to a fading throb. You whine and push at his forehead because he's still going. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. 

“Feel good?” Bucky purrs, resting his cheek on your thigh. 

If judging by the way you thighs still quiver and your chest heaves—then yeah—it felt good. 

Cheeky bastard.  

“Get up here—“

You grapple with his shirt, fisting the thin fabric, but he’s heavy and your entire body feels like jello. Your grip strength is all but laughable at the moment as Bucky clambers back onto the couch and grabs both of your legs, slotting his narrow hips between them. One leg is stuck against the back of the couch while the other hangs off the edge, foot skimming the hardwood floor to accommodate Bucky. Not the most comfortable but fuck it—who cares.    

Bucky grunts when you lift your hands and hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them halfway down his legs with a sharp yank. Already a dark patch of wetness stains the fabric of his boxers, the impressive bulge straining against the elastic and begging to be released. Your eyes meet his icy blue ones as you slowly pull his boxers over his cock. It bounces up towards his navel, thick and beautiful just like the rest of him. 

Impatient, Bucky’s fingers curl around your wrist and presses your open palm against his cock. He’s thick and heavy in your hand—perfect. The bead of precum that pools at his flushed tip smears against the inside of your palm as you experimentally roll your wrist, fascinated with the feel of his foreskin rolling over the steel heard flesh with each stroke.You give his a cock a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through his clenched teeth as you lightly tug on his cock. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the throbbing flesh, flushed and pulsing and all for you. His cock bobs when you let go—he huffs out a disappointed noise. “I need you, Buck—please.” 

Your previous two orgasms did seemingly nothing to soothe the growing ache for him. It prickles up your spine and singes through every nerve and bone—you whine and arch your hips, trying to touch your slick cunt to his cock. Bucky growls your name and pins your hips to the couch with ease. 

With his left hand, Bucky firmly grips your jaw, his stare folding into something serious. “You sure?”

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip. You grin. “Do your worst.”

Bucky curses and readjusts your calf slung over his hip and grips the base of his cock. You shudder as he runs the blunt head through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and arch. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s certainly not small in any way shape or form. You’ll feel him for days afterwards as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw clenched tight as sweat beads at his hairline. Shit—he’s gorgeous—struggling not to loose control the moment he’s buried inside of you. You allow yourself to adjust for a moment but your own impatience rakes down your spine with claws of scorching arousal. You rock your hips in curiosity and squeeze around him. 

“Fuck—“ A ragged moans severs his words as your gentle rocking tilts into abrasive jolts. At this angle it’s difficult to fuck yourself onto his cock, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. His left hand shoots to your throat, the chilly metal a stark contrast to your flushed skin. You dip your head back, exposing more of your supple skin—all his for the taking. 

You dig the heel of your foot into the small of his back and grab at his shoulders—tempting him into fucking you already. You’ve waited long enough. Bucky snarls your name, hooks one hand under your ass and pulls his cock nearly all the way, out only to slam back in with devastating force. There’s no time to adjust or gather your obliterated thoughts before Bucky sets a pace, desperate and feral. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what seems like a millennia—and maybe it has been. Bucky shifts, widening his knees as much as he can to sink lower onto your body—his soft hair tickles your cheek as his choppy exhales burn hot over your skin. 

Bucky turns his head to steal a kiss, open mouthed and catastrophic. No words are exchanged as he fucks into you with brutal strength aided by that damn super-soldier serum—there’s no need for them, not now anyway. You complete each other without the spoken utterances—still both a work in progress. Though most things are you suppose—constantly remaking yourselves, but instead of smashing the haphazard pieces back together alone—you have one another. You bury your hand in his hair and cry his name.  

You choke out another groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter and damn—you really hope nothing gets on this stupid couch. You don’t want to explain that Sam. 

Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, blazing through each and every vein with the brilliance of a wildfire escaping the edges of the forest. This is gonna ruin you. Bucky’s hand reaches between your bodies and rubs tight, controlled circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a calamitous surge of warmth that sweeps your very soul off its feet. Your nails dig into Bucky's back as you shake and fumble for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor. 

You have no time to recover because he’s still going. Thrusting into your pussy with violent slaps that echo through the room and will more than likely leave bruises against your ass. Through the pressure of his hand over your windpipe—threatening to cut your air off completely—you garble out his name. Bucky drops his head to his chin, the weight of his gaze landing between your legs, watching the way his entire length disappears inside of you. When he raises his head he molds his mouth to yours. The soft, wet kisses rapidly morph into pricks of his teeth, his gravelly moans so pleasing to hear. 

You arch and tilt your head back as he presses you harder into the couch. The vibranium hand latched onto your jaw, works it open and slides a thumb past your plush lips. You lave your tongue over the digit—the metallic tang flooding your tastebuds. “Good girl—m’close. A little longer.”

Bucky’s panting breaths mingle with yours as his pace turns vicious. Chasing his high that he so desperately needs. Overstimulation bites at your nerves, but with a gentle tug to the soft strands of hair on the back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, Bucky bursts. His moan jumps up an octave, eyes slamming shut as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he cums. He’s shuddering in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides. You whine and tilt your hips up to prevent it from spilling onto the couch. 

Finally he slows to a stop, ragged breathing filling the air as the heat and weight of his body becomes a welcome comfort. Eventually that warmth grows stifling. He lazily pulls away, observing gaze drinking in each inch of bare skin exposed—the marks and the light sheen of sweat. You hiss as he curiously drags his thumb over the bite mark lingering just above your collarbone.

He parts his plush lips but before he can apologize, you interject. “Don’t—I like the reminder.”

Bucky shakes his head and drops down to tempt your lips into a lazy dance. “You’re a weirdo.”

You smile and cup his cheek. “I’m not the one with a staring problem. You know that you can’t kill people by glaring, right?”

Bucky kisses your cheek, your jaw, and then the dip of your throat. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?” 

You shudder as his softening cock twitches inside of you, another coal of desire flaring in the pit of your stomach. You flash him a coquettish grin. “Maybe if you give my mouth something to do, you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” 

Something dark and dangerous flickers within those eyes. You shiver as one hand returns to your throat while the other draws teasing patterns over the outside of your thigh. He draws in close, nips at the shell of your ear and chuckles darkly. “You’re on.”

[mystic-wolf]

first time with the boys // karasuno

This is first time with the boys so not all of them are actually first times. You'll know what I mean when you read xhdujdjd.

Daichi

He's your first.

This man is the definition of perfect.

He asks if anything and everything is okay before going ahead with it.

Tells you if its too much or you want to stop to tell him straight away and he will.

He'd strip your body of your clothes and get on his knees to kiss your ankles to your thighs before landing between your legs.

Pulls you to the edge of the bed and puts your legs over his shoulders whilst he eats you out.

He'd get you used to 3 fingers before sliding in. This boy is thick.

He has to stop himself from pushing all the way in when you grab his shoulders and tell him to go slow.

He fucks you so slow and soft and holds you close the entire time.

You dig your nails into his shoulders and cry his name when you cum.

If you say he can cum inside you it would be almost instant otherwise he'd pull out and finish himself by hand and cum across your stomach.

Covers you in kisses and orders your favourite take away before cuddling up in bed in matching pjs.

Suga

You're both little shits tbh.

Happens super early into your relationship as you both have experience.

He'd text you at 3am asking if he could come over. Obviously you said yes.

Pushes you onto your bed and says he's gonna fuck the daylights out of you.

You're both clumsy pulling each others clothes off and accidentally hit him with your elbow. He'd just laugh and kiss your elbow.

You cover his cock in lube and get him to hardness before switching places and pushing him onto his back so you can ride him.

He'd ask if you can turn around so he can see your ass and you'd just laugh and tease him about it before obliging.

He grabs handfuls of your ass and digs his nails in as you ride him.

Definitely gives you words of encouragement and tells you how good you look like this.

You cum at the same time with a string of swears and moans.

Slaps your ass before pulling you off and into a sweet kiss.

Asahi

You're each others first.

This man is so romantic he'd take you out for a fancy meal and then bowling before carrying you home because your hells were killing your feet.

Definitely puts candles and petals on the bedside table.

He unzips your dress and peppers your shoulders in a million and one kisses.

Lifts you off your feet to carry you the tiny distance to the bed and gently lays you down in the pillows.

You two spend nearly an hour just kissing and grabbing at each other in your underwear before he asks if you feel ready yet.

His hands shake when he takes your underwear off and you kiss each one of his fingers to calm him down. God he's so in love with you.

Asks you what position you want to do and what he can and can't do with you. You just pull him into a kiss and tell him to get on with it.

When he fully slides in you just hold each other for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being so close before he starts to slowly move.

You push your hips up to meet his and he'd be a mumbling mess of incoherence, saying how good you feel and how much he loves you and how he won't last that long.

Pulls out and cums on the sheets beside you. He's too far gone to ask if he can cum on your and wouldn't dare try without your permission. He's a good boy.

Eats you out to finish you off and he looks up between your legs when you eventually come to watch how beautiful your face looks.

You get a bubble bath together afterwards.

Noya

You're his first.

He's a mix of excitement and nerves. He's so excited to lose his V to you, he loves and adores you so so much but he's a little nervous because you have so much more experience.

His hands shake when he slides into you and you have to take over.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to push him the entire way in.

The noises he makes are bloody sinful.

Noya doesn't last very long, he's so sensitive and the way you tighten around him makes his eyes roll.

His nails dig into your thighs when he pulls out and cums on your stomach.

Super apologetic for coming before you and ends up fingering you to orgasm.

Cleans you up because its technically his mess and then runs you a hot bath and carries you there.

He's an angel.

Tanaka

You're both full of experience and your first time would be a fuel of lust and anger.

He's super flirty with you but too scared to actually ask you out so just teases you until you end up snapping and pulling him into the storage cupboard one day.

You'd call him an idiot and say how annoying he is but shove him against the wall and grab his cock through his shorts and demand he man up and fuck you.

And ofc this man loves a challenge so he'd happily accept.

Probably rips your panties trying to pull them off and spits on his fingers to stroke his cock.

You'd press open mouth kisses against his jaw and neck and suck on the sweat ridden skin whilst you finger yourself.

Picks you up and fucks you against the wall.

His fingertips would leave bruises against your skin from how hard he'd be holding you. And you'd leave bruises against his neck and shoulders from biting so hard to muffle your cries.

He makes sure you cum first before he quickens his movements.

You cling onto him from overstimulation and tell him how good you feel, how much he's stretching you and how you want him to cum in you.

When he does he'd sit you on his shoulders and press your back to the wall so he can eat his cum out your cunt.

And him being the cheeky bastard he is would ask if its the same time next week.

Tsukki

You're each others first.

Neither of you are that nervous, you trust each other with your life. You know Tsukki would never hurt you and he knows you'd stop if he asked.

He's surprisingly gentle with his touches, kissing all down your body and running his fingertips up and down your arm.

He'd eat you out and get you to cum first so you're super relaxed and ready for him.

Still burns because he's so big but he doesn't move until you say.

Fucks you in missionary and holds both your hands the entire time.

He definitely calls out your name when he cums inside you and gets all flustered and embarrassed. You just laugh and kiss his flushed cheeks.

You get a shower together to clean up and then watch your favourite movie cuddled on the sofa.

Yamaguchi

You're his first.

He's ridiculously nervous because he has no idea what he's doing and a little scared you'll laugh at him.

You kiss him and reassure him until he stops rambling. And once he gets past the initial nerves he's just so focused on making you feel good.

Trails his fingers across your skin and kisses all your little scars and freckles.

He'd toy with your nipples between his lips and you'd pull a delicious moan from him when you tug on his hair. You do it again and decide its your favourite sound.

Trails his kisses down your body until he reaches your core and drags his tongue across your cunt. Spreads your thighs and laps at your wetness until you're practically dripping onto his tongue.

He asks again if its okay and when you say yes he slides in with the most pathetic moan you've ever heard from him.

Can't keep his pace and stutters slightly because of how good he feels.

You eventually tell him to lie on his back and you take control, riding him and watching his face the entire time.

His eyes are closed and cheeks bright red and his nose is scrunched up a little. Its sinful how good he looks.

He'd cum first and roughly grab onto the sheets as he arches up into you.

You'd keep him inside you, cum slowly dripping out as you frantically rubbed at your clit to make yourself cum.

He'd be getting hard again already at that tbh.

He lets you take the first shower whilst he picks out a movie and pours you both a drink. And he'd carry you to bed once you're dressed like the gentleman he is.

Hinata

He's your first.

Although Hinata's already lost his virginity he's still a bouncy nervous mess when it comes to you.

He wants to make it special but you tell him to not make a huge deal about it and it'll happen when its meant to.

You'd be playing video games late into the night and the kissing would end up going further and further until your lying naked on your back with Hinata above you.

He laughs to cover his nerves but you eventually just kiss him to calm him down.

He'd finger you gently and get you mewling and squirming beneath him before covering himself in lube and pushing in a little too fast.

Way too apologetic and you have to kiss him - again - to shut him up.

Puts your ankles on his shoulders so he can fuck you deeper and you start seeing stars he feels that good.

You tug on his hair and whine at his dirty talk.

Who knew he was this good?

He makes you cum so quick between his voice, thrusts and the thumb against your clit. You dig your nails into his scalp and say how much you love him.

He has a dumb smile on his face the rest of the night.

Kageyama

You're his first.

This man is so dense and has zero idea what he's doing tbh.

You was his first experience with a girl ever so he can hardly believe you've stayed with him for so long.

Straight up just asked if you can take his virginity for him.

Lets you take entire control. He just lays there and does whatever you ask him too regardless of how embarrassed he is.

You suck him off a little to get him wet and rock hard and use a bit of lube to make him feel better. He's scared he'll hurt you cause he's so big but you take him so well.

You ride him and pin his wrists to the bed.

He tries to hide his face in the pillows because he knows how pathetic he looks but you tell him he's gorgeous and love how flustered he is.

He'd free one of his hands to rub your clit and you'd lean down and moan into each others mouth between soft kisses and lip bites.

You arch your back when you cum and whisper out his name which cause him to cum too.

He'd feel super embarrassed afterwards and hide under the covers but happily let your naked body cuddle up against him.

[no-droids]

Mercy, Sabotage, and Dead Space

(gif credit to @redwyyne-archive)

Part One of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.7K

Summary:

1. No sex.

2. No touching yourself.

3. No orgasms.

Warnings/Tags: DUBCON/NONCON elements, fuckboy Poe (OOC), Enemies to Lovers, degradation/humiliation, mentions of oral sex, SMUUUTTTTTTTT also I’m not sorry for what I did but you’re not allowed to read if you’re gonna get mad at me okay byeeee

***

This.

This shit, right here.

If the question was ever, “What’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever let Poe Dameron somehow talk you into doing?” then the answer is this stupid shit, right the fuck here.  This is like.  You remember that one game, Mercy?  The one where you’d dig your nails in and twist arms and just needlessly inflict pain on each other as children until one of you cried uncle because someone somewhere once decided to turn torture into a matter of pride?

You always thought those games were fucking ridiculous.  Who can hold their breath the longest, who can handle a lit deathstick against their flesh the longest, who can take the hardest punch—who cares?  It’s child’s play.  It’s self-inflicted agony for the sake of bragging rights and even as a youngling, you refused to fall for it.

But then you met… fucking Dameron.

You know those people that… they don’t just rub you the wrong way, but literally every single aspect about their personality is sandpaper against wet skin and your whole entire being feels chafed raw just by existing in their general vicinity for an extended period of time?

You’re… you’re not usually a competitive—much less aggressive person.  You never have been.  It’s just not part of your nature.  If you ever excel at anything in life, it isn’t because of some secret, deep-seated desire to win or be better than anyone else.  You just… do you.  You do whatever you do, and if it’s good, it’s good.  And if it’s bad, it’s good.  Because at the end of the day at least it’s still you, and you’re okay with that.

But this?

This shit?  Right here?

“This is fucking dumb,” you say, because you know it’s what you both must be thinking so you may as well just get it out in the open.  “This is the dumbest fucking thing, Dameron.  What are we doing?  Why are we doing this?”

The grumpy, orange-jumpsuited figure sitting behind you just sighs heavily and slumps even further down in his bucket seat, as if it isn’t the first time you’ve tried asking this incredibly valid question (it totally is), bringing a palm down to thunk the top of the guidance controls between his legs in a quiet irritation you’re almost certain has everything to do with the very topic you’re trying to bring up. 

“Because,” comes that infuriating drawl.  You can only see his face from this angle by looking at his reflection in the transparisteel barrier directly in front of you, but even just imagining the way his mouth moves while he rounds out the words makes your jaw clench.  “The coordinates we picked up were scrambled and this rendezvous could be going down at any one of thirty-six locat—?”

“No,” you interrupt him with a scowl, “not why I’ve been floating in dead space in this Maker-forsaken ship with you for eight fucking hours a day since… fuck, what’s today?  Thursday?  Friday?  Nope, can’t be Friday, Friday’s our off-day.  Thursday, then. …Thursday?”  You shake your head.  “Ugh, see?  Time doesn’t exist when I’m not allowed to cum, life is like one never-ending nightmare.”

“Oh.”  He takes a second to think about it in silence, the calloused tips of his fingers scratching the side of his face while he considers.  It wouldn’t usually be as loud as it is right now.  Maybe it’s the haunting quiet of space surrounding the ancient powered down hunk of metal you’re both stuck in, inadvertently isolating and amplifying the sound—or maybe it’s because your copilot’s jaw is currently covered in a thick, dark beard that you swear barely took his testosterone-overloaded ass a fucking week or two to grow, if that.  Regardless, the dark bristles crunch loudly under his short fingernails and it takes you about a grand total of five whole uninterrupted seconds of the scraping sound to realize you’re grinding your teeth along with it.  “Well,” he finally says, “that was your stupid idea.”

“Hmmmmmmmno,” you contest firmly, wiggling your elbow back to poke at his shin with your index finger once, twice, thrice, until he finally slaps your hand away in quiet irritation.  To the misfortune of you both—and likely the other hundred or so pilots concurrently taking rotating shifts in these tandem x-wings in a glorified mass stakeout, the cockpit of this ship is just way too fucking small.  Your arm is squeezed uncomfortably against machinery and electronics to get to him from this angle and a light slap isn’t going to stop you now that you’re here.  “You—” (poke) “—have a superiority complex and decided to turn it into a competition, not—” (poke) “—me.”

“Oh, I have a superiority complex, okay,” he scowls and nods in vehement, fake agreement, finally giving up and letting you poke at will, but the appeal is lost as soon as you realize he’s over it and your arm eases back into your lap.  You watch his reflection look out of the viewport and scan the empty void of space for the twentieth time in the past five minutes, clearly just as desperate to get back to base as you are.  “So what is it you call saying—wait, no no, not even saying, loudly declaring—‘Of course I can go longer without sex than “wham bam thank you ma’am” Dameron, you brainless fucks, it’s a simple fact!’”

“Alright—I don’t sound like that, fuck you very much,” you return, in reference to his shrieking, high-pitched impression of you surrounded by your fellow pilots in the rec room when you’ve had a bit too much to drink.   “Also, you don’t have to finger-quote literally every single syllable of my fucking sentence, Dameron.  First and last word, that’s all it takes.  And if it’s so superiority complex-ey of me to state simple facts, then what is it you call saying ‘betcha two weeks worth of pay you can’t, pretty baby’?”

“Uh, easy credits?”  He immediately asks, side-eyeing your reflection through the transparisteel.  “ Easy credits.  Just begging for it.  Two weeks of your slutty, sexy, easy fucking credits just begging to be taken and used— ”

“You need to get laid,” you cut in to tell him bluntly, scrunching your nose in what you hope looks like disgust.  As per protocol, the power to the x-wing was cut at the beginning of your shift—what feels like a fucking eternity ago—as a preventative maneuver in case the target falls out of hyperspace unexpectedly.  Avoiding the scanners of a fleet that may never actually show means it’s cold and dimly lit in here—just starlight in front of either you, but you’re hoping he can gauge the severity of your revulsion with your back to him.  “You just turned my money into a sex object.  It was vile.  I feel violated on its behalf.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who needs to get laid,” he tosses carelessly back at you, and you roll your eyes with as much sass as you can physically muster, so tired of all the dodging.  You know this hasn’t been easy for him either, he just has too much pride to admit it.  “Besides, you’ve gotta be past the withdrawal stage by now.  Is it really all that bad?”

“The fuck you mean, ‘Is it really all that bad’?”  You snap at him, shuffling around grumpily in your seat, hating the way the bulky weapons controls sit right between your thighs and prevent you from closing them.  Withdrawal stage, ha.   “Of course it’s all that bad.  It’s horrible.  It’s the fucking worst.  And more importantly, how are you not having any trouble with this?  Oh, wait—that’s right,” you answer yourself before he has a chance to.  “Because you cheated.”

“I did not cheat,” Dameron’s reflection immediately challenges with an accusatory finger pointed at you.  “I did not.  When the fuck did I cheat?  I swapped housing assignments with your shitty roommate and slept in the bunk below yours for a month and a half—all because you don’t believe in the honor system—just so you could tell me I fucking cheated?”

You scoff, feeling your annoyance spark even more.  He’s always been able to get under your skin, but the neglect you’ve been forcing your body to endure is just throwing gasoline on an already roaring fire.  “Okay, first of all?  Rude.  I am a fucking joy to have as a roomie, alright?  I put up with your snoring, your 2:00 AM dinners, you blasting your radio while I’m trying to sleep, I barely complain about your body odor—”

“My snoring is adorable, I get snacky at night, only sad people with fucked up lives hate music, I smell amazing,” Dameron casually lists off on his fingers, the self-confidence so easy and unshakeable that you swear he’s almost preening at the compliments he just gave himself by the time he’s finished rebutting everything you can think to throw at him.  And, while you’d never admit it, he does smell good.  He smells… unbelievably fucking good.  Always.  Something dark and woodsy, you can never quite put your finger on.  It pisses you off, so much that you’ve made a habit of pulling a face of disgust whenever the warm, rich scent noticeably reaches you, hoping it deflates his ego just a little bit.  No such luck so far.  

“Whatever.  The point is I’m a good fucking neighbor, alright, I’m neighborly as fuck,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.  “And don’t make it sound like I’m putting a chastity lock on your balls every night, because you can fuck anyone you want.  In fact, I strongly fucking encourage it—I just want to know about it when it happens.”

Dameron smirks and you groan, already knowing what’s coming.  “You wanna hear it?”

Yep, there it is.  “Second of all—”

“Feel the whole bunk rock with it?”  He goes on, completely ignoring you.  “Use the excuse that you’re trapped up top so you can just stay there the whole time and listen?  You know you can do a lot more than just—”

“Second of all,” you project over him, “you’re seriously telling me you haven’t had any wet dreams then, hm?  No snorgasms?  Hmmm?  No happy naps?  No captain midnights?  No mattress fracking?  Hmmmmmm???”

His voice very quickly sounds… shocked.  “How many fucking euphemisms—?”

“Wait wait, one more—” you quickly interrupt, too much momentum to stop now, “—sleepskeet.”

You watch in immense satisfaction as his expression seems to progress through all five stages of grief, before he exhales a long, unamused sigh and scratches his beard again.  You want to pluck each strand of it out of his face one by one.  “Anyways.  Wet dreams are totally different and don’t count.”

“It’s not different!”  You burst out, unable to help yourself, “it’s an orgasm, and rule number three is no orgas—”

“I know what the rules were, Gold-Ten,” he returns calmly, and it infuriates you, how he’s always able to make it seem like you’re the instigator who’s overreacting.  And he knows exactly what he’s doing by calling you by your flight designation, and it pisses you off even more because calling him Black-Leader in any other situation besides active warfare just feels like an unnecessary reminder of his skills.  Why he’s currently behind you manning the guidance controls and why you’re currently stuck in the front seat with the bulkier weapons systems.  “The question is if you’re seriously that bad enough of a sport to automatically disqualify me because of something that happens to any human with a dick indiscriminately when we blueball ourselves.”

“But that’s the entire fucking point, Dameron!”  You shrill, throwing your hands in the air in pure exasperation.  “There it is!  You need it more than I do, you just said it yourself!  Not to mention I said I can go longer without sex than you can— sex , not orgasms, but as it turns out I win at both.  Now can we please call this shit off so I can finally cum?  This isn’t fun anymore.”

“Nope,” he says immediately, popping the P with a bit too much hard emphasis to be genuinely amused.  He’s frustrated, too—his voice is too pleased, too fake to not be masking irritation underneath.  “Sorry.  But this was also your stupid idea, so.”

“You’re insufferable,” you grumble, anger flaring equal to his, just way more… verbal.  And descriptive.  “Wet dreams don’t count, fucking right.  Tell that to the oceans of Kamino I got going on down there, huh?  I move on this seat wrong and I’ll slide off it—”

A loud slam of a palm against the controls suddenly echoes throughout the small cockpit, causing you to jump slightly.  

“Don’t,” Dameron snarls, “... say shit like that to me.  Not right now.  Not right now, fuck .”

You go quiet for a moment, not expecting that much of an outburst at something you considered to be a throwaway remark, but then… oh.  Something occurs to you, something… sinister.  Oh, well, now there’s an idea.

Everything inside you immediately surges up and burns at the thought—the mere whisper of a way out of all of this, quickly, without giving in and letting him hold your surrender over you for Maker knows how long.  It’s so fucking simple, you don’t know why you didn’t think of it before.  You don’t have to wait him out at all; instead, you just need to… entice him into giving in first.

Neither of you say anything for a while, and you don’t know what he’s thinking (nothing, probably—a dry tumbleweed bouncing across an empty desert landscape, you imagine) but you take the dip in conversation to consider a plan.  You can’t go at it too outright, it’ll be too big of a turnaround and he’ll see it coming lightyears away.  A halfhearted joke about your pussy tossed out without thinking is what catalyzed the most substantial reaction from him you’ve seen, so… maybe you can keep steering the conversation towards the idea.

“How many wet dreams have you had?”  You suddenly ask, your heart beginning to pick up in your chest as soon as the words are out of your mouth.

“Excuse me?”  Dameron grunts from behind you, and you catch his reflection raising a thick eyebrow at you.

You take a deep breath and disguise it by stretching your back out just a little bit, lifting your shoulder blades and arching the sore muscles there, before settling back down in your normal crappy posture once more.  “Now many times did you cum in your sleep?  Had to at least been once for you to claim they don’t count.”

“Why does it matter?”  He asks, completely sidestepping the question for the second time.  “It was involuntary.”

You shrug.  “Just so I know how many freebies I can get tonight.”

“No,” Dameron instantly counters, his voice dead serious.  “Not fucking allowed.”

“Why not?”  You ask, and this time, there’s significantly less challenge than you’d typically deliver it with.  Instead, your voice is soft, questioning.  Not argumentative, but curious, and there’s just enough of your point left unsaid that it’ll seem like he conjured the rest of the image himself.

There’s silence while he considers his response to the perfectly executed bait.  You assume you’re both picturing the same thing, because it’s what you’ve pictured almost every single night spent in this celibate hellscape.  The cool darkness of your shared quarters, the standard-issue sheets that still feel crispy and rough on your skin no matter how many nights you’ve slept in them, with one of your hands pressed tight over your mouth and two of your fingers circle your clit.

“You only get to do it if I’m in the room,”  he poses instead, and you swallow thickly, feeling your body tighten with an unintentional drop of pure heat through your tummy at the thought.  Maker, it must be really bad if Poe fucking Dameron is getting to you like this.  The bane of your existence shouldn’t make your insides twist in on themselves—at least, not in a good way.

“Not like I’d have much choice,” you eventually respond, keeping it purposefully ambiguous.  “It’s your room, too.  Unfortunately.”

Stars, it’s been so long since you’ve done this, since you’ve walked the fine line between flirtation and seduction, wanting to turn on the charm slowly—gradually ease it up like a hyperdrive lever under your fingertips so that you’re at maximum by the time he realizes you’re even there.  You take a moment to glance at his reflection, watching Dameron look back at you curiously, a flash of interest in his eyes.

“By the way, how does that one girl feel about us doing this?”  You ask out of nowhere, suddenly remembering the existence of his pretty little number.  You’ve seen her under his arm around base at least a few times, which is more than you can say for the rest of them.  “Red-Six.  Tall brunette with the tattoos—I don’t bother learning names, they all come and go.”

“Nihla,” Dameron nods with a wistful sigh, tilting his head to rest against his shoulder.  “Or, wait… Neah.  No—it was… Nalal.  Yeah, Nalal, I think that’s right…”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.  “One of the greatest mysteries of the universe is how many people get in line for you, I’ll never fucking understand it.”

“They just want me for my cock,” he tells you without missing a single beat, sounding like he’s not joking in the slightest.  “It was starting to get obnoxious.  Glad I finally have an excuse to turn them down.”

“Unbelievable,” you repeat, stunned by how truly, mind-blowingly full of himself he is.  “You’re… fucking…”

You end up just staring at him and making a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, at a complete loss for words, and Dameron eventually shrugs and continues on after you fail to form a coherent thought in the allotted time frame he provides.

“Now I can just tell them I’m in a long-running bet with Gold-Ten over who can sexually deprive themselves the longest and weirdly enough, they don’t seem all that interested anymore,” he remarks, tilting his chin up and rubbing at his beard again, and for some reason… the sound of it bothers you somewhat less now, the way he phrased that resonating deeper inside you than it should.  Lower than it should.  You blink a few times, almost shocked by your body’s unprecedented response to his admission—Poe Dameron uses you as an excuse to turn down sex with pretty girls?  Happily?—and your mind goes blank for a second while he watches you through the transparisteel.  “It’s alright,” he eventually goes on, tilting his head.  “Sometimes a sabbatical is good.  I do really miss pussy, though.”

“Well,” you finally tell him, oddly not having much else to offer at the moment.  “I’m sorry?  And… you’re welcome.  I guess.”

Dameron shrugs once more and makes an apathetic sound without opening his mouth, and you drop your stare down to the machinery between your spread thighs after feeling like you were looking at each other for too long.  The position started uncomfortable and seven hours later, it’s still fucking uncomfortable.  At first the discomfort twinged at your hips and lower back, but now the sensation seems to be… centering itself a bit more, finding a spot right between your legs, especially when his words echo through your subconscious and make you naturally want to push your thighs together.  I do really miss pussy, though.

You try to snap out of it a bit, try to stop hyperfixating on the way your underwear has felt sticky and wet for fucking hours now, but it’s so fucking difficult to chill yourself out when your body already went into this whole situation with a month and a half long stumbling block.  He’s not really doing anything at all—he’s leant back in his chair and staring out the window into the black emptiness of space when you steal a look once more, but something about how his casual responses are affecting you makes it seem like he’s the one currently seducing you.

Maker, you have to focus.   You have to control yourself.  You’re starting to feel a little warm in your thick jumpsuit—a particular shade of orange that does not compliment your complexion but you normally rejoice in wearing regardless.  It’s baggy and uniform and hides most of your curves and most importantly, it keeps you toasty on missions like this.  Space is cold —especially this far out in the Cauper Void, and there’s no fucking reason this powered down hunk of floating metal should feel as muggy and stifling as it does in here.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you suddenly hear yourself say, spontaneously, no thought put into it whatsoever.  One last try, one last attempt to avoid it, a last-ditch go at flight before he gives you no choice and you’re left with this one remaining option.  “This isn’t a good idea.  It’s… not healthy.  I don’t want to do this anymore.”

This gets a small chuckle out of him.  “I know you don’t, pretty baby.”

“Then let’s just call the whole thing off,” you propose once again, trying to lighten your tone, make it a… a friendly thing.  It sounds so fake, even to your own ears—since when would you be desperate enough to let the dreaded petname slide?—but granted, you know what they say about time and measures and all that shit.  “We can call it a tie, just go back to the way things were befo—”

He cuts you off and pins you with his gaze through the reflection.  “You realize that you begging me to put an end to your suffering is—ridiculously hot, mostly—but also only an incentive to make me keep pushing until you finally give in?”

You groan and comb some of your hair off your forehead, not liking the way it’s getting just the slightest bit damp.  “Fine, we won’t call it off, but can we at least just stop—”  You immediately catch yourself, not wanting to unintentionally push this too far too quickly, but your hesitation is clear and compelling enough for him to prompt you.

“At least just stop what?”  Dameron asks, and though you don’t think it’s intentional or even noticeable from his perspective, something about the way his voice sounds… husky.  Low to the ground.

“Stop dragging it out,” you breathe, your heart pounding.  Why is your heart pounding so fucking fast?  This is a fucking sting op, a facade, so why are you getting so caught up in the lie you’ve spun for yourself?  “Finish it.  Sooner, rather than later.  Quit being masochists about it, just fucking put it to—”

Maker, your eyes instinctively snap to his at your poor choice of wording, having almost said bed on complete accident.  Genuinely, you didn’t mean to phrase it that way, but at the same time, the thought of it almost burns you alive.  Fuck.  Dameron, and you, in bed.  It could be mean.  It could be rough.  A fight for dominance more than anything.  He’s bigger than you and he could make it fucking hurt, especially after going without it for as long as you have, but something about how double-edged that type of relief would be isn’t really sinking in for you right now.  Like a person slowly dying of thirst that’s fantasizing about drowning.  Regardless, the idea of a night with him and the sudden assortment of vivid imagery it provides is enough to get you to shut up and take a deep breath, just wait with your mouth shut for whatever his response is.

Unfortunately, you don’t have to wait long at all.

“This is cute,” he suddenly tells you, and you jerk back and sputter a bunch of consonants stupidly like he smacked you.

“Fuck you?”  Are the first recognizable words that can be heard.  “I’m not—this isn’t fucking— cute?”

“It’s cute,” Dameron repeats, hiding a soft smile from you with a few of his fingers pressed to his lips.  “You,” he says as he points at your reflection, twirling his finger around in circles, “trying to be all sneaky about it, go about your little performance.  It’s like… watching a little kid just blatantly fuck up a magic trick but they’re naive enough to think it’s working.  Keep going, I’m enthralled.”

You hold still for just a second as ice suddenly sinks through your tummy and clears away any trace of warmth you may have once felt from before.  Of course.  Stupid.  Stupid, you shouldn’t have even tried something like that, you don’t know why you thought…

Horrifyingly, you go dead silent and the lack of an immediate response from you hangs awkwardly in the still air.  You’re usually so quick with him, so fiery, letting the things he throws at you just glide right off you, but for some insane reason, you’re actually fucking… embarrassed?  A little bit?

You should say something, but your whole body is just frustratingly blank, almost buzzing in mortification, and it gets worse and worse the longer you stay quiet.  You don’t usually put yourself in a position to be compromised, and you certainly didn’t think the place he decided to jab this time had particularly thin skin.

You… you’d forgotten what it’s like to have someone laugh at you when you’re genuinely trying your best to flirt.

Well, it’s too late to say anything now, you think.  Now it’s just uncomfortable in here—true discomfort, not the typical angry silences.  You’re used to that, you’re used to huffing and crossing your arms and ticking your jaw through the breaks in conversation, refusing to say a word because you’re beyond pissed off.  This is different.  This quiet sits different in the air, this emotion hits different in your chest, somewhere vulnerable.  A crack in your armor he found without even necessarily intending to, but at this point, the stupid way you can’t seem to hide the wound from him is just as much to blame.

“So, uh…”  Dameron clears his throat as you shut your eyes tight against the awkwardness, but you can still feel a strange little shift in the air from behind you.  There’s something about the enclosed space, the quiet darkness surrounding you both, you feel… too close to him.  Sharing his air, feeling the energy when it’s cramped and you’re not able to just get up and storm away from him like normal.  You don’t like it.  You don’t like that you can immediately tell something has changed without being able to see him, that type of intimacy between you is pushing a boundary you can’t quite pinpoint but know exists.

You snap your eyes open and look over at Dameron’s reflection when he’s quiet for too long, and though you try to glare as fiercely as possible at him while you do it, the look on his face almost stops you dead.  The pure intensity raging in his expression, the way he’s got his eyes narrowed, flicking back and forth between yours, carefully studying you, wondering if perhaps he may have gotten it all wrong.  “I mean, y’know.  Theoretically speaking, and all.  If I broke, you’d let me fuck you?”

You… aren’t expecting that.

You don’t know why but your heart suddenly starts to race again, but it’s not the same as before.  Before it was speeding up and at an angle, like a rocket trying to escape a body’s gravitational pull, to go somewhere, search for something.  This time it just feels like it’s ricketing downhill, unsteady and out of control, about to break apart with every single pothole that rattles and slams through you.  Shit.  You didn’t expect the ultimatum would be presented to you so up front like that—you thought there’d be… some resistance, at least.  

Fuck, you take way too fucking long thinking about it, and your face feels warmer and warmer the more you mentally pick apart his specific phrasing, wondering where you should even begin.  You still haven’t said anything, but the damage is already done.  What should've been a firm, instantaneous go fuck yourself is left suspended, unanswered, open for interpretation.  You miss your window of opportunity to shut him down, you overshoot it by a longshot, and then you feel that spark of a what-if flare deep down once more.

No, fucking stop it.  Stop it.  Maker, your eyes do everything they can to not look at him while you concentrate and work to tap into your anger, stoking the flames of your fire to avoid feeling… temptation.  How dare he?  How fucking dare he do this to you, especially when there’s no chance to get out of here, to abort mission and cut your losses?  You clench your jaw and isolate that fury, magnify it until it’s the only thing you can feel anymore.

“My turn now,” Dameron eventually breaks the silence to clarify, blinking at you, and by this point you’re so fucking pissed off that you don’t recognize that isn’t actually a question.

“No,” you immediately snap, strung far too thin to deal with this new, treacherous territory with him.  Defaulting to normal is best, it’s easier.  “No, it’s not your turn, and fuck no, you can’t fuck me, not even if it means I win this stupid bet.  No to everything that has anything to fucking do with you, alright?  Don’t talk to me.  You’re lucky if I agree to sleep in the same fucking room as you tonight.  And—and?—I think your beard looks dumb.”

Okay, so maybe the last part was just a little bit childish, but you’re in such a bad fucking mood and you want to insult something he’s clearly just trying out for right now, hasn’t yet solidified as part of his usual appearance and unshakeable confidence in it.  It’s a downright lie—you think he might look more attractive with it than he ever has.  Effortlessly rugged and masculine, framing his face and making his eyes all the more piercing.

You don’t think it works, but regardless, he heeds your sharp words and says nothing for a good few minutes at least.  You had hoped the break in interaction would allow you the ability to reset a little bit, give yourself time to work through it, but it’s like the pressure in the air steadily increases regardless of how silent it is in here—or perhaps, because of it.

You can’t help it.  You flick your eyes to the transparisteel in front of you once more and catch his reflection staring directly at you, unmoving.  It jars you as much as it sparks your anger, and you glare down at your hands and give him a few seconds.  A few seconds of grace, of mercy, before you try again.

Sure enough, he’s still got his dark eyes pinned to you when you go to check once more, like he’s actually fucking thinking about something right now, which is just… astounding, for obvious reasons.  Mainly, the nerve of him.  The fucking nerve of him to be able to look at you like that, like he’s just entitled to study your every feature, searching your eyes for things you’ve never looked deep enough to find within yourself, making incredibly loud assumptions with his mind that he has absolutely no right to be making.

“Shut up,”  You snap at him defensively, feeling like you’re sweating buckets even in the freezing emptiness of dead space.  You can’t figure out if it’s a cold sweat or if your body is legitimately just malfunctioning under his stare.  “Shut up.”

You watch as his reflection suddenly drops his head back against the seat and rolls out the stiffness of his neck, blinking his eyes shut and raising his eyebrows like you’re completely overreacting, like he has absolutely no idea.  “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not that dumb,” you challenge.  “You’re… plotting.  Evil plotting.”

A thick eyebrow drops so that only one is quirked up, and a grin pulls at his lips.

“You’re right,” Dameron admits casually after a moment with his eyes still closed, his voice pitched low in the cramped ship.  “I was thinking about what it’s gonna take to get you to lose.”

You swallow against the dryness in your throat, starting to unintentionally bounce one of your legs up and down without even realizing it.  Fuck, this ship is small, it’s too fucking small in here—you gaze wistfully out at the vast endlessness of space, wanting to grit your teeth at the irony of being surrounded by the one thing you so desperately wish you had.

“I just have to find a weakness,” he shifts forward in his seat and reveals to you, bewilderingly shameless in his honesty.  Like all of a sudden you’re an accomplice to this endeavor instead of its target, as if he isn’t spoiling the secret by letting you in on it.  “Something that you like, that gets you going.  Something that riles you up, gets you all hot and bothered down there—”

“So you can exploit it,” you huff, slouching over a bit and trying not to sound like you’re pouting.

“—so I can exploit it,” he finishes happily, collapsing back into his seat like he’s glad you caught on so quick and he doesn’t have to explain further.  “Now we can do the whole routine—the bickering, the tension, the undeniable sexual chemistry we have—or we can skip all that and you can just tell me flat out what it’s gonna take to rev that pretty little engine up, because I want it purring.”

And, it’s so fucking weird, because the specific verbiage that would normally make you cringe just hearing it spoken aloud doesn’t inspire the typical response, even though it feels like it should.  It feels like you should be grossed out, it feels like a moment you should screw up your facial expression and act offended, but you’re… not.  This is actually fucking working, it’s unbelievable.  The undeniable fact infuriates you just as much as it stumps you.

“You do realize that everything you say is a game that two can play at, right?”  You point out, not really sure where you’re going with this but feeling heated about it all the same.  “What’s stopping me from exploiting something you like?”

“See now that’s a great idea,” Dameron announces, clapping his hands together happily and sending you jumping a few inches in your seat at the sudden sound, your hand automatically shooting up to rest on your thumping heart.  “I can tell you what I like, and you can just listen.”

Alright, no, wait—backtrack—

“How about I tell you what I don’t like,” you snip breathlessly, tucking your hair behind your ear and feeling all the blood rush to your cheeks.  Default to normal, default to normal.  “Your fucking attitude.  Your demeanor.  The way you talk down to me.  You don’t listen.  You walk around like you’re such hot shit just because you’re a good pilot but none of that means anything when you don’t ever fucking listen.  You’re terrible at it, doesn’t matter who’s talking—you don’t listen to me, you don’t listen to people who actually like you, you don’t listen to orders, you don’t listen to reason—”

“You think I’m a good pilot?”  He suddenly asks, and you have to take a second.  This cockpit isn’t designed for anything other than sitting, much less turning all the way around, but you’re sure you can find some way to throttle him from here.  He chuckles as you let out the loudest sigh you’ve ever heard yourself make—which, is an incredible feat you think both of you should be congratulated for—before Dameron eventually carries on.  “You could tell me that,” he admits with a shrug, a hidden smile on his face that he’s trying to bite back.  “Or you could tell me the truth.”

You shouldn’t encourage him, but you just can’t fucking help it.  There’s something inside you, something you can only compare to a morbid sort of curiosity.  Maybe you’re just a glutton for punishment, even more so than agreeing to this bet has already confirmed.  “And that would be—?”

“That you use anger as a defense mechanism because I touch a nerve you didn’t realize you had,” Dameron replies breezily.  “Have since the moment we met.  And that you maybe want me to touch something else, but you’re too stubborn and proud and committed to hating me to ever admit it.  You can admit it, it’s okay, I can touch whatever you need me to tou—”

“How about the emergency eject button?”  You hiss, finally feeling your frustration peak.  “Pop the top on this bitch.  Put me out of my fucking misery, right now.  You’ve got such a big head that the blood flow will probably keep your tiny little brain warm enough as long as you strap yourself down beforehand, I’ll wait.  And then you can go back to base, alone , and find another poor girl to emotionally torture since you probably don’t get enough of it from the ones you work your way through but can never remember the most basic things about.”

Remarkably, that actually shuts him up.  You’re doubtful the jab really hurts him, but you’re not going to feel bad about it either way.  He deserved that.  You cross your arms over your chest and don’t even bother looking at him, huffing and flushed with the climax of your ferocity, now left feeling strangely exhausted in its wake.  Eventually your breathing evens out and disappears into the silence, until nothing at all can be heard.

It’s like that for a moment—only a moment, before the loud tearing of velcro suddenly shreds through the quiet in the cockpit, completely rattling you.  Automatically your eyes shoot over to his reflection, watching large hands pull the orange jumpsuit apart at his chest and then shrug it over broad shoulders.  It’s not sexual.  It can’t be sexual, because there’s just no fucking room to allow it—it takes him forever to pull the long sleeves down his arms, but the way he drags it out somehow just increases your anticipation for an event you should have absolutely no interest in spectating.  He’s wearing a white sleeveless undershirt underneath and the jumpsuit bunches at his waist, making him look all the longer and more defined as he finally collapses back into his seat and reclines in it, the distant constellations bathing his lean torso in dim speckles of starlight.

Your gaze catches on every good part of him—it falls down the muscular lines of his neck and follows the thin gold chain wrapped around it, disappearing into the white of his scooping neckline.  His toned body finds a place to rest and stretch out without looking awkward or uncomfortable, coarse hair darkening his jaw and dusting the strong lines of his forearms—but it’s his eyes that make your heart stutter.  They’re endlessly deep and dark and knowing , and you can’t seem to look away from him, not even when he opens his mouth to address you.  

“You’re always so fucking mean to me,” Dameron remarks, and for just a split second—just a split second, you feel a stab of regret.  “I should eat you out tonight.”

Fuck, he hits the nail right on the head on his very first try, and just hearing the words come out of his mouth so effortlessly makes your pussy clench in on itself in need.  Nothing about his inflection changed from one sentence to the next, nothing in his voice made it seem like he just flipped the fucking galaxy upside down with just a few words.  To an onlooker who doesn’t speak Basic, they’d have absolutely no hint as to why your face is suddenly radiating heat at an industrial capacity, blazing hot enough to warm the whole cockpit.  You feel like you’re literally burning up with it.  You have to put a palm to your cheek to make sure it’s not actually on fucking fire.  “What— what did you just say to me?”

“That’s what you need,” he drawls, unbothered by the sharpness of your tone.  “What you’ve needed, ever since I can remember.  Should’ve done it a long fucking time ago, now that I’m thinking about it.  How long’s it been?  Tell me the truth, I know it’s been awhile.”

You feel like you’re being roasted alive like one of those hairy little Kowakian monkey-lizards that you’re pretty sure have sentient designation but are the first to be skewered and cooked over the firepit regardless.  Your heart is slamming against your sternum and you scramble to come up with an even slightly clever response after such an ambush.

“This is your plan?”  You raise an eyebrow at him, feeling a bead of sweat drop down your temple and onto the corner of your lashes.  Oh fuck, be cool, be cool.  “You think this is gonna work?  Ask me if I want a weak orgasm and rugburn on my thighs?”

“I can shave,” Dameron proposes quietly, lifting his chin and gently scrubbing the side of his cheek.  The sound of the thick bristles against his fingers makes you swallow thickly and push back very vivid thoughts of how his face would feel between your legs.  How soft and wet his mouth would feel at the center of that thick, coarse beard.  “Tonight, I’ll shave it off.  Make it nice and smooth for you.”

Something inside you surges up to assure him he absolutely should not shave, and you actually have to bite your tongue to keep it buried at the last second.  Stars, that was a close one, what the fuck prompted that?

“I don’t give a shit what you do,” you quickly return, resisting the urge to wipe your brow.  “Beard or no beard, makes no difference.  Foreplay is overrated, I’m not big on wasting time.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” he immediately laments—so quick , and the worst part is that the sympathy in his voice actually sounds sincere.  You’re having trouble looking him in the eyes right now, hearing the genuine pity come through in his tone.  “Who… who did this to you?”

“You said you want to figure out what I like, what turns me on,” you return, tucking your hair behind your ear once more and trying not to sound self-conscious.  Maker, how long until your shift is over?  You need to get out of here, this shit is… way out of your league.  “I’m not into it, so try again.”

“Really?”  Dameron takes a moment to look at you, furrow his thick eyebrows at you in barely concealed curiosity, before his head tilts sideways and drops to his shoulder.  “Normally I’d respect that, but I meant it when I said you need it.”

“We fucking hate each other, Dameron,” you hiss, a reminder to him as much as it is to yourself.  Fuck, you really don’t like where this is going.  “You don’t know anything about me, you don’t know what the I n—”

“I bet you think we’d fuck hard,” he murmurs, low enough that you have to take an unsteady breath and physically brace yourself for whatever is going to come from that dirty mouth next.  “You think that maybe I’d throw you around a little, give it to you from behind, teach you a fucking lesson for always talking back to me.  But that’s primitive shit, Gold-Ten, that’s not for you.”

Resist.  Resist .  You’re part of the fucking Resistance, for Maker’s sake, you’re taught to hold out until death in torture scenarios.  Since when did this tin can suddenly become a new POW camp simulation you have to train for?

“I want to take you apart so slow that you can’t talk at all,” Dameron continues quietly, and you close your eyes, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.  “We don’t even have to fuck—I mean, I want to, but mostly I just want to taste you.  Go nice and slow.  I want you on your back, so I can look in your eyes and see all that anger just… fade away.  I want to watch you try to fight how fucking good I’ll make it.  How hot it’s gonna be when you can’t glare at me anymore, when your pretty doll eyes go all soft and sweet and you finally realize that I’ve never hated you at all.”

Maker.  This is a trick.  It’s not a question, it shouldn’t be presented like one—this is a dirty rotten trick , and you’re not gonna fall for it.  You can’t fucking fall for it.  It’s a low blow, and you refuse to even acknowledge he said anything at all.  He’s lying to get your guard down.  He laughed at your flirting.  He’s a shit person, he’s using you, this isn’t real.

Real or not, you still gulp loud enough for him to hear it.

“We could go back to our room after our shift is over,” he offers out of the blue, and you have no clue why, but when he pauses and lets it hang in the air for a second, you don’t interrupt him.  You stay completely silent while he waits for you, waits for your typical snarky comeback.  You have it in your head instantly, you know what you’d normally say.  Your room.  It’s not ‘our’ room, it’s fucking your room that you’re generous enough to let him bunk in, a privilege he’s this fucking close to losing—but you can’t find it in yourself to say it right now.  Your anger is gradually losing the war to your arousal and you’re forced to watch every single small defeat inside you happen from the sidelines.

His reflection blinks at you through the transparisteel, his eyebrows raising just slightly at your prolonged silence, before he suddenly sits up a little and leans forward.

“And I could lock the door,” Dameron continues, lowering his voice, both in volume and register.  “The lights in there are way too fucking bright but I don’t want to be in complete darkness, so maybe we can turn them off and open the port shade, let just enough light come through to see.  I could turn on the radio, find something quiet, easy to listen to.  Something you like, I’ll let you pick it out.  And then… Wait, hang on, which bed?”

You clench your jaw and purposefully say nothing even as your pussy squeezes, glaring right through his reflection into the black void of space.

“Mmm.   Your bed,” he eventually decides.  “I want you comfortable.  You shower at night.  Your hair will be wet and you’ll be in those baggy pajamas that you think I can’t see your nipples through, the ones that I know you take off under your covers and then put on in the morning when you think I’m still asleep.  That’s good, I want you relaxed, so that maybe… maybe you’d let me take your panties off at some point.  And you could lay back and open your legs, and I could go down on you for a little while.  However long you need.”

Fuck.

No, this isn’t fucking happening.  Your lower muscles aren’t twisting in so hard that it actually fucking hurts, your pussy isn’t leaking through two layers of fabric under your jumpsuit, your body isn’t outright revolting against the sheer neglect you’ve put it through.  Maker, it’s fucking painful.  You have to clench your hands into fists and dig your fingernails into your palms before you can open your mouth.

“You want to know what I need?”  You nearly wheeze, a drop of sweat sliding down the back of your neck this time.  Your body feels like it’s three sizes too big for this cockpit and your skin feels like it’s three sizes too small for your body.  “I need you to shut the fuck u—”

“What you need,” Dameron purrs, sliding up closer behind your seat and sighing soft against the worn material of your headrest, “is a warm mouth to cum in.  Don’t be shy, pretty baby, you can tell me.”

You growl out his last name as threateningly as you possibly can before he purrs yours right back in your ear, and fuck, you’ve never heard it sound so sexual before.  Last names allow pilots to maintain a respectful distance from each other.  Flight designations are Resistance-wide, but last names are just… allies.  Not friends, not companions, but a vast network of people brought together by a common enemy.  It hurts to lose a first name.  But the way yours sounds rolling off of Dameron’s tongue is just too sinful, too intimate when calling you that is meant to sever intimacy by design.  He says it slow and makes it dirty, muddies it in the back of his throat as he slides up even closer to you, until his face is right next to yours as you stare at each other through the transparisteel.

“I’m really…” he pauses, before exhaling through his nose and swallowing thick enough to make his Adam’s apple drop and bounce up again, his tongue coming out to wet his plush lips as he blinks slowly at you with a heavy gaze, “… really good at it.  Call me Poe and I’ll do it for you all night.”

Shit, your pussy is just a fucking mess right now.  It feels like it’s melting sweet and syrupy all over your thighs, throbbing and pounding and clamping up and screaming at you to do something, at least press your hand down there to alleviate some of the aching tensi—

No— stars, no touching yourself is rule number two.  You drop your hands to your thighs and squeeze them, trying to reign yourself back in.

“I think you’re—just projecting,” you try, but turns out responding in general is just an all-around bad idea.  Nothing about it comes out right.  The ‘just’ sounds like your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and your voice cracks on the word ‘projecting,’ but you don’t even have time to be self-conscious or embarrassed at how much you’re giving yourself away—all your energy has to go towards fighting the tightness between your open legs, how you’re so fucking turned on that you’re worried you’ll cum without even touching yourself.  Oh Maker, can you imagine?  How fucking proud of himself he’d be?  You can’t let that happen, but fuck, holding back something so appealing is so much harder than it sounds.

Tap into that anger, tap into that anger—only, you can’t suddenly find it.  Where’d it go?  Fuck, doesn’t matter, conjure it.  Quick, before it’s too late, get mad —don’t let him lure you into a… a false… 

Dameron tilts his chin down towards the line of your shoulder and then slowly turns his head towards your neck, breathing you in gently.

A false sense of…

His soft exhale makes goosebumps break out all the way down your arms.

… What?

“Maybe you’re right,” Dameron acknowledges, talking just under your ear.  You watch his eyelids dip and the dark beard brushes against your skin and you catch just a hint of that woodsy, spicy scent engulfing you.  Like… teakwood, maybe?  Stars, you don’t know, you think you’re starting to lose your mind.  What the fuck does teakwood even smell like?  “Maybe it’s just what I need.  You should exploit it, chances are I’ll still cum first.”

That rockets another painful spasm down low.  It hurts so fucking bad—fuck, maybe you could… rub yourself up against these weapons controls?  Just a little bit?  That joystick, right there, just ease yourself up against it just to nurse this wound a little bit…?

No, fucking— bad.  That’s bad, you have to stop—

“This isn’t real, this isn’t—y-you just…”  You flutter your eyelashes shut, digging your fingernails into your thighs like it’ll help break through the fog of his lulling voice, how fucking amazing he smells right now.  “You just want to win th-the b—”

“ Fuck the bet,” he tells you quietly, his head dipped low enough now that his lips brush against your neck, and you shudder so hard at the sensation that your shoulder almost knocks into his chin with it.  “You really think I’m doing all this for a fucking bet?”

Don’t trust him, don’t trust him, don’t—

Your deep breath is so stuttery and uneven that it’s technically just a series of shallow inhales all anxiously strung together, too desperate for oxygen to go about it legato.  It’s painfully obvious to him by now, it has to be, but you very quickly miss the shaky breathing as soon as he takes away your ability to do it all together.

“Let me taste you,” he whispers, his voice almost breaking with how gentle it is, how it sounds like it flips in and out of his register when he speaks this low.  “Right now, let’s make it real, let m—I know you have to be soaking fucking wet, baby, just let me try a little bit of it, please—I’m… holy shit, I’m so hard just thinking about it.”

“You c-can’t,” you stammer, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.  At him, at the situation, at the painful throb of emptiness between your legs.  “Fuck, it’s not allowed, it’s against the rules—”

“It won’t be,” he assures you, and you hiccup when you suddenly feel his hand brush against your side, strong fingers branching out to curve against your ribcage.  “You don’t have to do anything, you can stay just like this.  Just a few seconds and then I’ll stop, I promise.”

Oh, Maker, it’s on the very top of your tongue, so unbelievably close to telling him something—but you don’t know what it should be.  You’re right at the tipping point, on a tightrope right between what you want and what you should want.  And, knowing you’re this close to giving in, Dameron slowly eases his hand down your side and starts to trail it inwards, and just the lightest brush of his warm tongue against your neck shatters any composure you have left.

You whimper and instinctively try to close your legs, but you fucking can’t— your knees are forced wide apart by controls and your whole body freezes when his hand slides down and folds gently along the curve of your pussy through the thick fabric of your jumpsuit.

The feeling of being held like this by him is just too good , cradled so perfectly in his palm as he opens his mouth and flutters his tongue out to taste your skin again, giving you a little more of it this time and letting you feel the roughness of his beard with the way his lips move.  Your breath catches, then he hooks his fingertips up just the slightest bit and pulls back, and you suddenly have to smack your whole hand over your face in a terrible attempt to stifle your loud gasp.

“Oh, Maker, I c-can’t,” you stammer against your fingers, not being able to trust him or your own body.  You continue to protest even after he moves back up, resting his palm low on your abdomen, letting the heat bleed through the fabric and transfer directly to your floor muscles as he lifts his head up from your shoulder.  “I can’t, we can’t, I…”

You can’t see him, but you know he’s looking at you.  He’s staring right at you through the reflection, studying the way you’re hiding your face from him, how you’re still melting, still losing your composure just from the warm palm pressed tight your tummy.

His touch leaves you for a second. But then the deafening sound of velcro ripping at the crotch of your jumpsuit has you dragging your hand down your mouth and your eyelids dipping.

“Dameron,” you breathe into your fingers, just as his carefully slip into the small opening and begin to work at the button to your pants. “Dameron, this isn’t—you don’t want—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I don’t want,” he grunts at you, and you try not to bite yourself at the sound of him unzipping things and yanking fabric to the side.  “What I really fucking want is the real thing, but I guess this’ll have to do for now.”

“I—”  Your mind whirs desperately, trying to process when his fingers wedge under your panties and down.   But he doesn’t give you a single fucking second.  As soon as the tip of his middle finger reaches your slit, he’s dropping it and sliding it through your slick, hot, unbearably neglected cunt.

“Fuck,” he spits, and you feel like you might be about to break your own fucking jaw with how hard you’re clutching it, trying so desperately not to make a noise.  The pad of his finger is rough and calloused as it drags against your clit in slow, tight circles, and you clamp your eyes shut and try to breathe normally, but it’s no use.  Fuck , it’s been so long .  You’ve been aching for it for a full fucking month and a half now and you know that even if he couldn’t feel it, he can hear how drenched you are right now.  It’s making an obscene sound as he steadily masturbates you with one heavenly finger, giving your body what it’s desperately craved for so many weeks.  “Fuck, baby’s pussy got fucking wet hearing me talk about how good I’d lick it, huh?”

That sends a bright flare launching through you and you gasp raggedly, both hands whipping out to snatch at his forearm where it disappears between your legs.  “No, shit, wait, stopstopstopstop stop , I—”

His hand slips out immediately and yet you continue to tremble like his finger is still right there, like your clit is just imagining it so vividly that it’s successfully convincing itself of the illusion.  The aching bit of flesh is burning, that good burn, the one that’s searing and bright that makes your muscles continue to chase the sensation long after the stimulation is gone.  Fuck, he almost made you cum.  He barely touched you for a few seconds and yet your fingers have to tighten into claws to slow your body down the fuck down, flexing against your thighs and trying your best to halt the impending climax.

By the time you’re able to wrangle yourself back from the edge and look at his reflection, his middle finger is already in his mouth and he’s blinking slowly at you, his pupils blown wide.  You’re breathing hard at him, staring open-mouthed at the way his lips are closed below his second knuckle, how he takes forever dragging it back out again.  You have to close your eyes.  You have to clamp them shut and keep them that way, knowing you won’t be able to look at him through whatever he’s going to say next.

Except, oddly, he doesn’t say much.

“Shit,” he breathes, dropping his mouth to your neck once more.  “Shhhit.  I…”

Your eyes snap open in sudden, blind panic when he doesn’t continue, horrified at the possibility that he doesn’t like it.  Dameron always has something to say, he doesn’t go speechless.  “Oh—Maker, is it not—?”

“Mmmfuck, just—” he grits, panting hot air against your skin, “—fuck.  Give me a second.”

You can only see the crown of his head with the way he’s angled, but you can see his shoulders a little further back.  They start… moving slightly.  Just the littlest bit, a smooth motion, like his whole body is slowly easing back and forth—

The nav controls are between his legs, you immediately realize.  He’s grinding up against them with how close he is to you and your seat.

And suddenly, it’s like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.  A ray of sunshine that breaks through the raging storm.  Dameron might cum in his pants like this.  Which means you’ll win, and arguably more importantly, you’ll finally be able to cum.  You don’t even take a moment to consider the potential consequences—how you’re going to have to withstand the stimulation until he succumbs to it, how you’ll have to outlast—but you’re not thinking straight.  You’re not really thinking at all.

“You can…” you suddenly hear yourself whisper, and your heart pounds in your throat when he instantly stops moving.  “One… one more.  If you want.  You can put your finger inside this time, it’s where I’m the… w-wettest.”

“Fuck,” Dameron croaks into the crook of your neck, his voice scraping low and rough and sending a tremor through you.  “Fuck, okay, yeah—”

His hand slides across your hip and down, but you catch him just in time.

“But don’t touch my clit.”  You try to sound as firm as possible through the breathlessness, still trying to put your foot down even when you’re giving in, and Dameron’s teeth come out as he stifles a soft groan into your neck in response.

“Yes, baby,” he murmurs obediently as his hand sinks down once more, and so diligently, he avoids it altogether.  His fingers slide under your panties and fall straight down to your entrance, down to where you know you’re the hottest, where your pussy is flexing and pushing wetness out with a steady, wicked throb.  The pad of his middle finger presses gently against the tight muscles there, rubs just the slightest bit to feel that resistance, and then the length of it eases inside you so slowly that your knees rattle against bulky metal.

“Fucking Maker , ” he hisses as he slides it in, his body making a sudden jerk against the controls.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of something inside you after so long, after such a torturous buildup, and you grasp at his forearm again when it curls naturally up against searing pleasure.  Oh, it’s so good, it’s so good, your hands shake while he very carefully moves it in and out, the raw sparks of heat threatening to incinerate you as your muscles cling to every ridge of his finger.  He gets it sopping wet, bathes it so completely in your slick that you’re almost certain it’ll come out pruny and drenched.

“Shit, okay,” you pant, squeezing desperately around his finger, “o-okay, fuck, that’s enough.”

His hand pulls out… slower this time.  He slips his finger out of you quick enough, but he drags the tip of it through your folds as he retreats, just barely grazing your clit and making you jolt in your seat.  Shit, you don’t know if it felt intentional enough to fault him for it—mostly it just excites you, thrills you to have him edge you like this without really needing to put any effort at all into it.

Dameron lifts his head to sink his finger deep into his mouth once more, and you tremble as you watch him enjoy it, staring at the way his shoulders seem to relax as soon as your taste is on his tongue, how his face goes soft with it and he almost slumps.

Relief.  Genuine, not embellished.  He still doesn’t say anything after he slowly slides it out and blinks at you, no sugar sweet drawl telling you how amazing you taste, no candied words to make you give in and let him have another go.  You’re both breathing hard at each other, staring, waiting to see who will break first.

Stars, you… fucking like this.  You want him to keep going, but you can’t offer it again.  It’s just too exposing, too revealing to let him you’re actually really fucking enjoying this, you can’t—

“Do you w—?”  Your voice automatically comes out through the silence without your permission, sounding just absolutely fucking wrecked by this point, but his palm is already slithering back down as soon as you speak, and you make the softest little submissive noise in your throat at him taking immediate initiative like that.  He’s not as careful about it this time—his hand finds its target with less frill, his finger slides in quicker, sinking deep into your heat with little hesitation, lighting you on fire from the inside out, and you bite the meat of your thumb to stay quiet.

“Fuck, this is so hot,” he suddenly breathes next to your ear while your legs spasm and you gasp brokenly.  “This is so—fuck, pretty baby letting me do this to her, I can’t fucking believe—”

Dameron eases a second finger inside you this time, letting you feel that delicious stretch from this angle, unable to lift your legs or shuffle around to help and subsequently resigned to simply experience it the way he gives it to you.  Your teeth have probably permanently indented your bottom lip from how hard you’re clamped down, a testament to how much you’re trying to hold back the loud moan you miraculously haven’t released yet.  Somehow it makes it sexier, not letting him hear you, not having your own noises to drown out the spark of urgency in his voice beginning to peek through.

Shit, it’s too much.  You can only let him touch you a few seconds at a time before you feel that familiar tug towards mind-numbing bliss, and the more he does it, the more appealing that feeling then becomes.  It’s teasing you, floating right in front of you and calling into question what could possibly be so bad about just reaching out to meet it?  You could.  You could cum right now.  What’s two weeks of pay?  You could cum all night long if you want, that is a thing you can do—

Quickly snapping out of your hypnotic downfall, your trembling hands snatch at his forearm once more, and Dameron, the fucker, drags his fingers slowly over your clit on the way out— so not accidental, not even close to it this time, but the sensation makes your hips stutter upwards and chase it nonetheless.

“Fuck you,” you groan at his audacity, your chest arching as you drop your head back, “I said don’t touch my—” but two wet fingers slipping past your lips and onto your tongue muffle the rest of your sentence.  Your heart does half a somersault before slamming down early, the taste of your pussy filling your mouth as you automatically start sucking on them.

“None of that,” Dameron tells you softly, massaging his fingers along your tongue before pressing a sweet kiss under your ear.  “Be nice.  I’m being nice.”

You should bite him.  Instead, you just close your eyes and mphh weakly around his fingers, your body sagging as you give into it and let him explore your mouth with them, your lower muscles cramping up in painful desperation even when he’s not anywhere near that part of your body right now.  Your tongue even comes up to lick between them, swirl around them so soft compared to how hard you’re puffing through your nose.

Dameron slowly inches his fingers out, letting the tips of them rest against your bottom lip for just a brief moment, before his hand is moving again.  Not down, but back and around, so he can open his mouth and taste you another way this time.

Shit, you feel like you’re dying.  You need air.  Your hands clench into fists and you use the back of one to wipe the sweat from the bridge of your nose while he takes his time sampling you like this.  If anything, he looks just as blissed out as before, continuing to rub his crotch up against the solid metal between his legs and teasing you with it as much as he’s teasing himself.

“Maker, let me do this for real tonight, okay,” Dameron pants after dropping his fingers from his mouth, sounding like he’s fighting for his breath while you can’t find yours at all.  Your eyes flick down to watch the way his hand disappears behind the chair to grab the controls and push his cock up against them even harder, how he drops his forehead to your neck like he just can’t fucking handle it anymore.  “Fuck, I’ll shave, I’ll do anything you want, just let me—”

“Cum,” you gasp out before you can stop yourself, and there’s a moment after it where his hips suddenly stutter against the controls, and you both freeze.

Shit.  Shitshitshit, did that actually work?

No, you very quickly realize, his body isn’t spasming like it would if he finally emptied his load after a month and a half.  He’s just… holding there, his head buried in your neck, completely still.

You didn’t mean it like that.  Well… fuck, you did, but you didn’t realize you’d be that reckless about it, that upfront about reissuing the challenge.

Dameron pulls back to look at you from the side this time, but it’s too cramped—he keeps his head turned facing you even as his eyes flick up to the transparisteel to take in the finer details of your features, the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead, and the slightly alarmed way you’re blinking back at him, worried you just shot your blaster at him in the midst of a mutual ceasefire and you fucking missed.

You see the understanding in his eyes instantly fall into place, and it’s not fucking good.  Ohhhhhh no, it’s not good.  Your chest starts rising and falling rapidly, suddenly registering the position you just put yourself in.  Fuck, you didn’t think—you saw your opening, so clearly, you didn’t have time to think about the consequences.

“D-Dameron…” you try your best to placate.

“Don’t touch your clit?”  He asks quietly, the raspiness of his voice ripping a hole through you while his hand suddenly shoves its way back down your body once more.

“Dameron,” you whimper, your heart stuttering in panic as you grasp weakly at his arm reaching between your spread thighs, “Dameron, this is—this is against the r-rules—”

“You keep saying that,” he comments, his fingers easily finding the opening in your jumpsuit no matter how hard you flex your thighs against bulky mechanics to try and close them.  “How clearly do you remember the rules?  What were the rules again?

You open your mouth to respond but his hand sliding under your panties and down just obliterates any chance you were going to attempt.  No words, nothing comes out but a shaky whine as his finger sinks into your soaking heat, going right for the kill.

“Come on, baby, the rules,” Dameron reminds you when you never give him an answer.  “Tell me.  No fucking, no jerking off, and…?”

You suddenly struggle forwards in a last-ditch attempt at preventing the inevitable, hoping you can scoot up enough in your seat to escape his reach from behind.  But fuck, your thighs have been shoved wide open for nearly eight hours—none of the muscles are working the way they should be anymore.  There’s just enough room in front of you to get there and you probably would’ve been able to do it at the beginning of the shift, even with his hand between your legs like this, but you’re sluggish and your thighs pull sharp and urgent with the movement.  The frantic maneuver enough to veer his fingers off course just slightly, moving one of your lips to the side at an angle, and you keep pushing against the pain no matter how useless it is.

“—No cumming,” he finishes for you, and his other hand is slithering up under your arm and groping one of your breasts through the jumpsuit before shoving you back tight up against your seat once more, totally helpless against it.  “Probably have another fifteen minutes or so before our shift ends.  Better hold it in, pretty baby, because this one is all you.”

“This—this isn’t fair, this is—”  The second the slippery pad of his finger presses hard against your clit, you’re biting your lip to cut off a breathless whimper that slips out.  “This is… is sab— sabotage— ”

“Oh, I know,” he moans next to your ear, mocking your high plea of distress with a fake, overly sympathetic whine.  “Feels so fucking good though, doesn’t it?”

Fuck, it does.  The build feels like an orgasm in itself, just working your way to it.  You’re already so unbelievably close after just a few seconds of direct stimulation, an obvious consequence of originally agreeing to such a hardcore edging workout.  You’re pouring sweat, so swollen and tight between your legs as you do everything you can to revolt against your body’s needs.

“Oh fuck, stop touching my clit—” you gasp raggedly, heart thundering in panic while your lower muscles start to immediately seize up, “oh—fuckfuckfuck— Poe, take your finger off m—”

Instead of doing it, his hand just slows down until the tip of his finger comes to a halt, maybe less than an inch over top of it.  You still can’t catch your breath though, not when you feel yourself throbbing against absolutely nothing, the calloused pad holding perfectly still over the bundle of nerves.  The swollen bud still arcs and flares at a steady frequency, building and building, and you choke out a wordless garble, absolutely fucking furious that this is what’s gonna make you cum.

“Don’t make me cum,” you switch up your sentence but not the terrified plead in your voice, the way it’s pitching up and out of control in the dead quiet of space.  He doesn’t even acknowledge it.  “Don’t make me cum, don—”

“Say it again,” he prompts instead, and lightning arcs up your spine.

“Poe,” you wheeze, the words coming from you without thought, your fingernails digging into his forearm even as your hips jerk up into his touch, “fuck, don’t make me cum, Poe—please don’t make me c—”

“But it’ll be so good,” he counters lowly, and your clit throbs in desperation at the richness of his voice when he speaks like this, saying things from deep in his chest.  “It’ll be so fucking good when it happens.  Stars, you’ll feel so much better, won’t you?  Cum right now and I’ll give you as many as I can until we have to go home.”

“N-No,” you whine, feeling his teeth scrape at the crook of your neck.  “No, I can’t—”

“Cum for me,” Dameron raises his voice, sharpening it into a direct order.  “Right now.  Come on— fucking make yourself lose.”

“But I—I—” you sob, starting to feel your body curl inwards, nearly about to succumb to the burning, the tightening, right on its last breath, “I-I don’t want to cum—”

“And I don’t fucking care,“ he hisses while your hands start flexing unintentionally, grasping helplessly at his immovable forearm where it disappears between your legs, the dark hair sliding under your fingertips as you claw desperately at it.  “You’ll fucking cum when I tell you to cum and you’ll like it, you disrespectful, cock-deprived, bratty little—”

And then everything goes dark.

No, literally.  The stars disappear.

The cockpit is suddenly shrouded in pitch blackness, and you’re almost certain it’s because you pass out, except then Dameron is all but ripping his hand out of your jumpsuit and cursing repeatedly in alarm.  You crumple in on yourself, eyes clamped shut and not hearing anything, right at the peak of your ecstasy and ready to soar into the light completely unassisted, your muscles doing all the work on their own—

“—shit, they’re way too close—” you hear his voice shout, “—we have to turn the engines on—Gold-Ten, baby, turn the fucking eng—”

You’re almost there, you’re almost there, you’re gonna cum, you’re gonna fucking—

Your first name, roared out in startling, blinding panic.

You don’t often hear it.  Just during roll calls mostly, but only if you’re flying with a different squadron and need a new temporary flight designation for the day.  First names hurt.  You can’t remember a time you’ve ever willingly told anybody yours.

Your head jerks up to look at his reflection but something else beyond the transparisteel takes immediate precedence.  Your brain takes about two seconds to catch up before thundering terror slams through you and halts your previously inevitable orgasm in its fucking tracks.  A runaway train about to launch off its tracks suddenly slamming directly into a megaton force-field of cold, hard fight or flight instincts.

A staggering fleet of First Order ships silently plunging out of hyperspace on all sides—your powered-down x-wing stationed right in the middle of the drop location.

***

Stay tuned for part two coming soon!!

[burnedbyshoto]

so sweet

— Well, you always knew Tamaki’s quirk was extremely versatile. You just didn’t expect him to be able to go this far. Or, a story in which you and Tamaki find out if he can manifest a pussy.

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pairing: amajiki tamaki x fem!reader

warnings: dom!reader, sub!tamaki, food play (whipped cream, strawberries), tamaki with a pussy, strap-on, spreader bar, blindfold, handcuffs, cunnilingus (giving & receiving), praise kink (giving), choking (giving), pwp-ish

word count: 4,037

a/n: day two of kinktober. i’ve been waiting for m o n t h s for a tamaki fucker to write this prompt, but no one had, so I did it. I have no regrets in writing this other than not making tamaki call reader mommy/daddy some shit like tht, but oh well. enjoy! remember to comment of fics you like :D

main kink: food play

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You never believed that aphrodisiacs actually manipulated one’s ability to get in the mood.

It just never made sense to you.

A natural ability to get your blood pumping, the hormones in your veins screeching blasphemy, stopping at nothing until a warm, dull, yet unignorable ache settled in your bones? No, it just seemed too easy. Especially with all the different quirks and abilities in the world, it seemed unnatural for people to even seek natural ways to get horny.

But still, upon being questioned by none other than Nejire about if you had ever incorporated food into your sex life with your fiance, Amajiki Tamaki, it finally intrigued you.

It intrigued you so much that you couldn’t help but bring it up one night after he had come home after a long day of work. His bed ready body sinking into the mattress beside you where you lay, reading multiple different articles on the sciences and best aphrodisiac foods. 

“What do you think about aphrodisiac foods?” came the inevitable question that passed through your lips as the man with soft raven hair pillowed into your side, his slitted pupil staring at you with mild intrigue, embarrassment, and exhaustion.

“They’re mostly unhelpful in battle,” Tamaki mumbles into your skin, the blush on the tips of his ears noticeable. 

Despite the history between the two of you, knowing that your soon to be husband still blushed as easily as he once did (sometimes over nothing) made your chest warm. “If I had to eat one from that category, it would definitely have to be oysters and honey.” Tamaki settles on his words with a content sigh. You have to resist the guilty flush at the back of your neck at his innocence of your inquiry. “Oysters because of the shell, and honey makes for a great defensive item and trap,” he adds a bit afterward, his calloused fingers running up and down your stomach, a gentle way of coaxing you into laying down with him. “Why?”

“No reason,” you smile down at him, your head pressing down to press a kiss to his temple.

But, both of you knew you were lying.

However, truth or not, it would be the question that would lead both of you to this very moment. 

Tamaki strapped to the bed, arms cuffed with black leather handcuffs, legs separated with a silver spread bar, eyes shielded from the world with a silk blindfold, and an arrangement of covered bowls sitting patiently around him, untouched, unused.

“How are you feeling, bunny?” you coo, your lips pressing gently to the insides of Tamaki’s trembling thighs. 

There’s no response, just more trembling thighs, a slight shift in his back as he adjusts himself, but you continue to press warm, painted kisses against the inside of his thighs. Tamaki’s pitched breathing continues to push higher and higher, the small, unavoidable stutter in his voice hitched, almost hiccuping as he nods his head. 

“Use your words, bunny,” you mumble against his skin. Pretty painted lips pressing trailing kisses up his thigh, your nose pressed into the crevice between his crotch and his thigh, delighting in the pure, unrestrained moan that falls from his mouth. He shakes underneath you, the growing needy noises of his unrestricted lust sending growing fires down towards your own cunt, singing blissfully about just how much he wants this. “I can’t move on until you use your words,” you try again, watching as his head nods pathetically, his bottom lip flushed red from his teeth assaults.

“T-This feels good,” Tamaki shudders, his body shaking under your change of movement, obviously liking how your lips press to the scars on his stomach, your fingers drawing lazy, imperfect circles around his cock head that’s weeping with precum. “I want more, butterfly, please g-give me m…ahhh... more!”

 “What do you want more of?” you hum, your lips tracing up his chest, stopping against the popping vein on his neck, your teeth-baring softly onto the vein as he curses the gods upon the contact. Your hand circles around his cock, the ridiculously hot length throbbing against your hand, and with a breathy chuckle, you grip his cock at the base. "More teasing? More alone time? What does my little bunny crave?”

“Everything you p-promised!” Tamaki curses, hips thrusting upwards into your hands, rubbing blindly, desperately into your expecting fist as your tongue stripes up the length of his chin. “P-Please, butterfly, I want everything you told me what you would do!”

It wasn’t quite the answer you were looking for, but you knew what to expect from Tamaki subbing. The growing wet patches on the blindfold emphasize that you couldn’t push too far, or else it would be over before it began.

“Which food would you like first?” you asked, deciding to push ahead, bringing the covered bowls to your side. You adjusted so that you were straddling his torso, smiling when he whimpered at the feeling of your hot cunt against his body. 

“W-Whipped cream,” he breathed so quietly you almost missed it. Smiling to yourself, you grabbed the small cylinder container and focused your attention on his light brown nipples and prominent collarbone. 

“Whipped cream it is,” you tease, your head stretching down so that your lips pressed two painted and wet kisses over his hardened nipples, and the soft, sugary moan that passed his lips in result nearly made you abandon this entire scenario altogether. 

This was just for initial contact, to wet his skin, you had to repeat in your head as your tongue flicked over his warm nipple, his hips snapping up into the abandoned air as you slinked forward to press light, intentioned kisses to his collarbone.

Right as his bitten ruby red lips opened to demand something more from you, you pressed the canister to his abandoned nipples and allowed the application of the sticky wet and white sugar onto his body. Your teeth continued to nibble on his collarbone as you did this, watching his every reaction — little and big — in an attempt to see just how much he liked it. 

When you finally pulled away, you made sure to leave with a loud pop, smiling at the loud whine that escaped his lips when you sprayed the food against his collarbone. 

“Imma lick it off now,” you explained, fingers raking just hard enough to leave a trail of goosebumps as you planted your ass onto his throbbing, hard cock. “Do you want to watch?”

“I d-don’t—” he hiccuped, breathing erratic, face dangerously red beneath the blindfold. “I don’t know!”

“Okay, no worries, bunny,” you coo, fingers stroking his wet cheeks. “I’ll let you test it out. I’ll lick the first one off without you looking, and you’ll tell me how you like it, okay?”

“T-That sounds good,” he agrees, and you waste no time.

Your mouth envelopes his sugar covered nipple, the sweet thickness of the cream being swallowed in your mouth as you push even further. Tamaki cries beneath you.

Humming, your tongue laps at the sticky sugar on his skin, the salty taste of his skin, and the sweet of the sugar invading your taste buds. You do your best to hold him down, your teeth taking his pebbled nipple in and tugging on it until the light brown color of his nipple turns red until he’s rutting senselessly and desperately into your clothed cunt.

Desperate and needy for more. 

Your fingers dive beneath the breast of his chest, teasing the muscled valley as you continue lapping his nipple into overstimulation.

“The next one!” he wheezes. “P-Please, butterfly, the next tone!”

“Do you want to watch?” you ask, stupidly addicted to the way his nipple tastes in your mouth. “Wanna watch me suck your nipple?”

Tamaki shakes his head frustratedly, longingly, “I can’t, it’ll make me cum!”

You almost feel sorry for him.

You perform the same exact thing to his other nipple, teeth tugging at the sensitive skin, tongue swirling the throbbing skin in your mouth until he’s begging for something more, anything more. You sticky fingers taking his other swollen nipple, pinching and pulling it until he can only mantra your name. You wish you were strong enough to deny him, but the rutting against your covered cunt, the delicious sultry whines, and breathy moans and tears that stream down his face is too much for you.

You’re up off his torso, your fingers ripping off your panties with reckless abandon.

Tamaki’s breathing is heavy, almost delirious as your fingers tug down the silk blindfold, so it's fallen to his neck. It sits around his skin, wet and shiny. But Tamaki’s tear-soaked eyes are scrunched closed when your lips suddenly press to his.

Chapped, swollen, and hot lips quiver against yours, so nervously, so messily, you’re nearly kissing just his teeth. 

“I needa—” he pants, his head tilting to that your nose meets his mouth. “I needa cum, butterfly, please.”

You hum, a bit disappointed in the relatively quick ending of your kiss, but you pulled away. Twisting around, your arm stretched out, and you went into an abandoned bowl. Tamaki watched you like a hawk.

With a hammering heart, and heat pulsating through your entire body, you turned your head to look at him. It was slow, methodic, and seductive, and Tamaki’s teeth found his bottom lip once again as you met his eyes through hooded eyes. 

“Open up, bunny.” 

Obediently, Tamaki’s mouth opened, and you brought your hand to his line of sight, and clutched between your warm fingers was a bright red strawberry covered in white, sweet cream. “Eat it quickly,” you drawl slowly as you press the strawberry to his lips, smiling slowly when the white cream covers his equally red lips. “I have an even better dessert after this.”

The gulp from his throat sent a maddening, delirious shiver down your spine.

And he devoured it without a moment of hesitation.

Licking the remaining cream on his lips, you giggled when he gasped against your tongue, and you moved.

Pushing up off the bed, you felt power thrum through you as his eyes darkened in lust and his still growing need as you gently pressed his forehead to the mattress. His breathing seemed to stop as the two of you stared at one another, like a prey looking eyes with a predator, knowing the inevitable outcome of the nearing events.

“Don’t disappoint me,” you tease, lowering yourself to his eagerly awaiting mouth.

The moan that poured through your spine was nearly immediate; the feeling of his cold tongue and wet lips pressing against your slick covered cunt was exhilarating as it was relieving. Your eyes instantly rolling to the back of your head when his strawberry coated tongue pushed through your swollen lips to lap at your pulsating core.

A breathless, whining sigh escaped your lips when Tamaki’s nose carted between your folds, the tip of his nose brushing against your sensitive clit, and you rotate your hips in your content.

“Yes, bunny, just like that. Eat my pussy just like that!” you cry in joy, your fingers pushing your breasts free from your bra to pull and tug at your attention-demanding nipples. “You eat me out s-so good, pretty little mouth, slutty little tongue.”

At the mention of slut, Tamaki moaned deep within you, his tongue vibrating in your core with his verbal appraisal, and your toes curled at the alluring sensation. 

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you began to rock your hips faster against his face, your chest puffing with pride when Tamaki’s hands banged against the restraints, a telling that he wanted to touch you, and the stupid, soft, needy gasps passed into your core only drove you on further. A whimper went through you when you leaned slightly forward, your clit unapologetically pressing against his nose, and the electric stimulation coursing through your body with that alone had your toes curling. And the pressure in your lower belly was only growing more and more.

His tongue continued to lap within you, the nearly greedy slurps he took with your growing aggressive rutting making you sing his name in praise and encouragement. Amajiki Tamaki was many things, and his ability to use that tongue was a higher skill of his you personally enjoyed. 

“Taste so good,” Tamaki babbled from beneath you, his mouth latching onto your clit. “So, so good.”

It’s the moment his teeth sink against your clit that you slam forward, hand banging against the wall to steady you as an orgasm rips through you, the shriek on your tongue echoing off the wall. 

All is silent for a bit as you roll off your fiancé's right side who is panting heavily, his eyes closed as he breathes in steadily, the shine of your slick on his face bright under the dim lights of the room. You blink as you stare at him, the serenity on his face from making you cum without a doubt the cause of it, but you weren’t done with this night.

Not yet.

“Bunny?” you whisper questioningly against his pointed ear, grinning slowly as the tip flushes red and goosebumps flash across his skin. 

“Y-Yes?” Tamaki stammers, his eyes screwing tighter instead of opening.

A sugar-sweet giggle is unable to be stopped as you press forward, your teeth nibbling on his ear just hard enough that the sound Tamaki makes is a cross between throbbing lust and gently pain. He trembles as he does so, and you can’t help but swell in the thought that right now, especially as he shakes, he looks like a defenseless, needy bunny.

“I want to see you try it now,” you request, your left hand supporting your head, and your right hand tracing a single finger down his twitching abdominal muscles until it reaches his weeping cock. You grasp his throbbing cock firmly, contently studying the way he resists against his restraints as his back arched off the bed, hips blindly thrusting into your fist. “I want to see you manifest a pussy, bunny,” you nearly whine as your grip on his cock only tightens.

“A-Ah!” Tamaki cries, his face flushed a dark red. His hips instinctively rut up to your grasp, but you’re smart enough now, and you follow it, denying him the friction he so craves. “I-I-I can’t!”

“Why not?” you pout, drawing even closer to his blushing face, smirking when you could feel the pulsing blood in his face radiate off onto you. “Why won’t you try for me, bunny? I know you can do it! You’d look so cute with a pussy like mine, so tight, so wet, so… sweet.”

Tamaki splutters when your tongue swipes against his lips, and he still tastes of you and strawberries.

So sweet.

“Do it for me, bunny, I wanna see it…”

“W-What if I can’t?” Tamaki almost sobs, and you warm at his words.

“Then I’ll ride your cock until your cock is bruised, and I’m pregnant with your kids,” you promise, your lips pressing against his despite the obvious whimper on his tongue.

Then, you felt it.

The cock in your fist began to change. Warm energy emitting from where his cock once was as you pulled away from his quivering lips to look at the pretty pink pussy that manifested where his cock once was. It was void of pubes, looking as smooth as a baby’s butt, and was absolutely soaked.

If you thought you’d had heard the pitchiest squeak coming from Tamaki’s mouth before, it was nothing like this when he too took a look at his pussy.

“O-Oh my god,” he breathlessly whispers, and you feel a thrilling sensation rock through your entire body as you’re now much more focused on the gleaming cunt on your fiancés lower body. 

In an almost trance-like feeling, you had the spreader bar in your fist and slammed it up to his face so that he could hold it. The simple action allowing Tamaki’s fully formed cunt to spread open for you in all its soaked glory. The smell of his sex alluring and almost spicy as you found your tongue shoved all the way into his awaiting cunt, and he howled.

A wordless command passed through your body as you let go of the cold spreader bar to Tamaki, who held it above his head as if it was his lifeline. You took sloppy, loud, and aggressive licks and sucks o his sweet essence, moaning at the copious amount of slick that easily poured from his cunt that throbbed like a vice around your tongue.

You wanted more from him, you craved more for him, and before you knew it, your fingers were curled above your tongue. You could feel the puffiness of his inner walls, and you delighted more when his clit against your nose throbbed with vivacity. 

“Y-Y/N!” Tamaki all but screams as you drunkenly drink his sweet essence, delirious on the taste and the sounds he was making. “My stomach — fuck, fuck, fuck — my stomach feels so funny! It’s feeling so-o aahhh, oh my god, so tingly!”

And you rip away.

Your eyes are owlishly large as you stare at the now writhing with discontent Tamaki who was crying with the unknowing need to cum.

He was close, you realized, so fucking close.

“Don’t leave me!” he shrieked as you tumbled off the bed, your legs feeling weak with your growing euphoria. “Finish what you started!”

A chuckle rips through your body as you pull up the harness that was hanging by the nightstand.

“Oh, I intend to, bunny.”

With a loud zipping of fabric, Tamaki’s head snapped upward to look at you, and you smiled knowingly.

His eyes were red and swollen with his tears, his face red as you’ve ever known, and his exposed cunt (which was still exposed as his hands pathetically still held onto the spreader bar) was soaking the bed with his essence, but he couldn’t even bear to feel embarrassed.

Why?

Well, strapped to your hips, and supported around your thighs was a pretty pink harness with a massive, veined, curved, cum spilling dildo attached to it.

“Do you like it?” you ask innocuously, your finger pressing to your bottom lip.

He can only gulp.

“I think,” you start off slowly, crawling back onto the bed to sit right before his exposed cunt. Your hands move to the cuffs on the spreader bar to slowly release his ankles from the restraints. “Well, I just love when you cum deep within me… and your cock is so big, so good, I just had to repay you for always fucking me so. fucking. good.”

“B-Butterfly!” he keens as you allow his legs to drop to the sides of you, and you sit up off your knees, placing the head of the dildo between his pink lips. His head falls to the mattress, his back arching as you continue to slick the dildo up with his dripping slick. 

“Hm?” you answer, looking into his dark, glazed over eyes. Your hips, however, continue to shallowly thrust against the folds of his pussy, coating the pink silicone with shiny slick. A lazy smirk falls on your lips at the sight of his red face. “What do you want, Ta-ma-ki?”

“Fuck me.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

With one hand guiding the head of the pink dildo into his pink, quivering cunt, and the other on his trembling thigh, you pushed through his tight entrance.

The moan that bubbled past Tamaki’s lips was near-pornographic as you as calmly as you could, pushed all the way in. You allowed Tamaki to adjust to the cock in his cunt, undoubtedly new to the sensation that having a thick, long cock buried deep within your cunt felt like. His hands, still bound to the headboard, were clawed in his sensual pleasure, and you enjoyed the way his eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

His hips twirled against the dildo, and you looked down, truly fascinated with the way his pussy squeezed around the strapon that you imagined as an extension of yourself. Imagining the sensation of his cunt against your strap, the heated slick of his cunt, and you felt your own heat blazing down your inner thighs.

“So cute, so pretty,” you purr, your hips falling back before softly thrusting back into him.

The sight of the dildo disappearing into his cunt is inconceivable, and despite his choking, gasping breaths, you pull out and thrust back in. 

Again.

“Oh.”

Again.

“O-Oh my—”

Again.

“Y-Y/N!” Tamaki wailed as suddenly your hips were thrusting into him, delivering the pretty pink dildo all the way until you felt the natural barrier of his cervix. But you were hooked on this power. The dizzying sensation that boiled deep within your bloodstream as Tamaki thrashed beneath you.

Your fingers dug into his thighs, pressing his knees into the mattress as you pressed up, allowing for the new angles of gravity to help thrust down heavier, harder, faster.

“Such a sweet, perfect pussy,” you gasp against Tamaki’s sweaty, exposed neck. “You’re so good, bunny, so tight and cute around my cock. Do you like my cock? Do you like the way it feels to be stretched out like this? To be fucked to irrationality? This is how you make me feel all the time, bunny. You understand that I needed to repay you, right?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Tamaki cried, the babbling yes’s growing louder and continued as you continued to drill into him, the squelching of his pussy, and the slapping of your thighs on his ass coming together to play a symphony only the two of you would know.

His hiccuping sobs are stopped when your fingers blindly snatched a strawberry from the nearby bowl, shoving it within his mouth. You drink in the way the flesh of the berry breaks against his lips and the way he sloppily, almost pathetically eats it from your fingers. The sticky sweet red juices spill past his lips, dribbling down his chin as he attempts to eat it, and you lean forward, licking the juices that escape his mouth clean off his skin.

You trail up, kissing, licking, and biting every piece of unattended flesh, and with your fingers still in his mouth, you kiss him.

“My stomach!” Tamaki cries against your tongue and fingers. “It feels — r-right there — it feels tingly! Like it's on.. ahhh, on fire!”

“That’s a good thing, bunny,” you swear, your hips powerful, sharp, and delivering upon every fantastic dick down he had ever given you. Your free hand reaches for the blindfold that went ignored for so long around his neck, and with the renown power of being a pro hero, you tightened it around his throat, choking him of his mindless babbling, making him arch off the mattress. “That means you’re gonna cum, cum for me, bunny, cum. Cum and I'll fill you up with my cum too, you'll look so cute with my cum dripping from your cunt, wouldn't ya, bunny?”

And then, it happens, Tamaki’s teeth bite down on your fingers, eyes crossing and rolling to the back of his head. His body going rigid for a second before massive trembles shake through his entire body, and the unfamiliar whirring of the dildo informs you that it caught onto his orgasm. In return, it hums as fake cum spills from the dildo, splattering into Tamaki’s pretty pink cunt.

His body trembles as he collapses completely against the mattress, and you can only stare after him, your own breathing scattered and shallow as he seems to be transcending from his body as he lays there. Bliss painted in every corner of his body.

You move out, letting the massive dildo escape his tight cunt, and you’re pleased when the white cum slowly seeps from his slit.

It was then that you realized just how extremely lucky you were to be marrying someone like Tamaki, and you paused, thinking about just how many things the two of you could now do.

Oh yeah, this was definitely going to be a journey.