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mionemymind · 3 years

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Chapter 9: The Truth

Fake Memories

Series Summary: After Y/n is caught cheating on Wanda with Carol, Y/n would do just about anything to get Wanda back into her life. But was it even Y/n’s fault that she cheated? Or was it the new enemy set on revenge?

Chapter Summary: The after effects of the attack on New York have changed everything for the Avengers, Wanda, and Y/n.

A/n: I have managed to write this all within one day. I’m sorry if there are any mistakes but please let me know your thoughts love :) (Not my GIF)

Warnings: Fighting, Hydra, Blood, Mentions of Death, Anxiety, Curse Words

Word Count: 4.9k

Masterlist

Covered in ash, dirt, and dried-up blood, Steve was a walking disaster as he paced through the hospital waiting room. Well, if you would call it a hospital that is. It’s been less than an hour since the Avengers have controlled the fires in New York but the troubling news of Y/n and Wanda brought them to a halt.

They quickly rushed to the “hospital”, which was just an empty leased building before being revamped into a hospital for this emergency. The walls were made up of light green curtains. You couldn’t even separate the blood-curling screams from down the hall to the one next to you.

“Stop pacing Rogers. You’re making my head hurt,” Tony said as he sat next to his suit. He had managed to borrow one of the hospital’s tablets to see if there were any updates that could remotely be done to the tower. So far, no luck had been made to reboot F.R.I.D.A.Y or power up the building in general. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he bit back.

Before Tony could say anything, Natasha lightly elbowed him in the stomach to keep him hushed. Now was not the time to start fighting especially at a time like this. “Are you any closer to powering up the tower?” She asked. If Natasha was nervous, she sure as hell didn’t show it. While the assassin did have a similar beat-up look like Steve, her composure was almost too relaxed. However, if Steve cared to notice, he could quickly see how big of a lie that was but his mind was only focused on the two youngest Avengers.

On the other side of the building lied Wanda and Y/n. The only thing separating those two was the thin green curtain and the team of tired nurses and doctors that surrounded them. And while the two have been closer before, this was the first time in a while that they both slept peacefully by each other. It didn’t matter the circumstances of how they slept, but rather what they dreamt...and it was of each other.

“What do you think we would have been like if we lived normal lives?” It was a late afternoon on a sunny day in spring. Wanda and Y/n laid down in the grass under a tree that shadowed them from the sun. Today was one of their off days and seeing as the weather was nice, the two felt like it was a perfect time to go to the park.

“Well, we would obviously attend school.” Wanda was lying down on her back with a dandelion in her hand as Y/n laid on her side, using her left hand to support her head. “I can honestly see you as being the popular person or maybe even the President of some type of political club.”

“What makes you say that?” The soft breeze that covered them came once again, which blew the pappis away. The small frown on Wanda’s faced made it hard for Y/n to focus but she still responded, “You just have this powerful aura to you, Wanda. When you talk, people listen. But what you do better is how easy it is for us to believe you. That’s something not a lot of leaders can do.”

“You make it sound like I’ll be the next President of the United States,” Wanda replied jokingly. “I wish.” Wanda pushed Y/n back slightly as she laughed but all Y/n did was smile at the action. “But what about me? What do you think I would be like?”

Putting her finger to her chin, Wanda thought for a moment before saying, “Honestly, without your powers, you are probably a film nerd at heart. Maybe just a nerd in general.”

“Hey! Now you’re just being mean.” Wanda rolled her eyes as she threw away the dandelion stem. She turned her head to face Y/n. There was this adoration in her eyes that quickly made Y/n blush. “Who cares. All I know is if anyone decides to mess with you, they’ll obviously have to go through me.”

“Oh, so you’re telling me the President of the political science club is going to come to my rescue?”

“Duh! I’ll probably yell at them or something. If not, I’m not afraid to get nasty.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“How’d you let them get away?” Fury said as he walked into the hospital that Y/n was at. The man was not in his finest hour. First, the mass destruction of New York city was blasting on the news. Reporters and anchors are not looking in favor for the heroes regardless of the actions they’ve taken to try and minimize the damage. Many were angry at the mere fact that this happened at all.

“Someone on their team had quickly teleported them to safety,” Carol stated. The girl has been feeling nothing but guilt for the past hour. Although she did save Wanda and Y/n, the state she had found them in only did worse for her thoughts. “Even if I did try to catch up to them, the lack of response from Wanda and Y/n meant something. I probably couldn’t have faced them alone if I tried.”

Before Fury could have walked any further into the building, Carol grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to look at her. “Her ears were bleeding Nick...I think they did something to her head again.”

Wanda woke up with a slight headache, the dream vaguely on her mind. As she started to grasp her surroundings, she only grew more confused. “Where am I?” She thought. The loud beeping beside her combined with screams and loud thoughts overwhelmed Wanda. Feeling the need to get out, she quickly started to remove the various wires on her as the recent events caught up to her. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to lay back down,” the nurse asked kindly.

“Where’s Y/n?” Wanda almost lost her balance as she stepped off her bed. She used the nurse in front of her to regain her balance, before walking out of her “room”. “Ma’am, I’m not going to ask again, please lay back down or I will have to get security.”

The threat was the last thing on Wanda’s mind. All she could focus on was finding Y/n. Using her powers, she closed her eyes and tried to sense where Y/n was. Considering the girl was right beside her, it didn’t take long for Wanda to find out.

Quickly walking over to the side of her room, Wanda pushed the curtain to the side but the sight in front of her made everything stop. There was Y/n, battered and bruised. There was drywall dust on her face along with dried-up blood. “Y/n,” Wanda whispered in disbelief. Much to Wanda’s dismay, Y/n didn’t respond. She remained unresponsive on the bed.

Reaching out to try and hold her hand, Wanda was pulled back by the same nurse. “Ma’am, please let the doctors and nurses do their jobs while you go back to your bed.” Wanda shrugged off her hand, her eyes glowing red as she said, “Don’t.”

Wanting to be by Y/n’s side, Wanda tried to walk towards her again but Steve’s voice made her stop. “Wanda.” Turning back around, Wanda first noticed just how beat up Steve was. His helmet was off which made Steve oddly look like a raccoon. If times were different, maybe Wanda would have laughed. Instead, she stormed out of the room, feeling more overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry about her ma’am,” Steve said with a courteous nod.

Wanda sat on the ledge of the roof. The slight breeze of the night was coursing past her as she mindlessly fiddled with her fingers, a nervous habit she developed after her parents’ death. It was during a harsher breeze that Wanda touched her forehead where the slight open injury was at. She had left the floor just moments ago and somehow her feet led her here. Although she knew that she needed someone to look at the injuries she sustained, her mind was focused elsewhere. It was plagued with thoughts about the girl that was still entrapped in a room full of doctors that had no clue how to treat her. Wanda knew it was wrong of her to read their minds, but she hoped that at least one of them at least knew where to start. Panic and anxiety filled the redhead’s body the more she realized that no one knew how to help Y/n. Soon, the room felt as if it was enclosing on her. Before Steve realized she was about to break down, she left to sort out her thoughts and emotions.

Wanda had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed Carol leaning against the entrance of the roof. The blonde was only a couple of feet away from Wanda wearing black sweatpants and a shirt. The girl was wrapping up a mission when she saw the text from Y/n. Carol didn’t know whether the drop in her heart was from the fake feelings Memory Man had created or whether she genuinely cared about the girl’s wellbeing. It didn’t matter though. What mattered was Y/n’s safety.

Carol leaned up against the ledge while surveying the view. They were a foot away from each other but it didn’t take a mind reader to know that both girls were thinking about Y/n. Ironically enough, they each had their separate thoughts about how they failed to protect Y/n. For Wanda, she felt as if she was the sole reason that Y/n got hurt. If she had only conquered her abilities more, Y/n wouldn’t have had to sacrifice herself again just to protect her. Not only that, but Wanda felt beyond frustrated with herself for being so frozen and paralyzed as the enemy hurt Y/n right in front of her eyes. There was nothing holding her back besides herself and that was something that will haunt her for a while. For Carol, she felt that if she were just a bit faster and maybe not a galaxy away, she would have reached them in time to help.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Wanda sidely glanced at Carol. The first thing she noticed was her attire. It didn’t take long for the dots to connect before she realized that it was Y/n’s clothes Carol was wearing. Wanda bit her tongue at the ounce of jealousy and resentment that decided to rise within her. This was no time to start arguments especially with the person that helped Y/n just in the nick of time. So Wanda had opted for a different but just as difficult route. “Thank you.”

Carol heard but decided to remain silent. Clearing her throat, Wanda continued, “I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t found us.” Finally, the two made eye contact as Carol glanced at Wanda. “I’m only here for Y/n,” Carol deadpanned. Wanda choked at her words but still had a serious composure. They both looked back at the city but there was a more tense feeling in the air. Carol hadn’t cared if the words had hurt Wanda. What she cared for was Y/n. But the looming question in the back of her head was always if this was a genuine feeling or if it was forced. However, the way her heart overwhelmingly felt angered at the person beside her, she knew that at this time, the feeling was genuine.

Subconsciously, Wanda felt the emotions that leaked out of the blonde. She didn't need to go in her mind to realize that. It felt like Carol’s guard was down leading her aura to be seen. It had covered the area surrounding the two in such a suffocating manner that Wanda felt like she couldn’t breathe. The two most compelling emotions were the anger she held for her and the love she had for Y/n. As she cracked her knuckles, Carol muttered, “It is quite ridiculous the things Y/n continuously goes through for a team that can barely return the favor.”

“You don’t get to-”

“Now listen here. I don’t quite care much for your team. Frankly, y’all don’t deserve Y/n.” The two faced each other with such intensity that one wrong move could cause a fight with two of the galaxy’s most powerful superheroes. “But if I’m being honest, you don’t deserve Y/n.” Wanda’s fists clenched at Carol’s words. It took everything out of the redhead to not fling Carol out of New York, because how dare she accuse her of such atrocities.

“If I were you, I would stop where you’re at,” Wanda said threateningly. The spiral scarlet glow in her eyes only made Carol chuckle. “You know you’re not the only one with powers.” Carol’s fist glowed with the same intensity as Wanda’s eyes. But the threats were pointless as the two had stopped at the same time.

“You don’t see it but you should feel lucky Wanda.” Cocking her eyebrow, Wanda responded with, “And why is that?” The redhead remained in a defensive stance as she crossed her arms. Carol walked closer to her and placed her hand on Wanda’s shoulder. Wanda was still tense but it slightly faltered when she saw how serious Carol was. “There’s a girl out there that loves you even when her mind and heart tell her otherwise.” And with that, Carol left Wanda to herself.

The burning feeling in his legs shouldn’t have felt familiar but it did. It reminded him of the body that he held through New York’s streets. It reminded him of the blood all over his hands and clothes. It reminded him of that fateful night that he failed.

And as he stormed into the hospital with nobody in his hands, something in the way that the team looked made his blood drain. Before Bucky could ask about Y/n’s whereabouts, Beth had walked in. Seeing her familiar face caused Bucky to be slightly relaxed but still anxious about what she could possibly say.

“I have an update on Y/n’s health.” Carol had walked into the room and her attention immediately landed on Beth. “Tell us, Beth,” Fury said.

“As of right now, she will be fine. The doctors have her hooked up to a solution that is allowing her regeneration abilities to work. But-,” before Beth could finish her update, Tony had stood up and loudly commented, “- Great, now that we know Ms. Hydra is okay, can we get back to the real issue at hand?”

As Carol was about to advance to Tony, it was Beth’s words that made the room quiet. “Of course it would be the self-righteous billionaire that would talk shit.” Tony’s head snapped towards Beth. “Excuse me?!”

Beth glared back at Tony, not daring to back down. Her arms were crossed as she continued, “Don’t act like you can’t hear me, or is your ego too far high for you to actually listen?”

Walking towards Beth, Tony said, “Listen here you son of a-” Before Tony could get any closer to Beth, Bucky had used his arm to stop him. “I wouldn’t if I were you.” Tony forcefully removed Bucky’s hand from his chest. He stepped away from Beth, not wanting to deal with what he thinks of as just some pathetic nurse.

“You know what the real issue is Tony - actually - all of you. It’s the fact that you seriously think of Y/n to be this villain.” Beth had let out a dark chuckle at the irony of the situation. “Or have you forgotten the shit you’ve ALL done? Let’s name them, shall we?”

“Beth-” Beth glared at Bucky. She didn’t care if this wasn’t the time nor the place for this conversation, because God was she so tired of them. “Tony, remember all the weapons that you’ve created for mass destruction and have yet to actually own up to the consequences of them?”

“I would stop there if I were you before-”

“Before what?!” Beth said as she threw her hands up. “Before you sue me?! Before you attack me?! Oh - that’s it, isn’t it? What are you gonna do? Kill me? Like how you did with Y/n?!” The room grew more silent as everyone besides Bucky and Beth digested her words. “It’s honestly sad how a bunch of adults has managed to push a KID to take their life away. All for what?! Because you thought she cheated on Wanda! News fucking flash - she didn’t even fucking cheat.”

“What?” Steve said. The shock of Beth’s words was still affecting him. “It was Memory Man. He had put fake memories in Y/n’s and mine’s heads. That was the whole reason we kissed - wait - did you not know about this?” The team was frozen while Carol and Fury impatiently waited for answers.

Not caring to wait for their pathetic excuses, Beth said, “It’s not like it matters what they have to say. They don’t even care for Y/n but for those that actually do. Right now we have no clue what her mind is going to be like. Memory Man has already given her enough damages before and considering we don’t know the full extent of his powers, we can only wait till she wakes up to see if she will actually be okay. Now if you don’t mind, I have a patient to take care of.”

Before Beth could leave, Bucky grabbed onto her arm. He gave her a look but Beth wasn’t having any of it. Ripping her arm from his grip, she stated, “Don’t Bucky. You know how much your family has hurt her. So don’t just stand there and act like they’re saints especially since you know how much Y/n needed you.”

It’s been a couple of days since the attack in New York and Y/n has since woken up. She has barely spoken to Beth, Bucky, Carol, or Fury. Although Estell’s presence would have been welcomed, Beth has yet to tell the girl the news of Estell’s death. Unfortunately, during the attack, she was shot and killed on sight by Hydra. The only reason Beth knew was from the long list of deaths she read on TV.

“We need to transport Y/n to a different location,” Fury said in a small meeting that consisted of only Bucky and Carol. “I agree. Since Hydra has managed to infiltrate the tower once, who knows when they’ll do it again.”

“That’s why a different country will do her better than here.” Fury sighed at the decision that was laid upon them. New locations will always be hard to adjust to but that wasn’t all of it. “Wanda will remain as Y/n’s guard.”

Abruptly standing from her chair, the loud screeched filled the room. “Are you serious?!” Fury’s expression didn’t change as Carol only grew with rage. “She could hardly take care of herself during the attack. What makes you think she could possibly take care of Y/n?”

“The girl was simply outnumbered. We all were.” Moving to get the file that was beside him, he slid it on the table. Bucky grabbed it and had started to silently read it. “But I need the both of you on the front lines. After what Beth has said, I need you two to make sure that the team is actually doing their job. They were supposed to have found out about Hydra’s plans before the attack, now I’m starting to think they didn’t even try.”

Carol was still angry at Fury’s decision to which he sighed. “You will know of Y/n’s location at all times. I will let her have a remote that when activated should send you a signal. Since you’re back on Earth, you’ll get to her in seconds.” Carol sat back down in her seat. Although she was still mad at Fury’s decision, she felt better knowing that Y/n could signal her for help.

“Now, I need you to say your goodbyes for now. Y/n leaves in an hour.”

Wanda stood in the foyer of the hanger as various agents loaded up the quinjet with materials that she and Y/n would need for the time they were gone. She was informed of the last-minute decision just moments ago by Fury himself.

“Please take care of her.”

The words echoed in her head as it had been the only time she’s seen Fury actually care deeply for somebody else. Before she could ponder more about it, Beth had interrupted Wanda’s thoughts. “Wanda?”

Turning around to the source of the sound, Wanda stood in front of a young blonde woman with intense eyes. “I’m Beth,” she said as she held out her hand. Wanda reluctantly shook it, not quite sure as to who this lady actually was. “I’m Y/n’s friend.”

��Great, another pretty girl I have to worry about,” Wanda thought. “Well, I’m also her nurse but I think she would consider me her friend as well.” Wanda stood awkwardly not really knowing how to respond.

Using this opportunity, Beth handed Wanda a bag full of medicine and vitamins. “I know this will be a lot to ask of you but could you please take care of Y/n?” There was no doubt in Wanda’s mind that this girl in front of her meant well. The nurturing feeling in her aura surrounded Wanda.

“That girl has been through a lot and I would know.” Confused by the intensity of her words, Wanda couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know this?”

“I’ve been her nurse for a while now.” This news only confused Wanda even more. “Was she injured before the attack?”

“What is it with you guys and not knowing a single thing about Y/n?” Beth thought. She started to get irritated at the thought of another Avenger hurting Y/n. She could only hope Wanda was different from the rest. However, Wanda heard Beth’s thoughts and said, “What do you know that I don’t?”

Beth scoffed at the question and replied, “The truth.” The simplicity of her answer made Wanda internally roll her eyes. Whether she admitted it or not, she had started to feel territorial over the fact somebody else knew Y/n better than her.

“Wanda let’s go!” Fury yelled from afar. The two looked over and saw Y/n hug Carol, Fury, and Bucky goodbye. Oddly enough, she looked emotionless when she did it. “Just please don’t fuck up again.” Wanda didn’t answer respond back to Beth because if she did, something bitchy would have probably left her mouth. Instead, she walked over and into the quinjet. She buckled into the seat closest to Y/n but the girl didn’t give any attention to Wanda. She remained silent and focused on her hands for the whole ride while Wanda thought more and more about what Beth meant.

“Now that we’re all here let’s get started.” Fury turned on the projector and the first image the was on the screen was New York on fire during the attack. “So far, we’ve received word that there have been 125 casualties and approximately around 500 critical injuries suffered from the attack.” Click.

“However, we face a bigger number when it comes to those that are currently missing. Estimating from 600 - 1000 people are found to be missing. And since we have efficiently cleared the rumble from the damages, our sources have found out how they’ve gone missing.” Click.

Footage of the event was playing but in the location of the subways. One by one, explosions could be seen in various parts of different train passages. It didn’t take long for Hydra soldiers to infiltrate the train systems but all camera footage cut to black. “Hydra has effectively taken hostages of those that were on the train during that night. They have used bombs to blast any chance of us going after them in these tunnels.”

“Is there a way to locate the subways?” Steve asked. “Since New York hardly invests in their transportation department, they are unable to track any of their subways. More than likely, Hydra has already disposed of them in case they were to be tracked.” Click.

“What we need is to figure out where these people have gone. This many hostages taken is something we cannot allow. And considering we have hardly been able to figure out their plans before the attack, I can only assume the worse when it comes to this.” Fury turned the projector off and continued his speech.

“Bucky and Carol will be removed from their current missions to assist the team with this situation. There will be absolutely no complaints about this. Any signs of lack of cooperation, I will gladly remove you and ban you from missions indefinitely.” Fury looked around the team once more and felt disgusted at the people he has to work with. Giving them no time to reply, he left the room not being able to stand the sight of them anymore.

Since they were dismissed, part of the team left in a hurry until it was down to three people. Tony was about to leave when Steve said, “Are you going to apologize to Y/n?” The question was genuine and serious because ever since that night, Steve had been unable to sleep. All he wished he could do was apologize to Y/n but the girl refused to see him. Unfortunately, he understood why.

“Why should I? It doesn’t change anything.” Steve stood up and slammed the table with his hand. “We killed her Tony.” Tony walked in front of Steve. “I didn’t do anything,” he sneered.

“Steve. Tony. We need to calm down,” Natasha said as she watched the two go at it. “Don’t act so mighty Natasha. I heard you bullied the girl too.” This comment caused Natasha’s jaw to harden. “Aww, did I hit a nerve?” Tony childishly asked. “Oh fuck off Tony. There you go again bringing other people down when you can hardly accept what you’ve done. YOU took away Y/n’s funds. She couldn’t even afford anything.”

“But you watched me do it, Rogers. You could have done something too yet you let it happen. So don’t patronize me. Nothing of what she said changes anything.” Tony quickly left the room as he felt himself explode in anger. This didn’t even surprise Steve anymore. He was tired of keeping the family together when it was clear now that it was meant to be apart.

“Here we are,” Wanda said as she dropped her bags in the living room. Looking at her surroundings, the flat was a decent size. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, living room, and accommodations on the floor below them.

“So what do you-,” Y/n hadn’t responded to Wanda’s question as she zoomed past her and walked into her room. Softly closing the door shut, Wanda sighed at her reaction. It wasn’t a surprise but Wanda still couldn’t help but feel hurt by it all. “I guess I should start unpacking.”

It’s been a couple of weeks since Y/n and Wanda started to live together in the flat located in the small town of Edinburgh. While Wanda mainly kept the place tidy, Y/n remained in her room all the time unless it was to use the bathroom or to eat. The only time she would even dare to be close to Wanda was during dinner. If it was breakfast or lunch, Y/n would take what Wanda cooked for the day into her room.

But Wanda was stubborn. She always left Y/n little notes of her whereabouts anytime she left for an errand but a small compliment would always be at the end of it. Sometimes she would knock on Y/n’s door and ask if she would want to watch a movie with her. Obviously, Y/n never answered but Wanda continued to ask. Other times, Wanda would think of Y/n’s favorite foods and would cook them for dinner that night. And while Y/n had never said it out loud, the empty plate she left in front of her always made Wanda swell with joy.

However, tonight was going to be different. Usually, the two would sit in silence as Wanda would have the tv playing in the background but Wanda needed to hear Y/n’s voice. Not only that, but she was hoping that the truth would come out as well.

Trying to figure out a way to break the silence, it was oddly Y/n that had done it first. “Why don’t you hate me?” At first, Wanda was shocked that Y/n had actually spoken, but the girl regain her composure and said, “Why would I hate you? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Y/n was silent for a moment until she said, “But I killed your brother.”

Chapter 10

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#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #fake memories

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madame-wilsonn · 3 years

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A New Beginning

Summary: as Henry stands in front of your bathroom mirror, at 3am, he’s determined to have a fresh start. Of course, you’re here to help.

A/N: this is just a small idea I had and wanted to share, I still have a few celebration requests to write but in the mean time, enjoy!!

Warnings: some angst along with it (but just a little bit) and of course FLUFF!! oh and English isn’t my first language!

Henry stared at his reflection in the mirror. His cheekbones were more prominent than they used to be, he had a few scars on his cheeks, his forehead, his skin was paler and his eyes…

Everyone used to compliment him for his eyes, flattering him, telling him how handsome he was, the ladies in the village gushing over how lucky his mother was.

“Oh and those eyes! I’ve never seen any like his.” they would all tell her.

But now, his once mesmerizing blue eyes were void, the liveliness sucked out of them, a vivid cobalt turned into a gloomy grey.

Henry looked like a mad man. If anyone saw him right now, they would think he had gone completely crazy, nothing holding him back from falling into inevitable insanity. Especially with this haircut.

Ever since he came back, a few months ago, he didn’t go to the barbershop. Actually, he didn’t really go out at all. He knew about the whispers, the rumors, he saw how annoyed you looked whenever you would come back from running some errands. And it was obvious that people were talking, pitying you for being with someone like him, offering you fake sympathetic smiles as you passed by them.

Truth was, he knew these people were right. Whatever they were saying, he already believed. He was only scared you would start listening to those rumors and realize you were wasting your life on him.

The man scoffed at himself.

How selfish can you be?

His gaze met his own self in the mirror and he sighed. He was tired, exhausted really. He was tired of the nightmares, of being such a heavy burden on your shoulders, of not being able to even look at you in the eyes or offer your children the attention they craved.

He was tired of being such a mess, a mere shell of the man he used to be, a terrible father, a terrible husband, a terrible soldier…not one thing he could do right.

He was tired of being himself. He wanted it to change.

He gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white, throwing a glance at your sleeping figure.

It was the first night he woke up from a nightmare without scaring the living hell out of everyone else in the house. Thankfully, you didn’t hear him as well.

Part of him, the part of him he was so ashamed of, would’ve wanted you to wake up. You seemed to be the only thing to soothe him and anchor him back to reality whenever he was sent back to these cold, sandy beaches. The horror always felt less horrible when he was in your arms, when it was your voice calming him down.

But he was glad you could at least have one good night. You were doing your very best to hide it but your delicate features were shadowed by the dark circles under your eyes, the constant frown on your brow and the tension in your shoulders. All the things he was already the cause of.

His right hand hovered over the cold pair of scissors. He didn’t want something fancy or elaborated. He just wanted to look like his old self a little bit more. He wanted his kids to stop playing or laughing whenever he came into the room. He wanted to make his wife smile again.

He wanted a new start.

He wanted it off.

With his fingers, he tried to grab a few strands to place the sharp blades and, inhaling deeply, made a first cut. The strand of dark hair fell on the bathroom tiles. He felt power running through his veins, his heart pumping faster at the sudden rush of adrenaline. He was finally doing something because he chose to, not because he was obeying orders. He wasn’t just a soldier who was too shattered to fight anymore and the more he cut, the more he felt like he was growing apart from him.

So he cut more hair and he did it again and again until he couldn’t feel hair tickling the nape of his neck, until the only long strands left were the ones covering his face.

“Henry?”

The man jumped a little, startled. He saw you in the mirror, standing before him in your nightgown, rubbing your tired eyes. He let go of the scissors, his heart pounding with some sort of anxiety like a boy who was caught redhanded stealing from the cookie jar.

“What are you doing, love?”

He turned around, trying to find an explanation to answer you but he couldn’t find the words to explain it to himself.

What was he doing?

“I-I was just...”

A quick glance at the scene and you pieced it back together. It was unusual but you knew your reaction would affect him greatly. Of course you weren’t mad at him, just confused

“So he decided to chop off his hair, it wasn’t a bad thing” you thought

Although you couldn’t understand why now and not tomorrow, you decided to ease up your seemingly tensed husband, you chuckled lightly: “Isn’t it a bit early for a new haircut?”

Your voice was soft, you weren’t angry or annoyed at him even for waking you up once again. Henry found himself appeased by that. His behavior suddenly seemed to him extremely stupid and…incomprehensible.

“It’s gotten too long, I wanted to...”

You hummed, getting closer. You raised your hand, reaching for his hair very slowly, giving him more than enough time to expect your touch and not be surprised by it. After checking the now short hair, you smiled at him and left the room.

Henry frowned, confused but you came back a moment later with a stool in your hands. You grabbed the pair of scissors on the sink, found a comb and guided him to sit on the chair.

“What are you doing?”

“Well...I'm going to finish cutting your hair!” you said matter-of-factly, fingers brushing through his now short locks. “You’ve done a great job, love. It’s almost even” you added, still playing with his hair.

It was a strange but welcomed feeling. He was still getting used to someone’s touch not being associated with danger and violence. You always treated him with utter tenderness, your fingers brushing over skin like feathers.

You gave a few more snips to even up the back then moved to the front.

“How short do you want it?”

For a second, the man found himself incapable to answer, just staring at you. He quickly cleared his throat, answering:

“Like I used to have it.”

You nodded, getting back to your task. You only needed some time to make sure it was good enough, checking on both sides with your fingers if the strands were equal.

“You’re all done!” you announced with a satisfied smile

You walked back behind him, allowing Henry to see his new haircut as you gently dusted off the few hair that had fallen on his shoulders.

“So...what do you think? I know it’s not exactly perfect but we can-”

“It is. It’s perfect, thank you, love”

Your gaze met his in the mirror and you smiled. You couldn’t help your heart missing a beat at the pet name, your body filling up with a strange yet familiar warmth. How long has it been since you felt that way?

You quickly recomposed yourself, arranging the hair falling on his brow and Henry closed his eyes for a second. You were so close he could smell the remnants of your perfume mixed with the cream you enjoyed putting on your hands before bed.

He had dreamt of this peculiar scent every night and day while he was away. Every time the metallic odor of blood combined with the gore smell of death and mud would reach his nose, he would close his eyes and think about how comforting you smelt like. He would imagine a lush garden with all kinds of roses and peonies and lilies instead of fresh soil and gun powder. And now he didn’t have to make it up in his mind anymore, he could just breath it in, bring you closer and let it engulf him.

“Henry? Everything alright?”

His eyes flickered back to reality and he took your hand, bringing it closer to his lips. He left a soft kiss there, sending a shiver through your arm, all the way down your spine. He got up and as surprised as you were, wrapped his arms around you. It took you a moment to register what was happening but quickly, you embraced him back as he rested his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Thank you.” He whispered, his voice muffled by your skin.

He wasn’t talking about the haircut anymore. And you knew that. But more words weren’t necessary so you kissed his head, running your hand on his back, holding him a little bit longer.

As Henry kept a tight hold on you, a small smile stretched his lips. It had been a long time since the last time he felt like smiling but he happily welcomed it.

He was ready to welcome the life ahead of him, where there will be more reasons to smile, where he could hope for more laughter and happiness for your family. Hope for a new beginning.

#henry wilson x reader #henry wilson #shivering soldier #dunkirk #anna’s fics

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no-droids · 4 years

Text

Rumors, Freebies, and a Race for Last Place

Part Two of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 22.5K DONT say shit alright just don’t

Warnings: Okay. There is degradation in this, some name calling and heated interactions. There is a LOT of smut, dirty talk and rough sex. If these things offend you, please do not continue reading.

***

It’s recommended to read part one first.

***

Getting into the x-wings is always fun.

It actually might be your favorite part. Granted, alarm bells ringing and thousands of jumpsuits scrambling in all directions is never typically a good thing, but there’s also an inherent rush about it, a thrill in launching up the metal paneling as quick as you can and suiting up to provide aid. It’s a side-effect of camaraderie, of being surrounded by like-minded individuals willing to do everything they can to help. You never feel like you’re going to your death, even though that’s often the grim reality for at least one of you on a good day. There’s always a roaring in your ears while you do it, adrenaline sharpening your senses and preparing yourself for conflict, not thinking anything beyond gogogogogo—

But getting out of the x-wing is… not great. At least for you. It’s sluggish. Your body is always completely drained and you never come out of it feeling the same way you went in. Even in times of victory, there’s a somberness inside you after battle. As much as you tell yourself you’re fighting for good, for prosperity against an evil machine hellbent on enslaving the galaxy, there’s only so many explosions lighting up in front of your eyes and screams cutting out through your comms you can take before winning just doesn’t really feel like winning anymore. Most pilots are able to handle it better than you are, but since you joined the Resistance, you’ve never truly felt the desire to celebrate. Not even when you serve a massive, glaring defeat to the other side. There’ll always be at least one missing x-wing, one empty seat at the table, one person not here to celebrate with you.

You came back in one piece this time. Barely.

The whole mission went sideways—literally. You’d purposefully stationed the tandem just outside the coordinates you were meant to be surveilling so that you’d be hidden from sight and dead to the scanners should the fleet arrive, but something must’ve happened. You must’ve powered down a few seconds too early after he turned the thrusters off, because apparently the ship drifted in dead space for close to eight hours without either of you noticing, having no working computers to actively read your location and correct it. You were sitting ducks right in the hyperspace drop zone by the time the First Order showed up, and by that point you had no choice but to engage.

“Gold-Ten,” a voice murmurs from behind you, and you blink, suddenly seeing the base landing platform stretching out long in front of you, hundreds of docking ships and boisterous pilots scrambling out of them to hug their comrades and congratulate them even as medics rush past with white coats and gurneys. They’re never for the pilots, but they dispatch healers anyways whenever a convoy returns in case a straggler gets picked up. There’s an unspoken understanding in space battle—pilots never get injured. They either come back unharmed, or they don’t come back at all.

Dameron.

You turn around and watch him slowly approach you with an unreadable expression, his jumpsuit still bunched halfway down his torso. The once bright white sleeveless undershirt is now greasy and damp with sweat, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. He winces with every bow-legged step—you know the feeling—before he’s standing directly in front of you and something is carefully being pulled out of your hands. You didn’t even realize you were holding onto anything.

Your helmet. You forgot to leave it in the x-wing, and you’ve been carrying it around under your arm aimlessly while mentally checking off the squadrons as they return, counting the numbers you lost today while everybody else hugs and whoops and claps each other on the back.

It’s not as bad as you were expecting it was going to be, not as bad as it seemed just an hour earlier when you were listening to Dameron bellow out evasive flight maneuvers a millisecond before he enacted them and you adjusted your firing at the TIEs accordingly. You used to think you were quick with how rapidly you could suit up and fly out, drop in to assist and engage, but on the other side, it felt like your reinforcements lollygagged for ages before arriving. You were left to defend against an entire fleet in one stupid ship, more lines of TIEs sinking like flies from launch decks every second.

“Gold-Ten,” you hear again, and you blink a few times, needing to focus your vision before you can find his gaze.

Dameron’s palm, previously hovering a few inches above your shoulder, suddenly drops to spread along the curve of it and you take a deep breath, almost wanting to shudder at the feeling of something touching you. You channel all your focus into it, feel his fingers branch out strong along the tight muscles in your neck, giving you an anchor you automatically lean into.

You and him are no strangers to touching. Before today it was mostly reserved to poking and prodding and flicking and light slapping in an effort to piss each other off, but now… you can’t even think about it right now, your body will just fucking glitch out on you. After everything that just happened, you cannot think about where else that hand has been recently, not right now.

“You did… you did really fucking good today,” he tells you quietly, slowly trailing his hand down the length of your entire arm until he catches your wrist and a few of your fingers in his loose grip. “Seriously. That was… we were…”

His touch is so present, so reassuring. Grounding, when all your mind wants is to just float away. You glance down at where his fingers are gently tangled with yours and you feel your hand tighten just slightly, the smallest squeeze while he blinks down at you.

“We almost died, like… every single second,” you barely manage to croak, not really having the words to express it right now. You always need at least an hour or two after missions like this to just sit in one place and regroup. Usually you find yourself wandering back to your room to lay on the bed and stare up at the ceiling while you consider your own mortality, but Dameron interrupted you this time before you could process it by yourself. “We…” Your voice sounds absolutely shredded. “W-We shouldn’t even be alive right now.”

“I know,” he nods in soft agreement, taking a small step closer to you. “But we are alive. Hey.” He dips his head as soon as your gaze starts to drift, catching your eyes once more and drawing your attention back to the present with a squeeze of your hand. “We’re alive, right? Be alive with me.”

You take a big breath in and close your eyes, feeling the oxygen fill your lungs once more, but this time, it’s… restorative. A wonderful, beautiful reminder of your existence. You’re alive. Usually the word just feels like a synonym for persevering. Pushing onwards despite trials and tribulations, not looking back. But the way he says it, especially with his hand in yours and a quiet invitation to tag along, it sounds… breathtaking. Full of light, and hope. It suddenly leaves the dim shadows and slides into a completely different category of feelings, feelings you’d never imagine being able to conjure so quickly after such a close brush with death. Alive—it slots right in next to words like colorful, radiant, sunshine, and butterflies. Enchanting words, ones you’d like to hear again and again.

Your eyes slowly open and there he is, the man you were sure was going to accompany you to the afterlife. You were stuck with Poe Dameron in one of the closest calls you can remember, and strangely, his presence was nothing if not… a comfort. For the first time in your life, you were grateful he was there.

You open your mouth, suddenly feeling the needy, unfounded urge to tell him that. “I’m gla—”

“Dameron!” You hear a series of voices call from somewhere to your left, and he immediately drops your hand to whip his body around and place himself directly between you and the approaching onlookers, using his large frame to hide you from their sight.

“What’s up, Briggs?” Dameron projects to one pilot in particular that seems to be leading the group, his back oddly close to you in this position. Your fingers still feel tingly from where he was holding onto them.

A chorus of congratulatory, “Nice flying, Captain!” and the like can be heard floating through the air from beyond his shoulders, before the leader speaks loudly over them. “Hey—me, Seven, Six, and Twelve were gonna grab some drinks in the mess hall with a few of the Blue girls,” he tells Dameron, slowing to a stop as soon as he sees you standing awkwardly behind him. “Oh hey, Goldie.”

You lift a hand and clear the remainder of the dissociation from your throat, not knowing him well enough beyond the squadron he and his group fly with. “Greenies.”

“Anyways, I guess they wanted to know if you’d come too. These idiots are convinced they’re never gonna give us the time of day unless you—”

“Uh—fine, whatever, just give me a few minutes alright?” Dameron quickly assures him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll meet up with you guys later.”

A few of them take turns giving him heavy claps on the shoulder and acclamatory words before the group eventually disperses, and he waits a few more seconds for their attention to fully scatter in another direction before turning back to you.

Shit, he’s standing really close. Why is he so close to you? You take a step back and blink up at him, the noises of the landing deck gradually amplifying back up to normal volume as you retreat back into your own space. Since when did he have that effect on you? You suddenly feel wide awake, and the chorus of happy chaos surrounding you is something you’re finally able to take in. You knew it was happening before, but it was like it just existed outside of the creeping numbness. Now, the knot of internal turmoil has untied itself a bit and you feel your surroundings start to fight for your direct attention.

Dameron continues to look at you the same exact way, though. Like you’re still the only one here.

You look down at his half-suited figure and blink at the helmet loosely held in one of his hands. Hey. Hey, that’s yours—

“Give me that,” you hiss, suddenly snatching it from his fingertips. “You have people waiting.”

The cutting words serve to snap him out of whatever spell he’s under. Dameron quickly lifts his head and looks around a few times with sharp eyes, before hooking your elbow and twisting you into a complete 180 until your back faces most of the excitement. You resist, immediately trying to push him off you and worried he’s going to confront you about… things, but he’s determined.

He doesn’t say anything to you at all, though. His fingers quickly grasp the baggy fabric of your jumpsuit even as you sputter and start to ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, and you glance down just in time to see him yanking the gaping velcro closed at your crotch.

Your cheeks instantly start burning as he tugs and smooths the fabric down until it’s seamless once more, especially when his eyes flick up to yours without moving his head. Fuck, you’re instantly hot with some wicked emotion, a mixture of embarrassment and outrage and… something else. Maker, you almost wish you were numb and disoriented again, if only so you could avoid feeling whatever the fuck this is.

You quite suddenly shove your helmet back into his stomach with an infuriated sound even as he doubles over with a shocked whoosh of air, changing your mind about returning it to the ship yourself before storming off without another word.

***

Okay, so you’ve done some thinking, and. Well. Fuck him, that’s what you’ve decided.

No—not… fuck him. But like, fuck him. You know. In the negative sense of the word. The bad fuck.

There’s a full tray of food sitting in front of you but you’ve so far been unable to touch it. Mostly you’re just wondering why the fuck you’re even here. Well, you know why you’re here—you should eat, it’s dinnertime and this is the mess hall. You’ve been known to skip out on meals after heavy missions, secluding yourself away and just wallowing for a bit, but you… strangely didn’t feel like doing that today. You don’t want to self-isolate when you feel okay enough to avoid it, not again. So you’re here, because the clock says your tummy should want food, but you can’t bring yourself to even look at it.

No, you’re looking at him. Glaring, actually.

Across the mess hall and beyond the transparisteel divider that separates the cafeteria from the bar area, Dameron is all eyebrows and smiles and side nudges and winks right now. You can’t hear him—the sound won’t travel this far, but you can see him situated in the middle of a rowdy group of pilots. He laughs in that disgustingly charming way of his, where his stupidly cute nose scrunches up all cute and stupid and you want to just ask the Maker why he’s doing this shit to you. What have you done to deserve this torture? Sure, you may have willingly agreed to it, even… conceived and propositioned the idea, and sure, absolutely nothing is stopping you from forfeiting and walking away at this exact second, but does that make it okay? No, you’ve decided. It’s not okay. He’s not allowed to… to make you feel like this, so fuck him. In the bad way.

“Just fuck him already,” a voice suddenly grumbles as someone plops down into the seat to your right, plastic trays of food clattering loudly on the table and snapping you out of your reverie. Gold-Sixteen blocks your view as he silently drops into the seat in front of you and wraps his green lekku around his neck a few times before immediately beginning to shovel food into his mouth, while Gold-Three opens her box of blue milk next to you and continues. “The Blues never fucking shut up about it, it’s getting annoying.”

“Don’t listen to her, Dime,” Gold-Eleven tells you, quickly occupying the seat on your left and biting into a crunchy piece of fruit, talking loudly over the chatter even as he chomps. “Rossi just knows her pool is up tomorrow, she doesn’t want to lose any of her precious credits.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Gold-Three immediately snaps, leaning forward and around you to point the prongs of her fork at Eleven threateningly. “Zhang’s pool starts on Sunday.”

“Oh fuck off, you guys are betting on this now?” You groan, shoving your plate away with a flick of your fingers now that you’re certain you’ve completely lost your appetite. Sixteen immediately snatches up one of your bread rolls while Zhang swipes your juice and Rossi goes for a packet of glockaw sauce.

“You’re the one who announced it in front of everybody, we’re just being active spectators,” Rossi returns, ripping the packet and pouring the sauce on her vegetables with a shrug. “How the fuck do you bet against fucking each other though, that’s my question? It’s a paradox, wouldn’t you both just lose at the same time?”

“Dameron and I aren’t going to fuck,” you tell her very slowly and clearly, starting to get a headache. Why is it impossible to avoid this conversation topic, even with an entire Resistance base to roam around in? “Ever. The bet never had anything to do with fucking each other, it’s about not fucking other people.”

“Literally what is the difference?” You hear Rossi ask with her mouth full, but Zhang speaks over her.

“Somebody should probably tell Nine that, she’s the bookie,” he tosses out carelessly, dropping the core of his piece of fruit to his tray before wiping his hands on his jumpsuit. You bury your face in your hands and let out a loud, exhausted sound into your palms, not knowing which response serves to aggravate your already emotionally overloaded ass even more. Nine is the bookie, of fucking course she is. “But hey, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think any of it actually goes outside of Gold, so.”

“I’ve heard the Blues talking about it, but that’s it,” Rossi chimes in while chewing some of her veggies. “Maybe some Reds. Point is everybody else thinks it’s already happening, honestly.”

“What the fuck,” you whisper, using your knuckles to rub at the backs of your eyes until bright spots appear. Where are stress headaches localized? Are those the ones right under your brow bone? Because stars, you feel it. “Fucking… why? Why do people think that me and Dameron are…?”

Nobody at the table immediately responds, and you drop your hands after a moment to look at each of their astounded faces in turn.

“You fucking serious, bitch?” Rossi blurts first, her voice completely deadpan, and you growl in vexation.

“Have I not been vocal enough about my severe dislik—”

“And yet you kicked Nine out of your room to let him bunk with you,” Zhang immediately suggests.

“You request mission assignments together,” Rossi adds.

“Spend your off-days together,” Zhang continues.

“You’re both really weird about how long it takes the other person to shower,” Rossi tacks onto the list Zhang is now making on his fingers and you shake your head frantically.

“No—no, that’s so that we know neither one of us is cheating,” you try to explain, and you already know it sounds unconvincing without needing the two quick, lofty and sarcastic nods on either side of you. “Showers and off-days are prime masturb—no, you know what? No. I’m tired of the assumptions, I don’t owe anyone shit. This is super fucking uncool of you guys, you know that? It’s insane that this is what counts as gossip in the Resistance nowada—”

“There’s only so much bad news people can take, Ten,” Gold-Sixteen grunts down at his almost finished plate, and all three of you snap your gazes across the table at him. The forest-tinted twi’lek doesn’t speak much, it’s uncommon to hear his voice without distortion over the comms, but you blink as his sharp teeth continue to form words without looking at you. “Quit being so sensitive. Rather bet on this shit than which system is getting demolished next.”

And with that, Sixteen excuses himself with a silent nod, having gobbled down his full plate while you, Three, and Eleven were bickering. You feel your cheeks flare with anger and shame—you didn’t deserve that, you immediately reassure yourself, but the hidden self-doubt the comment sows just further contributes to your upset. You want to call out to his back that just because the First Order exists doesn’t mean you have to put up with your own fucking squadron turning you and your mortal enemy into glorified race fathiers, but he’s already leaving the mess hall while Rossi and Zhang have moved on to other topics, both of them continuing to grab more food from your tray as they talk.

You have a tough shell. But today was… a lot. You bite your lip down at the table against the sudden wave of emotion, blinking quickly to clear the weakness watering your vision.

See, this—this right here is why you use last names. These people aren’t your friends. Betting on who you fuck for laughs, using you as a source of entertainment without your consent just because they’re in the middle of a war, and then guilting you into feeling like you’re the one acting like a stuck up bitch about it? You’re fighting in the same fucking war—you’re on the front lines just like everybody else and nobody gets to lecture you on the devastation of battle. You almost died today. You fought tooth and fucking nail to stay alive and by all accounts, you shouldn’t even be sitting here right now, much less dealing with this childish shit. This is your squadron. These people are supposed to be the ones closest to you out of everyone, the ones you’ve been flying into chaos in formation with for years, and yet not a single damn person has even mentioned your performance to you today, all anyone can ever seem to talk about is—ugh.

Unfortunately, your unobstructed view also allows you to look at the source of your bad mood once more, immediately noticing the way more people have crowded around him now, and the headache continues to throb painfully behind your eyeballs. You were in the same ship, does nobody realize that? You were gunning, he was flying—you were offense, he was defense—that’s the only fucking difference, and yet, it’s like that side of the mess hall is just completely lit up with hearty laughter and music playing from someone’s holopad and congratulatory drinks being passed around, while yours is… well.

You continue to fume inwardly, struggling somewhere between bitter and hurt, and you can see your reflection through the transparisteel giving him a death glare, wondering how many of the people surrounding him have made bets with Nine. How many of his little entourage have their money wagered on Dameron getting in your pants by a specific dat—

You stop short while staring at his handsome face, an infuriating, horrifying thought suddenly striking you. No… no, he wouldn’t…

“Does he know?” You immediately interrupt the chitchat between Three and Eleven to ask with a deadly edge in your voice, tipping your forehead at pretty boy. Ooh, you can already feel it burning. It would be so fucking typical. Oooooh, Maker, if he’s heard even a fucking whisper about this outside wagering going on amongst the pilots, you will fucking smother his ass in his sleep tonight. How could he not know? With as many friends as he has? If you’re just being made aware of it, then it’s a given that somebody has to have told him by now, which just means that it’s all the more possible—shit, even more likely—that he’s… participating, too. You do your best to keep your voice even, but you can hear the quiet fury shaking in it. “The bet about when me and him are gonna fuck, does he know about it?”

“Who—Dameron?” Zhang turns his head. “No, I don’t think s—”

“Yeah,” Rossi says at the exact same time, and your blood instantly turns ice cold as Zhang leans around you to blink at her stupidly.

“No. Yeah? What?” He says, sounding genuinely confused.

“Yeah, remember?” Rossi confirms with a shrug. “Nine was mad as all shit, came at me in the rec room a few weeks ag—fucking Maker, Eleven, you were there.”

“Oh,” Zhang suddenly exhales, “yeah, that’s right. Oh, yeah, Dime, he knows.”

You’re—fuck, you’re about to rampage. You’re burning a fucking hole through Dameron while he converses animatedly with his numerous buddies, waving an open hand and shaking his head at someone with a smile and then gesturing broadly to this side of the transparisteel. His pool is probably up soon, you figure. That’s why he came onto you so strong earlier today. He was going to get two weeks of your pay, plus whatever he must’ve offered up to Nine that says he’d get it to happen within a certain amount of time. Perfect, your old roomie and the arch nemesis you stupidly agreed to trade her for, two asshole peas in an asshole pod.

“—she thought I was the one who told him—” You know Rossi is still talking but you’re not actually hearing any of it. Nobody has any fucking idea. Nobody has any idea what he did to you today, how unbelievably close you were to… to actually… “—was all just for fun, but then he had a few choice words for her and told his squad that if any of them had made a—” You don’t know why you’re so surprised honestly, you should’ve expected…

Wait.

“Wait,” you suddenly blurt, and while she shuts up immediately, your mind starts whirling even faster. Dameron had some… what? “Wait. Explain. You’re saying he didn’t…” You slowly shake your head, furrowing your eyebrows and trying to piece it together. “He didn’t… place a bet with her, or anything?”

“What? No,” Rossi shakes her head a lot more forcefully than you, getting frustrated. “No, fucking—didn’t you hear anything I just said, Ten? He got all high and mighty for some stupid reason, totally reamed her ass out for it.”

“But…” You blink, stunned. “But… why? Why would he…?”

Rossi shrugs. “Fuck if I know. All she said was that he ordered Black not to throw in, made her lose a fuckton of money from it. Had no idea Dameron would be so touchy about his sex life, honestly.”

He… he isn’t. He isn’t touchy about his sex life—you feel like he never shuts up about it.

Rossi continues talking, but you’re not listening again. You stare stupidly at yourself in the clear transparisteel as Dameron’s voice comes back to you, repeating something you specifically remember him saying earlier today. Something you thought was just a careless jab at the time, aimed blindly at one of your comrades with nothing more than the intent to piss you off.

…I swapped housing assignments with your shitty roommate and slept in the bunk below yours for a month and a half…

You blink beyond your own reflection to focus on him once more, still lost in his own little world, not paying a single lick of attention to you while you’re essentially having a fucking crisis over here. You didn’t think the insult had any real substance to it at all. You just naturally assumed that was the result of him wanting to lash out at anything or anyone remotely close to you, if only to get a reaction, so you never gave him one or paid it any mind.

This is why he said that about Nine? Because he knew she had organized this fucked up betting pool behind your back?

Stars, you need to get out of here, all these rumors are fucking with your head. Your assumptions and the hairpin turnarounds are giving you worse whiplash than Dameron’s… well, admittedly spectacular flying today. You were wrong about wanting to avoid isolating—in fact, that suddenly sounds like a phenomenal idea.

So, you just get up and leave right in the middle of Rossi’s sentence, needing some time alone. Neither of them call out to you as you quickly walk around the table and through the barrier towards the exit, thank the Maker, and you’re just about to retreat with no interruptions until suddenly two Greenies step in front of you and block your path.

You halt immediately, looking up at them with a furrowed brow. “What now?” You grunt, not having the patience to even wait for a response before attempting to squeeze around them.

“Hey, so you really saved our asses out there today, Goldie,” the one on the left quickly sidesteps in front of you and rushes to say, and you settle your weight back on your heels with a huff.

“What are you talking about?” You glance back and forth between them, not recalling a time you’ve ever spoken to either one, before jerking your head to gesture over your shoulder. “Go congratulate trophy boy over there, he was the one flying.”

“We did,” the one on the right tips sideways to look at Dameron behind your shoulder, likely still laughing and joking with someone about something, something super fucking dumb probably. “Well, uh. We tried.”

“What?” You let out a heavy sigh and rub your temples. “The fuck is that supposed to mean? I don’t have the time.”

“He won’t take any credit, just keeps saying that all he did was steer you around,” the other one shrugs as his companion straightens and looks down at you once more. “Wouldn’t accept any drinks we offer him, nothing. So we thought we’d buy you one instead. Unless you’re… leaving?”

It takes you a few seconds to process that, even as he allows the open invitation to hang in the air. You can’t stop the way your torso automatically twists around to study your copilot from across the mess hall in baffled silence, suddenly realizing that they’re… they’re right. Dameron has no congratulatory drinks sitting in front of him even though more and more people have made their way into the bar. He’s just sitting there grinning and nodding along to something someone else is saying, completely and blissfully unaware of the extent to which he’s fucked with you in the past twenty minutes. The past… whole day. Month and a half. Or… fuck, how long have you known him? Two years?

But then Dameron’s gaze gradually drifts this way, before suddenly locking with yours. His eyes flick behind you to look at the two Greenies blocking your exit, and then back to the way you’re staring at him, wide-eyed and startled.

He suddenly stands up and starts to take a few steps towards you, and the sheer abruptness of the movement causes you to react immediately. You stumble your way backwards through the two pilots, feeling a few hands reach out to steady you through the awkward fumbling, but you slap them away and announce loud enough for Dameron to hear beyond them that you’re taking a shower, and you don’t give a fuck how long it’s gonna be this time.

***

The knob squeaks as you turn the water on. Usually you’d step back and wait the grueling five minutes or longer it takes for it to heat up with your arms crossed over your naked chest, but this time you move directly under the freezing spray, hoping to use the ice cold to shock your system.

You're finally alone.

Technically solitude doesn’t really exist within this base. You’ve heard of others that are a little nicer, having a little more room for the ranks, but not here. Housing assignments, showers and restrooms, mess and recreation halls—they’re all communal. Everyone is given rotating shifts, so while that means there’s never any true quiet to be found, it also means that showers are spread out well throughout the day and night.

But, at least for this moment, there’s nobody else around. At least in here, in the tiled chamber with multiple shower heads stationed around you—you’re sure there are a few girls lingering in the locker room and the entry area beyond it, but for right now, you’re blissfully by yourself.

And yet, you can’t seem to enjoy it.

You know you should be basking in the isolation. You should be thrilled at the rarity of only hearing your own flipflops slap against the floor as you turn around and drench your hair with the icy spray, but the lack of an immediate distraction for your focus allows it to wander to things you don’t want it to.

Explosions, mostly. Lighting up like fireworks in front of your eyes even as they flutter closed and let water drip down them. Constant, never-ending. Some of them small—TIEs you shot down, allies drawing fire away from you and then subsequently getting overwhelmed, zipping through dense debris from deadly collisions so quick that you had trouble distinguishing friend from foe. Some of them were massive—star destroyers splitting apart, warp drives overloading, enormous casualty counts. You don’t know how many lives you took today, not directly.

The beginning was the worst—when you were still slightly disoriented, when you were panicked and screaming into the comms for assistance. Then the closest stationed tandem showed up first—Red-Two and Eight, you think it was. Doesn’t matter now. They took some heat off you before the cavalry arrived, but you remember Dameron barking out your name the second their left thruster got nicked and they started spiraling, a ferociously deep, “With me!” cutting through the white noise. It was enough to snap you back, forcing you to instantly flick your eyes away and focus dead ahead without witnessing their demise.

It wouldn’t have normally been necessary. You’ve been flying with the Resistance for years, you’ve seen way too much bloodshed by now. But you’ve never been the catalyst of it—you’ve always been able to confront threats accompanied by your squadron, right between Nine and Eleven, the flight controls rumbling steady under your palms. You’ve never faced down an entire fleet in one single ship. You’ve never had to rely so directly on the skills of another pilot in order to stay alive.

The water slowly heats to a lukewarm while you reach for the shampoo.

Surprisingly, for as much as the two of you clash in normal interactions, it was like everything eventually became… synchronized. Spectacularly so. Dameron started off the enemy confrontation by calling out his flight patterns to give you a chance to adjust your firing in real time, but then at some point, it just stopped being necessary. There was a moment where you both were able to suddenly… get it. Get each other. He didn’t have to say anything after that—you could predict each other without second guessing, react instantaneously, and work your way through the littered battlefield accordingly. You never thought it would be possible to collaborate so well with someone you’ve spent ages despising. Sure, you’d both die if you didn’t—shit, you’d probably still both die regardless—but this kind of teamwork extended beyond the need to survive. It doesn’t matter how much you want to stay alive when reading someone else’s mind is physically impossible, but for some reason… You have no idea why, but it apparently came naturally between you. It fell to pure instinct, pure reaction, and remarkably, his would somehow match yours perfectly, every single time.

You lather the shampoo in your hair, remembering how his voice changed over the course of the mission. How it gradually shifted from panicked roars and barked orders into ecstatic cheers and genuine praise after landing a difficult shot, how he just couldn’t seem to stop whooping.

You smile softly as the tepid water rinses away the dirt and sweat from your body, until the temperature is brought up to a gentle, comfortable warmth raining down you and echoing in the empty shower room.

And, your first name. Dameron kept calling you that, the whole time. The one you’re now absolutely certain you’ve never personally given to him. The one he would’ve had to have listened for specifically. Remembered, or at least asked the right person about. But why? It’s not… it makes no sense, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s notorious for not giving a shit. He can’t even be bothered to remember the names of the girls he’s actually with—so why did he go to the trouble to figure out yours? You’ve been nothing but a thorn in his side the same way he is to you, right?

Right?

Your mind starts recollecting more recent events, trying to work through and process it by yourself. He was… singing your praises today. He was openly giving you credit for the win while you pouted in the corner and assumed the absolute worst of him. As much as you’re frustrated that nobody else seemed to give voice to your contributions, you’re even more surprised that he was the one who did.

And then even earlier. Gold-Nine, holding wagers with members of your squad (and others, apparently) about when you’re going to fuck him. Dameron, tearing her a new one for it, forbidding Black Squadron from throwing in and not attempting to hide his disdain for her from you. He… he defended you. Stood up for you when your own squad was being a bunch of dicks behind your back. And nobody ever fucking mentioned it to you. What did Rossi say—a few weeks ago? He’s known all this time and only today, only after you… openly showed more interest in him than you ever have, after you worked up enough nerve to try in your own little way to flirt back this time instead of responding to his casual comments with contempt and disgust, only today is when he decided to make a real move on you.

…Your mind is completely blank and yet you still feel yourself start to heat up just a bit at even alluding to the events that took place earlier. The way his fingers felt—

Steam begins to fill the open concept chamber while you shake your head against the train of thought and reach for the soap, beginning to circle the bar along your arms and shoulders with a sigh. This is already the longest shower you’ve taken in almost two months, and your body slowly relaxes under the mist and heat as you take forever cleaning yourself, slowly and hypnotically rubbing the soap along your skin.

The second you let your eyelids dip shut at the feeling, you immediately shiver at a flash of Dameron dragging his finger out of his mouth and blinking dark eyes at you through the transparisteel.

Fuck. The soap slips from your hand and you quickly catch it against your body before it falls to the ground completely, suddenly feeling the need to breathe in the misty air a bit harder. Shower, you’re in the shower. Come on.

The dirt and grime is scrubbed from your face and you tilt your head to move the bar of soap across your neck. As it lathers, you can’t help but remember the way his lips felt against the skin right there, the scratch of his beard. You keep working the soap against that same spot for a while, not knowing if you’re trying to wash away the sensation or simulate it, until you gradually slow and make it lighter, softer—yes, that’s closer to how it felt, that’s—

Soon the water is boiling hot and you’re trying not to boil along with it, remembering everything he said against this spot, the filth he whispered to you here. Your pussy starts to throb between your legs as the memories play out in your mind, how close he got you to shattering bliss without even really working for it. If you put it all together collectively, you don’t think he actually touched you for more than a minute or two total today. Mostly he just talked to you, but stars, he hit buttons you didn’t even think you had, had you a split second away from cumming harder than Maker knows while his finger rested just above your clit and provided no stimulation whatsoever.

Fuck, you enjoyed it. You did, you’ll admit it when there’s no one else here but you. You enjoyed the fuck out of it. You wish he’d do it again. Force you to lose, force you to cum so you can at least blame him for it, remove your responsibility from the equation and allow you to put just one more thing on his shoulders, to taste ecstacy instead of expecting you to bear the weight of pretending you don’t need it any longer. He was doing you a favor, you realize that now. Your body is staging a fucking coup and you wish you could’ve called mercy before it got to this agonizing point. He turns you on, you fucking admit it. He inspires violent emotions in you—jealousy, arousal, anger, temptation—thoughts you don’t want to have and consolidating it all into various forms of hatred makes the finer details easier to ignore. Your perception of him has always been skewed by your iron will, but he all but took a fucking sledgehammer to it today, dented it beyond all recognition. You want him, you want to him to take it all away, you want him to fuck you—in the… fuck, in the good way.

You don’t have a thought beyond that. Your hand quickly falls down the length of your body to wash your private parts, biting your lip as your hips slowly start to rock into it. You’re getting clean, you’re getting clean, this is how you clean yourself, this is… yes, as long as you keep the bar of soap pressed between your palm and the top of your curls like this, you’re cleaning yourself and you can just… ease your finger down just a little bit and—

Flipflops suddenly echo from the twisting hallway leading to the tiled freshers, and you immediately snatch your hand back up again, not needing to turn around to know another girl is walking into the room. A knob somewhere to your right eventually makes a dull squeak as you quickly finish washing up and turn your showerhead off, grabbing your towel and wrapping it around yourself.

Maker, you feel like your pussy is plotting your demise. Fuck, you can’t believe you almost cheated in the fucking showers just now where literally anyone could walk in, you thought you would’ve had more self-control than that. You make your way into the changing rooms and grab your pajamas, starting to tug them on without fully drying your body and having only one thought in mind.

Dameron will probably be celebrating late tonight. You can tuck in early, scurry back to your room and cheat there.

Well, no, not cheating, because you clearly remember making a very compelling argument about wet dreams earlier today. Maker, a freebie, the word has never sounded so enticing. What you’d say amounts to a… bye-week orgasm basically, since you know he’s already lost at least one match against his own body and you’re meant to be competing on the same level. It’s only fair to let you persevere through the toughest part of the challenge if he was allowed to throw a game early on and still stay in the competition. Maybe he threw multiple games, you never got a straight answer concerning that, so it’s still under review. He could’ve thrown… three games, even. Or four.

You dress as quickly as possible and then nearly bolt through the entrance area to the restrooms with all the sinks and stalls. The balled up dirty clothes and wet towel in your arms allow you to hide the way your nipples are stiff and tender against your thin pajamas, and you can’t wait to climb into your bunk and take everything off under the covers. You’ll be able to cum, at least once. It’ll relieve so much stress, get rid of this nightmare headache, rip through your body like lightning and paralyze it until you can start over from square one and think like yourself again.

And, you’re just about to power walk your ass back to your quarters when a body nearly slams into yours as soon as you step foot outside the door, your shoulder jerking back just in time to avoid a collision.

A mechanic, you think. You’re not exactly sure, you don’t hang out with too many of them—he’s Chiss and his glowing red eyes don’t even land on you as you gasp and sidestep him at the last second, but it’s not him that catches the majority of your attention. He just exited the men’s room at the same time you left the women’s, and the door takes a moment to swing shut behind him.

You freeze. It can’t be more than a few seconds—but it feels like everything slows down and it lasts a fucking eternity.

Dameron is standing at a sink in the far corner of the room, naked except for a towel identical to the one in your arms wrapped loosely around his waist. He cradles the base of his own throat with one hand and gently drags a razor down the smooth contour of it with the other, his chin tilted up high and regal while his eyelids dip low to concentrate on his movements. He glances down and holds the foamy blade under the running faucet, tapping it twice against porcelain before the door slides him out of frame.

I can shave, a low, silky murmur slowly fills your ears, heat swelling low and hot in your tummy. Tonight, I’ll shave it off. Make it nice and smooth for you.

You feel like your body is just a collection of rigid knots all tied together, and the one between your legs is the tightest it’s ever been. Stars, on another day you’d say it feels like a bad cramp, even though you know your injection makes your period rare and like clockwork. Regardless, the split second image makes you shudder and clamp up painfully, and you just stand there and stare at the closed door for a second, trying not to shake.

Fuck, this is so fucking… presumptuous of him.

Realistically, you know it could have absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s his face—you’re not self-centered enough to have completely lost your concept of autonomy. He can do whatever he wants to his body, and that includes facial hair, full stop. You also know that he’s not being… obvious about it, no matter how much it feels that way to you. He’s using the sink and mirror at the very end of the room, not any of the ones nearest to the door—but even if he was, it’s not like he could’ve planned for you to walk out at the exact moment the metal hinge was angled wide open. He couldn’t possibly have intended for this, for you to see him doing this. He wasn’t making a show, didn’t even notice you standing there. You blame literally everything on him, or at least you always try your absolute best to—but this one…

It sends a hard shudder down your spine and you clutch the fabric in your arms tighter, trying not to drop it. Fuck. This is torture. Fuck him. Good and bad—both ways, all the ways he can be fucked, fuck him. Your head is spinning, you’re sweating fresh out of the shower, you need to cum. Maybe if you hurry, you can get that precious orgasm before he’s finished, because if Dameron is able to intercept you before you can tend to this, you’re… you’re not sure how you’re going to say no to him.

You don’t even think you want to anymore.

You feel like you’re just… holding onto it on principle now. Too stubborn and hardheaded to want change. Too stuck in your own ways to recognize how much everything already has changed.

Somehow, you end up making your way back to your room, but the whole thing is a blur. Your flipflops plap against your heels as you navigate through hallways as quick as you can, emptier than you’ve seen them in months. You know most of the pilots are probably out celebrating in either the mess hall or rec room, but the thought doesn’t really presently register. Almost nothing registers besides your continuous forward motion and the way you feel yourself throb with every step, aching for something you are going to get tonight. Fuck, you are so attached to this orgasm now, it’s not going anywhere and neither are you. You deserve this, you deserve some relief. Come hell or highwater, it’s happening tonight.

As soon as you step into your room and slap your hand blindly against the wall panel to close the door behind you, you’re carelessly dropping the bundle of fabric to the floor and then shrugging out of your pajamas in the cool pitch darkness, having exactly one mission in mind. You don’t bother with lights, with brushing your hair, with literally anything besides clamoring up the ladder to your top bunk and wiggling under the thin bedsheet, making sure to pull it up to your chin before your legs butterfly open. The tip of your finger wets itself on your tongue and then you’re dropping it down and sliding it against your poor clit, the pleasure arcing and flaring so sharp and sensitive even from your touch that you have to give it just a second.

…No, no you don’t. You don’t have to give it fucking anything. You keep moving your finger hard and quick even as your hips naturally want to jerk away from it, shoving yourself through the sensitivity with gritted teeth and a ferocious will.

Fuck, how long do you think you have? Was Dameron shaving pre or post-shower? You can’t remember, all you know is he had a towel around his waist. And that thin gold chain hanging down his neck. Was his hair wet? Fuck, why can’t you remember? His chin and jaw were smooth as silk, you know that much. Post-shower, then. Probably. Probably?

His chin and jaw were smooth as silk. You keep getting stuck on that no matter how chaotically your thoughts whirl; they fling out in different directions at different velocities but all somehow manage to go in a perfect circle and end up at the same place you started. His chin, his jaw, his mouth, his neck, his chin, his mouth, his jaw, his mouth, his mouth, his mouth—

You feel yourself start to clamp down and you speed up, chasing it. The pleasure starts burning deep inside you, the fire slowly licking down your thighs and rising up into your abdomen, and then—

And then a series of quiet beeps from the hallway practically blare like alarm bells to your frantic mind.

You immediately stop moving your finger, snapping your legs tight together and flat to the mattress as soon as the door to your room shifts open and fluorescent light spills inside, and you feel like you could actually fucking cry right now.

All this edging is just a form of self-flagellation at this point. You lay there and try not to make a sound, try not to tremble hard enough to shake the whole bunk with it, but even your breathing feels like it’s going to give you away. Dameron, shirtless with his towel draped over his shoulder, slowly steps into the room and then pauses almost immediately, making your heart stutter for a second at what so blatantly caught his attention.

One quick glance down towards his feet confirms the simultaneous hope and fear—you left everything on the floor. The towel, the dirty clothes, and your pajamas are strewn about haphazardly right where he needs to walk.

You know what it must look like to him. A trail of clothes leading directly to an occupied bed isn’t exactly subtle, even though you didn’t necessarily intend it that way. Still, what can you say? Your hand is shoved in between your legs right now and you’re in your birthday suit under this thin sheet, what the fuck can you say to him? Sorry Dameron, got too caught up with how stupid wet you get me that I left those there on accident on my way to cheat, but totally not because I lowkey want your help doing it. Convincing, that’ll go over great.

Dameron slowly lifts his head to look at you. Or, at least you think he does—the light from the open door behind him casts his body in a dark silhouette, but you know your face is perfectly illuminated for him right now. Blinking down at him from the top bunk with your brows pulled up in the middle, wide-eyed and desperate and caught red-handed. Fuck, you don’t know if he can see the way your knees are clamped tight together and your hand rests perfectly still against your pussy like this from the angle he’s at, but you know it has to be super fucking obvious either way. You’re breaking the rules, you’re touching yourself, and you both know it. You can’t lie, you can’t even sit up without confirming his very valid suspicion. He can call the game at any point, but…

You watch his head fall back down to study the mess you left for him once more. Fuck, are you positive that was an accident? Normally you wouldn’t second guess anything about your own understanding of the interactions that occur between you and him, but—you’ve never done that before. You’ve lived with roommates on this base for years, you don’t just… get naked before getting into bed, that’s bad form. How are you going to get up in the morning without having your pajamas shoved near your feet while you sleep? Wrap this thin bedsheet around yourself and scamper down the ladder until you can snatch them up from the floor, and then what? Climb all the way back up just to wiggle the clothes on underneath the blanket before going back down again? Maker, you fucked up, your pussy is plotting your fucking demise.

But then everything inside you pulls taut as Dameron suddenly decides to move. Slowly, he leans down to catch your orange jumpsuit closest to his feet with a few fingers, before he stands upright and carefully begins folding the fabric without saying a single word to you. Electricity buzzes through you as he very obviously takes his time with it, using nearly his whole armspan to lengthen and fold the sleeves while his chest and chin meet for support. When he’s eventually satisfied with it, he takes a few steps toward the empty desk on your side of the room and then sets the neat rectangle of fabric atop it where you usually keep it.

You bite your lip and you can’t help it—you start to move your finger as he goes back to sort the pajamas you wore for barely two seconds from your dirty clothes, folding and putting away whatever is clean and then tossing the rest into the shared laundry basket that gets collected every week. Somehow it makes you feel even more naked, seeing all your clothes be returned to their proper places, realizing that this is your base state now, this is what you’re going to wear tonight. Nothing. You left everything on the floor and trapped yourself up here, he’s simply shifting a pawn forward two spaces in kind now that you’ve made your first move.

You can feel yourself pulse threateningly against your own fingertip while he collects your wet towel and drapes it over your closet door to dry, and your breath comes louder through your nose while you bite back the noises you want to make, the way your movements so desperately want to speed up. Your hand working the way you want it to under the white sheets would be too much, too revealing, but you don’t know how much longer you’ll be able to care.

But then of course, the asshole has to go and put away his towel and clothes, and you endure through the whole thing while pressing back and forth against your clit so hard and slow that your toes curl and pull the sheet tucked under your chin taut. After that’s done, he makes his way over to the portshade above his desk and slowly slides it open a few inches, the light of three moons outside gradually filling the room. However, when Dameron goes back to press a button on the wall panel and close the door to the hallway, you immediately see how much softer it is in here, how the artificial fluorescents have thankfully disappeared and the room illuminates more than it blinds, glows more than it beams. He presses one more button as the lock inside the paneling slides into place.

You bite your bottom lip and try your best to hide the pleasure you’re building for yourself while he makes his way back to his desk, quietly swiping the radio off it and lowering the volume knob completely before he flips it on. The noise slowly amplifies until you’re able to catch two distinct voices conversing in Huttese—it’s the only lingua franca that still broadcasts on this old technology in this part of the galaxy, but he’s already flipping through the stations in search of something specific.

If you were thinking straight, you may have actually recognized this for what it is, but you’re having trouble even processing the details of your general surroundings right now, your mind is lagging and too slow at reading between the lines. Dameron’s doing exactly what he said he would do. He laid it all out earlier for you in the x-wing, telling you exactly what he wanted plain as day, and now he’s checking the whole list off one by one. The shade is open and the room is lit just enough to make him out, the door is locked, and he’s finding something to listen to. Something quiet, and easy.

If you were thinking straight, you’d realize that there’s a much more obvious reason why he shaved his beard—you never told him the truth about how much you liked it. You never tell him the truth. You allow—even encourage him to think the sharp things you say to him are exactly how you feel. He did it because he believed you.

Oh, but you’re not thinking straight. Your thoughts are scattered and the only thing they can agree upon is how good this feels, even as your breathing starts to grow heavier, grow louder underneath the sound of the radio. The thought stays right beneath your consciousness, tugging at your preoccupied mind. You work your finger with just a little more verve now that he’s flipping through the stations, knowing he’s distracted by spinning the dial through intermittent white noise while different voices and songs fill the room for just a second at a time.

Your bed, his voice suddenly echoes through your thoughts, originating from your subconscious but almost sounding like it’s coming from the radio in your delirious mind. I want you comfortable.

Fuck, the understanding finally clicks the second he flips to a slower song and you start to burn at the thought of what’s next. The silent promise that his actions allude to. You have the realization way too late but at least it still comes at all with the state you’re in. Your hand slows down immediately, not even needing to consciously consider the choice between achieving orgasm through your finger or his mouth. Still, it’s hard to stop touching yourself completely when it feels so fucking good to your deprived body.

Fuck, it’s barely been a few seconds since your realization and yet you immediately bristle in distress at how fucking long he’s taking.

So you open your mouth. You’re desperate and needy and on the verge of something, and it comes out without thought. You don’t think it’s loud enough for him to hear, but his head immediately lifts and looks unseeingly at the wall in front of him for a second, as if he’s questioning if he imagined it. A soft melody plays on a bluesy guitar while you hiccup and wait, but he doesn’t move.

And then you say it again, higher and tighter in your throat, pitched up to an impatient, girlish whine. “Poe…”

The radio is tossed onto the bottom bunk as soon as he spins around and walks towards the ladder, but it’s like your finger has a mind of its own the moment he disappears underneath your line of sight. Your legs spasm against the mattress and you bite your lip, not caring about the frantic way your hand begins moving under the sheet as his muted footsteps climb up the rungs.

Your eyes snap to his as soon as you can see him beyond the railing at your feet, heaving himself up until everything above his waist is above you, too. His pauses there and his lashes quickly dip to the shameless movements between your legs as you work yourself towards that approaching bliss, and then flick back to the way you’re biting your lip and looking at him so torn, wanting so badly to wait for it but not being able to right now.

Slowly, he begins to move forward, crawling his way up the mattress and over your body, noticeably careful with where he places his limbs. You’re not hard to dodge, though—you’re like a rigid stick of desperation under him, knees and ankles still clamped tight together and your arms streamlined as close to your body as possible with tension as you keep rubbing your clit. Not to mention the sheet is thin and shows your figure almost perfectly with how tight you’ve hooked it under your chin, only leaving the finest details to the imagination.

But then there starts to be a little strain against the fabric, an unspoken question he’s still bothering to ask even though you could’ve told him to fuck off ages ago. Poe could yank the sheet down and flip your shit over and destroy you right now if he wanted—fuck, like you want him to do—but his face slowly appears in front of yours instead and his dark eyes search your features for answers. The length of his chain dangles from his muscular neck and glows against his golden skin, his whole upper body stretched long and bare over you.

From the gradually increasing tightness pulling on the fabric, you expect the sheet to rip down your body as soon as you lift your chin and let that resistance go, but instead… stars, it’s slow. Why is he going so fucking slow?? The bedsheet barely flutters down to your collarbone before he’s able to stop tugging on it so hard, and then he just gently inches the hem down from that point on.

Fuck—your eyes drop to his lips as he eventually reveals your shoulders and sternum to the room, and then lower to your cleavage while you let out a hushed whimper, praying he understands the extent of how vulnerable you’re allowing yourself to be. You don’t do this often—and you definitely don’t do it with someone like him. He’s the one who said you needed this, isn't he? So why the fuck is he dragging out the anticipation? Pretending like he doesn’t see the way you’re begging for help in the middle of another warzone that’s breaking out for the second time today?

Poe’s head drops down to give the contour of your neck a long drag of his tongue, slow and hot and wet, the sheet eventually dropping beneath your nipples and exposing them to the cool air. You bite your lip and keep working yourself under the fabric even as it’s led down the length of your tummy, and you just get wetter and wetter feeling him mouth at your skin as the radio continues to play soft from the bottom bunk. He follows the skin as it’s revealed, licking down from your collarbone and working with the increasing rate of your breathing. His lips never feel like they vary in pressure, even as your chest heaves up and down and your lungs work hard for air.

His open mouth slowly drags down the curve of your breast and it makes your blood burn fire through your veins. You nearly choke when your nipple is enveloped in soft heat, his tongue quickly fluttering up under the stiff peak and giving it to you so gently, contrasting so light and vernal with how brilliant and neon bright the need between your legs is. Your hand starts to work quicker, and fuck—you can hear it now, your desperate movements audible over the shallow breaths and the sound of one song gradually fading into another below you. You’re just too fucking wet and your pussy is smushed with how tight your legs are pressed together—the noise is unavoidable, and Poe’s knees are planted too close to either side of your thighs to spread them really at all.

Fuck, you knock against the resistance regardless to let him know what you want, but he doesn’t budge and it makes you just about lose your damn mind. Does he have to make everything so fucking difficult? You couldn’t close your legs earlier and now you can’t open them, and it’s like he’s able to take perfect advantage of each opposing position to prolong your torture.

But then his tongue leaves you even as his jaw opens just slightly, and that’s the only warning you get before his teeth graze your nipple with a sudden arc of sensation and you flare up all at once.

It’s a miracle and a curse that you’re able to stop at the very last second, your hand jerking away from your pussy and flexing into a fucking death claw on your thigh at how close you were, and you don’t know why. Why did the fuck did you stop? There’s nothing standing in your way right now, you’ve consciously given yourself express permission to cum, but still. It must just be learned instinct at this point—hammered into your muscle memory for weeks on end to not allow the pleasure no matter what, especially when you’re this fucking close to it.

Nonetheless you garble out nonsense and cinch inwards on yourself to fight it off now that you’ve apparently decided against it. There’s nothing worse than a half-assed orgasm, and you have to quickly summon the conviction behind your split second reaction before it’s too late and your body takes the pleasure any way it can get it.

Poe’s mouth releases your nipple at the way your whole spine suddenly hunches in and he drops his forehead to your chest, breathing heavy down the slope of your breast as you tremble and grapple for your sanity.

“Did you just cum?” Is the first thing he says to you, his voice is so ragged and stony it’s practically gravel crunching as he speaks.

“N-n-no,” you quickly stammer at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe correctly. Inhale, exhale—fuck, which one is inhale again, which one comes first? Maker, does he need to call a fucking medic? “Huhhhhalmost?”

Poe takes a deep breath and slowly releases it with a bassy and warm mmmm rumbling against your skin, so coarse but pleased enough to sound like melted chocolate dripping down your body. The noise sends a violent shudder through you and it’s almost enough to knock you back to that edge again, even without your fingers assisting it.

His head dips and the sheet pulls down even more, just below your belly button now, and you let out a quiet gasp in anticipation, nearly on the verge of begging him to keep moving downwards. But when Poe’s eyes close and his mouth suddenly moves back up to open over your other nipple instead, your patience snaps.

Fuck him, bad way. This is your orgasm, you’re done waiting.

“I’m gonna cum,” you snarl furiously down at him, shoving your hand between your legs even as Poe’s lips quirk against your skin. It’s not a warning, it’s a threat. If he’s gonna be like this, he doesn’t get to share it with you. It’s your orgasm, you’ll give it to yourself if he doesn’t give a shit about it. “Thought you wanted it, guess not.”

You immediately feel his teeth again in response to your admittedly slightly bitchy comment and this time he lets your nipple roll just a bit between them, making you jerk at the sensation and quickly find your clit again. Oh, you’re soaking fucking wet, you’re wet everywhere. Slick and swollen and burning, and it’s not going to take much at all. The sheet sticks to your overheated body and you can’t tell the difference between your sweat, his saliva, or wetness from between your legs—it all just feels damp and slippery as you gradually lose your bearings under his mouth.

“Fuck this, I’m gonna cum,” you breathe once more, possibly nothing more than a mindless reiteration but most likely just one last veiled plea for him to give you what you both want. As if he can tell, Poe quickly lifts his mouth and suddenly the sheet is ripped the rest of the way down your naked body completely, sharp and frustrated, and then his lips brush against your elbow as it twitches, nipping the sensitive skin there.

“Brat,” he growls quietly against your forearm as he keeps dragging his lips down further, following the path it makes along your tummy. “Just likes making shit difficult.”

“You’re the one—” you hiccup, trying to sound angry but just melting into a puddle at the tip of his tongue slowly trailing down your frantically moving wrist, “—you’re the… the o-one who… who…?”

But you’re already sprinting towards that edge, feeling him drop even lower and his hot breath fan against your fingers, and at this point you’re too far gone. Poe gently kisses at your closed thighs, in perfect position and ready for you, but you can’t stop yourself anymore unless he makes you stop, and the longer he waits down there without grabbing your hand to replace it with something better the more you don’t give a shit about whether or not it’s going to happen. You can feel the orgasm rising, you can feel your toes flex and everything start to lock down for the approaching tsunami. You’re going to get it this time, you’re going to cum, you’re going to—

“This is—” you rasp, “—this is a f-free, a fffff-ffreeeeb—”

His tongue softly grazes your knuckle as it works.

And then there’s a moment. A suspended moment that seems to go on forever, where you’re launched directly over that cliff and yet you still seem to be gaining altitude. Where’s the drop? You’re already cumming—you can feel it, there’s absolutely no fucking going back now, but it’s like your sheer desperation has so much momentum that your body tricks itself into believing there’s nothing to land on, no gravity to immediately rip you straight down to your demise.

You choke out his name and your back arches with it and that must be the signal, because Poe finally pulls your hand away and lets his chin dip, and then his jaw falls open and allows you just enough time to catch the glimmer of his pink tongue before it slides wet and slow through your swollen folds.

Heat. It sears through your whole body with a wracked shudder, the slick glide over your clit as his eyes flutter closed, and within the very first second of feeling his mouth on you, you’re instantly cumming inside it.

There. There’s the drop.

The burning erupts into molten chaos, crumpling your whole body on impact like an accordion, but he sinks all his weight down on your legs and forces you to endure it with everything below your waist pinned to the mattress. It’s fucking mayhem. You feel like your voice actually rips itself in half with the ragged cry of blinding relief, so enormous and soul wrenching in power that you couldn’t even hope to muffle it. You can’t move your hips through it, you can’t stutter up to ride it out—you have to experience the whole thing with your lower body completely still while his tongue takes slow, gentle licks at your throbbing clit, only able to sit your shoulders up and slam them back down and grab his head as you endure.

You cum hard. Fucking hard. It’s daunting and explosive and utterly devastating in the havoc it wreaks, and just when you think you’ve seen the worst of it, it’s just so slow. Creeping along and obliterating everything in its path, taking an eternity to pass because of how fucking big it is.

When you’re finally able to float back down into your own body again, the first thing you notice is how tight his hold is. Poe’s arms are wrapped around your thighs to keep them pressed tight together and you can feel the wetness all the way down to your fucking knees as they tremble against each other. Stars, what did he do to you? You feel like you actually wet yourself, there’s way too much dampness on the mattress underneath you to feel anywhere close to normal for you.

His mouth eventually leaves you but his head doesn’t move, nothing else moves. Even his hot breath feels like rough stimulation to your throbbing pussy.

And then Poe shifts and adjusts his body just enough, catching the backs of your knees and slowly spreading your legs up and apart like you wanted to do ages ago. They feel like jelly, wobbly and unsteady even as his thumbs hook right under your knees and easily support most of their weight. Your pussy is soon exposed completely, and his shoulders move down just before his head drops to lick the collection of wetness right from your entrance. Fuck, he couldn’t get it from the previous angle your legs were at, just your clit at the very top—but this is deep and personal and you know he’s probably getting mouthfuls of how hard he just made you cum, using the tip of his tongue to scoop your arousal up and swallowing it quietly before going back for more.

“Poe,” you whisper, and he rumbles low in his throat in response without stopping. This isn’t for you, this isn’t for your benefit right now. Your pleasure receptors aren’t concentrated right here, just the physical evidence of them being overloaded just a few moments ago, but he stays for longer than necessary. He keeps his mouth here far longer than you need to push past the throbbing sensitivity and start to crave the sensation again, forcing you to bite your lip to stop yourself from telling him to move back up just a couple inches.

So you seek it out instead, the lower part of your body clearly not listening to a damn thing your mind tells it right now. Your hips drop and his velvet tongue catches your clit at the apex of its repetitive motion, and you gasp and rock upwards again as Poe groans and immediately rises with you to chase it. He attaches to the swollen flesh and sucks at it gently for you, following your lead, letting your wet fingers comb his hair back from his face and clutch a good fistful of it as you plant your feet and slowly grind up into his mouth.

Fuck. He was right. You needed this. Everything about it is heaven—endorphins pour off you in waves as you roll your hips against his face, and he lets you do it. He’s not just pliant, he’s willing. His tongue works diligently, his eyes close and he moans into your pussy, allowing you to tug his hair and fit to his mouth exactly how you want.

Oh, everything burns. Everything smolders and sparks, because he’s always been so withholding and now he’s just going for it. He’s reading your mind better than he did during the battle today, not necessarily submissive in his approach but… servicing. Accommodating. Finally giving in and putting real effort into helping you chase after another shot of ecstasy without being so stingy about it like before.

As soon as you feel another familiar swell of something deep down, your mouth is suddenly dropping open.

“How many—” your ragged voice comes out without thinking, and it takes so fucking long to actually attach the train of thought to its conduit of translation. You swallow thickly and flex your fingers in his hair, tugging at him to ground yourself, trying to anchor yourself to the very thing that’s about to fling you into oblivion again. “—fuck, how many times did you… how many fr-freebies do I—do I…”

Poe eases his chin back just enough to respond, and the slick sound his tongue makes leaving your clit makes you shudder and miss the wretched words at first. “Mm. Just the one.”

And then his tongue is already sliding back through your pussy by the time your eyes pop open in immediate panic, and your clit is in his mouth again as soon as yours drops to frantically contest.

But the words aren’t coming, it feels too fucking amazing. Your jaw goes slack and your fingers tighten in his hair. Maker almighty, the orgasm swells up so sharp and quick that you have to fucking kick him at the very last second to get away from it. Thankfully Poe’s mouth abruptly leaves you with his oof of shock at your audacity, lifting his head as you snap your legs together and grit your teeth through your miserable retreat from ecstasy. You don’t even notice the way your knee almost knocks into his jaw with it—you just focus on shamefully easing your way back down again from the platform overlooking bliss like you’re too afraid of the high-dive. After a second, you actually have to turn on your side and rock yourself like a child as Poe slowly sits up with a grimace, lifting his arm to rub at his ribcage where your heel slammed into him.

You peek an eye open to watch him do it and oh no, it’s not a good plan. He’s so… fucking hot. Fuck. He’s unbelievably good-looking—his hair curls and frames such handsome features, his body is lovely and warm and seeing his chest bare and up close like this makes you want to reach out and slowly drag your hand down the smooth curve of his side. But then your gaze catches on the dark sweatpants tented shamelessly between his legs and how he’s glistening with perspiration, too, and how he tugs at the fabric covering his crotch and sighs softly, blinking down at you slow and intoxicated with lust.

You have to close your eyes and bury your face into the pillow because your body is latching onto anything to keep you within inches of that edge. The mere sight of him is enough to make you worry for yourself. You take deep breaths and do your best to tune his existence out entirely. Just you, just you in your bed, trying desperately not to cum without even touching yourself. You’re naked and curled up and there's no one here to look down at you with deep brown eyes, no one else breathing and especially not equally as loud as you are. Just you, just you.

And, just when you think you might finally get to the point where you’re not teetering anymore, where you’re at least mostly certain that moving around and looking at things and just existing in general isn’t going to make you completely unravel hands-free at any moment, he has to fucking… go and be himself.

You peek up to see him staring down at you, dark and intimate and devouring, before his hand gently brushes down the curve of your hip. “Maker, you are so fucking hot right now. Was that a close one, pretty baby?”

Your hand snaps out to grab his wrist with a whimper and you don’t know if your intent is to stop him or just hang on for dear life, but your grip is weak and you shake and Poe takes the opportunity to grab a handful of your ass while you do absolutely fuck all to stop him.

“Mmmm. Open your legs,” he murmurs, releasing your flesh just to give it a soft smack. “You’re only making it worse like this.”

“What? W-What do you—” you stammer, but Poe drags his hand down your thigh to catch one of your knees and pull it up without waiting for your babbled reply. Both knees go with him, your pelvis wound too tight and frozen to do anything but rotate your whole entire body on your tailbone.

“You’re just adding more pressure by keeping them closed,” he explains, wiggling his fingers in between your knees to try and get enough of a grip to pry them apart. “C’mon—open your legs, let yourself breathe.”

“Nnnnnnstop talking,” you groan, trying to slap at him, but he’s strong enough to force the movement regardless, levering your knees apart and then pushing them tight to the mattress. And, though he would normally be right about it, you’re fighting your mind to get away from the orgasm just as much as you are your body. The sudden exposure and the positioning and the way he automatically drops his gaze down at your needy pussy with his cock still hidden in his pants like that only serves to displace the cause instead of eliminating the effect. Closing the door and opening a window, shifting the stimulation somewhere else but allowing it to throb steady and aching regardless.

“Much better,” he sighs lowly, digging his fingers into the sore muscles inside your thighs and you just keep your hands loosely attached to his wrists as he works. “Fuck me, baby’s got such a pretty pussy doesn’t she?”

“Poe,” you wheeze up at him, hearing him rumble at the sight of your cunt contracting around nothing, probably shining and glistening with your desperation for him. By this point, you’re worrying again. You have no doubt whatsoever that he could talk you into cumming just like this, with your hands trembling and clutching at his wrists. If he keeps murmuring filth while holding your legs open and staring at your pussy like this, you have no doubt you’ll find a way to get there somehow.

Thankfully, he seems to understand. He goes quiet and just keeps massaging your sore muscles while you try not to writhe underneath him. Stars, it’s like he’s genuinely doing what he can to take it easy on you and you’re still all kinds of fucked up about it, still frantic and desperate while all he’s doing is just squeezing your legs.

“Calm down,” he gruffs, but you can’t. “You’re working yourself up, don’t—”

“Stop talki—” your ragged growl is cut off by your own hiccup as you quickly find the strength to shove at his hands, knowing they’re at least mostly to blame for your prolonged tightrope walk. You can’t fucking think when he’s touching you, you become too hyper-aware of your own body, it feels too good in a way that’s hard to describe and impossible to explain. Poe’s palms immediately listen and raise in front of him in surrender, his back lifting to give you space while you hide your face from him with shaky hands and gasp. It’s pathetic and your legs are still held wide open and your fingers tremble hard enough to resemble a malfunction.

You just. You need a hard reset. You need that thirty seconds of complete idle, of figuring shit out on your own without an electric current running through you before you can start working properly again. It can’t be rushed, it’s necessary when most people just want to power down and then right back up again. The wires connecting your parts are all criss-crossed and tangled and sparks are lighting up at the slightest stimulus, you just need to experience absolutely nothing for thir—

“I’m sorry,” Poe murmurs, still staying in his own space but the gravelly voice shooting a bolt of lightning down your spine. Thirty seconds, of course he couldn’t give you thirty fucking seconds. “Fuck, you’re so hot, I’m sorry—”

“Please stop talking,” you beg him, your fingers curling against your face, “Maker, I—I don’t want to cum—”

“Fuck, I know, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucki—”

You go to kick him again and even though it collides wrong and does nothing more than get your message across, the jostle is enough to knock you back from the approaching oblivion just slightly. It serves to wake you up way more than it remotely hurts him, the equivalent of someone just smacking a piece of machinery and fixing the problem temporarily.

You heave an enormous breath and blink your eyes open behind your fingers, immediately locking with his. Poe’s teeth are digging into his bottom lip but he’s mercifully silent, even when you drop your shaky hands down to your spread thighs and stay equally silent another full minute while you make the effort to right yourself. After awhile though, you realize he must be taking cues from you, waiting for you to speak.

Only, you suddenly don’t know what to say. You’re at a complete loss, looking up at him through your eyelashes in uncertainty now. Something you’ve never been around him, even as your pussy is wide open for him to look at. He hasn’t recently, though, you don’t think. He’s just keeping his eyes on your face, watching you bite your lip and blink up at him while your mind whirls, the only sound that can be heard is the radio continuing to lull from the bottom bunk.

You wish he’d say something. How come he’s choosing right now to listen to what you tell him to do? You don’t… you don’t know what to say to him. Why can’t you figure out something? You fidget but then suddenly feel your expression lose all its struggle and just look… innocent. Needing his help.

“Do you want me to leave?” Poe eventually asks after another moment, tentative of breaking the silence, and you frantically shake your head before he’s even finished speaking. Fuck, something drops in your stomach at how desperate you’re probably coming off right now, but you’re so lost and you know that’s at least one question you know the immediate answer to.

Poe tilts his head thoughtfully, slowly reaching a hand towards your thigh without removing his eyes from yours. “Want me to make you cum again?”

You shake your head again, wide-eyed and worried. He immediately pulls his hand back and blinks slowly at you.

“You want to be edged more?” He asks lowly, and you shake your head vehemently for the third time. Poe sighs and sits back, planting his palms to his thighs and pulling at the fabric of his pants in budding frustration, clearly tired of playing twenty questions. “Well what do you want, baby? You wanna just hang out? That’s fine, I don’t care, but you gotta tell me.”

Fuck, he’s right, what do you want? The only thing that’s standing in your way of feeling better, you soon realize.

“Want you to cum first,” you mumble, cheeks warming at how childish you sound.

“Not a fucking chance,” Poe immediately scoffs, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “And pouting at me isn’t gonna help.”

“Why not?” You breathe, dipping your gaze down his body. “I can use my mouth.”

“I don’t—” he stops short, suddenly registering what you said and switching gears. “You can—?” Poe narrows his eyebrows and looks suspicious. “You’ll let me… cum in it?”

“Okay,” you whisper in breathless agreement, sitting up and reaching for him, but Poe groans and pushes you back down on the mattress with a flattened palm against your shoulder like you just aced a test he was hoping you’d fail.

“Fuck whoever’s idea this was,” he grits darkly to himself while you arch up against his hold, wanting him to grab your tits but knowing it’s not a good idea right now. “Maker, I’m so fucking hard—fuck whoever’s idea this was, making me turn that down—”

“You said,” you pant, licking your dry lips and blinking up at the ceiling, trying to control yourself, “before, you said that you’re… you’re not doing this for a bet, right? So why not?” Your voice goes softer when you flutter your gaze back at him, even though the accusation feels like it should be sharper if anything, since it comes from a very real place of distrust. “Were you just… lying to me about that?”

“Fuck, come on,” Poe groans, his voice starting to waver as he shakes his head and squints one eye at you, exasperated. “You don’t get it. You can’t think of a single fucking reason I don’t wanna blow my load just yet? Really?”

The sentence coupled with his rock solid hold on you skitters a thrill through your body and you automatically reach up to run your hand along his forearm. He looks down at the caress and then back to your face and fuck, even you feel like you’re sending mixed signals right now.

“You could… fuck me,” you whisper, and Poe’s dark eyebrows pull up as his gaze falls down your naked body, nodding and digging his teeth into his bottom lip. An agreement backed by so much unspoken desire that it looks like it almost hurts him just to hear you say it out loud. “And we can just… see who cums first.”

“Yeah?” He croaks, his eyes pinned between your open legs. “Just say fuck it all and race for last place? Okay.”

Your heart pounds, having just enough wherewithal to preemptively establish a safety net for yourself. “And—and we can’t finish at the same time or we both lose.”

“Fuck,” Poe groans, reaching down to catch the hem of his sweatpants with his thumb and lifting his hips until his cock is exposed to the dim room. “We can’t stop once we start, then, we’ll have to see it through.”

Except you don’t catch any of the last part because, uh. Well, to sum up. May the Maker have mercy on you all.

Just like that, the only thought in your mind is… you get it. Okay, you get it. He told you before that girls were only interested in him for his cock, and it actually… stars, it makes so much fucking sense now, you totally get it. You thought maybe he was just boasting as a form of overcompensation at first—or, to put it another way you’ve probably used in conversation with him before, talking big talk but walking small walk. Only now, you’re… humbled. By a fucking dick, you’re humbled.

You haven’t seen more than a few of them in this context, so you know you’re not necessarily qualified to give an informed opinion, but heavens it’s a sight. It’s thick and swollen and just a shade darker than his complexion and everything inside you rockets to attention as soon as he wraps his hand around it. It’s big. It fills his whole palm without much room to spare. Far larger than what you’re used to, and you know that no matter how he fucks you with it, you’re gonna feel it tomorrow. Next weekend, probably.

Your eyes must betray you, because Poe suddenly loosens his grip and breathes your name softly, causing you to flick your eyes back up to his. You didn’t realize you were staring so openly.

“I’ll go slow,” he reassures you quietly, voice gentle and knowing. The complete lack of sarcasm or aggression in his tone is enough to snap you back to yourself, knowing that can’t possibly be right. He’s talking to you like he did when you stumbled your ass out of the x-wing today, when you were barely responsive and lost in dumb shock. He doesn’t have to… be nice to you right now, like you’re still only moments away from losing it. It’s offensive.

“I can handle it,” you harumph, widening your legs while Poe immediately suppresses a grin.

“'Course you can,” he sighs with the slightest note of fondness creeping into his voice, dropping his hips as he lines up at your entrance. “And I’ll go slow anyways.”

You open your mouth to respond but at the first push of his head inside, you inhale sharply and your palm immediately shoots out to press against his chest on complete instinct. The stab of pain is impossible to mask from your features and Poe instantly stops with a shaky breath, watching how your jaw drops at the intrusion and your face contorts.

“Ahh. Shit…” he whispers as his head tips down, dark eyes clamping shut and his hold on you tightening. “What—shit, what the fuck…”

“Keep going,” you growl out, even though you know you’re just making it more difficult on yourself. You can take Poe’s cock, you can take it, he has absolutely nothing to brag about, it’s completely normal-sized—

His hips inch forwards and you gasp at the excruciating arc of sensation, slapping at him harder.

“Keep going,” you babble while locking your elbows and shoving him back, “fuck, keep going, keep going—”

“Baby,” Poe groans, wrenching one of your hands from his chest and bringing your wrist up to his mouth to kiss and breathe hot air on it, “baby, you gotta let me—”

He moves a little more and you cry out, jerking your hand back from his lips and knocking it hard against his chest before you even realize it. Oh shit, you can’t handle it, you haven’t been fucked in so long—

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, trying to be nicer by flattening your palm but then immediately digging your nails in, “fuck, I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s been awhile since I—”

“Shit, I can tell,” he pants brokenly, his fingers dropping back down to flex hard on your hip. “Hoooolyfuck, I can te—ah, fuck, it’s alright, it’s alright, just—nnnnnnshit, okay, just relax, don’t tense up too muuuh… much—”

His cock pushes deeper even as he keeps rambling through it and you feel yourself being rearranged to make room for the slow movement, giving way to a rich pleasure even as the discomfort increases.

Poe stops once more when your hands shove up against him, somehow simultaneously shakier and firmer than all the other times put together and a little more than half of him inside you at this point. You’re so slick and hot between your legs that there’s no resistance besides the stretch, nothing to stop him from slamming home besides your weak hands trembling at his collarbone, but everything about the way he stays completely frozen for ages says he’s controlled and patient.

Everything except his face, you soon realize.

When your body is finally able to come to terms with the sensation and you blink up at him, Poe isn’t looking at you anymore. He’s staring directly over your head at the wall, tangible regret manifesting itself in seething frustration marring his expression. His eyebrows furrow and he scowls but all of it is silent and directed at himself, as if he’s asking why the fuck he actually agreed to do this. You know then that it must be really fucking wet. You know then that you must be just blazing hot and tighter than sin and as if in rhythmic agreement, his cock jumps inside you with each pounding rush of blood through it. You can see the sweat beading at his hairline as he continues to ignore you for the moment, choosing instead to silently lament at the wall like it did something to mortally betray him.

You could… make this a sprint, something devious suddenly whispers to you. He’s struggling through the pleasure and you can outlast. From the severity of that look alone, you can put an end to it before it even starts.

Admittedly, you don’t even let the devil finish his damn sentence before you decide to take your own initiative. You clamp down around him as hard as you can and Poe whips his attention down to you and punches out a curse that sounds like you wrenched the word from his throat before he was anywhere near ready for it. It comes from somewhere high and defenseless in register and then quickly falls down into a growly pit as his hips automatically lurch forwards the rest of the way inside, hard, smacking into yours as you squeeze wickedly around him.

You keep squeezing through the sudden upward shove of bliss, you keep tightening up even though you’re making agonizing noises and your eyes clamp shut and it hurts. But stars, it feels good, why does it feel so good when it hurts so bad? It makes your throat scrape and your face twist up, but you can hear his cursing getting louder and more desperate so you still don’t relax your viselike hold around him.

“Stop it—” he snarls down at you rabidly, “—oh fuck, stop or you’ll make us both cu—”

Shit, he’s right. You know he’s never been more right about anything as soon as his hips stutter and kick up to a full blown gallop in the middle of his furious scolding, and the sudden build of ecstasy is so fast and intense that you sob his name, not being able to loosen your muscles anymore as soon as it overtakes you. But it’s like a closed circuit, you’re both recycling the same pleasure without knowing how to shut it off. The harder you bear down on him, the faster his hips work, the vicious cycle compounding and circling and manifesting in the perfect typhoon within just a few tumultuous seconds.

But then suddenly he rips himself out of you with a gasp and it’s not a moment too soon, because both of you have to scramble and grab onto things to brace yourselves through the worst of it. You choose the mattress and he chooses the railing, and through the searing discomfort and settling of the chaos that’s becoming more and more familiar to you as this exhausting day passes, you know you fucked up. You underestimate his self control, time and time again. But, exactly like earlier today, you feel a thrill skitter up your spine at how he’s going to respond to your brazen treachery in the face of a newly established truce.

“Fuck,” he jerks his head to spit the obscenity at you, sounding more pissed off than you’ve ever heard him, the shredded anger in his voice starting to burn through you. “Fuckfuckfuuuuck—you make me so mad. You make me so mad. I wish I could fuck you right now, on Maker, I’d ruin you. I’d wreck your shit until you learn and you’d deserve every single fucking second of it, you—”

He stops short and growls jagged sharp in frustration, but you can’t help yourself.

“Say it,” you whimper on a dare, feeling your heart pound. The words quiver with an inexplicable sort of excitement as you dig your fingers into the mattress, wanting to hear his voice snarl the mysterious profanity. “Say it. ‘You…’—what? Say it.”

Shock suddenly paints his previously tense expression blank, even though his pupils blow out and his chest heaves. Your voice is too breathless, it’s too needy to sound nearly as antagonistic as you want.

And then Maker, it’s as if the sheer control he’s clinging to serves to spark his vexation even more. Mad that you would ask for something so enticing at a moment like this. Your heart thunders as Poe nearly flashes up close to you and points a threatening finger at you.

“You’re not going to get what you want from me,” he snaps, quiet and furious. “Not tonight. I don’t give a shit, I told you I’d slow fuck you and now I’m gonna do it until you act right.”

“You’re an asshole—” you move to lift up onto your elbows, but his hand suddenly plants against your clavicle and shoves you back down flat on the mattress.

“Not even ten minutes after I make you cum and you’ve already got a fucking attitude problem again,” he shoots back, positioning his cock at your entrance with his other hand once more, and Maker you’re drowning between your legs. His sharp rebuttal and the firm hold on the upper part of your chest makes it that much wetter, knowing you can’t do much more than lift your legs the way you need when he eases his way back inside.

“P-Poe—” you gasp breathlessly, but it's like he doesn’t hear you.

His expression tenses and he shudders out a low growl. “Fuck. Tight little baby. Rude little baby, just wants everything her way but doesn’t know how to behave herself.”

You have to bite your lip hard to hold back a whine when he’s completely sheathed and his hips connect to yours, and… shit. You already feel it. You already feel that simmering starting to take hold deep down once more, that monstrous second orgasm you’ve been fighting now digging its claws into you and licking the base of your spine with fire. And, as if he can tell, his demeanor instantly changes.

“Uh, oh,” Poe murmurs quietly, equal parts lilting and baiting, slowly dragging his cock out and then starting up the laziest pace you’ve ever experienced with his hand still planted high on your sternum right below your collarbone. “Can you feel it coming? Fuck, I can,” he shudders. “Already. Fuck, you’re so wet, you’re so wet—wish you had let me eat you out mor—”

“You can’t c—umm,” you hiccup, grasping his wrist and writhing through the building ecstasy, and you don’t know who you’re talking to at this point. Your other palm slaps at his shoulder with increasing urgency—fuck, he’s been fucking you for barely ten seconds and you’re already struggling to hold everything back. Only, his hand quickly grabs yours and pins it to the mattress, his face dropping closer as he rolls his hips achingly slow. You feel his back working with the steady pace, you see his neck flex as his cock drags so thick inside you, and then your gaze starts to lose focus a bit. It slides up his throat as lazily as he’s augmenting your pleasure, following the contour of his smooth skin until it reaches his face.

And mercy, Poe’s tongue comes out to wet his lips and a dark curl hangs down his forehead, concentrating hard on fucking you steadily without giving into the same creeping euphoria you’re feeling, and you have to turn away and bite back a whimper at the metal railing when the image starts to burn you alive.

“No,” Poe gruffs and his hand slides up a few inches to frame your jaw, twisting until you face him directly once more. “Right here, you stay right here with me.”

Your eyebrows pull up weakly and your eyes flick across his stunning features, the way he’s so present, so focused and determined while you’re starting to drift. His skin is so smooth, so golden when his jawline used to be dark, and—

“I—” you choke, starting to lose it, “—I-I…”

“What is it, baby?” Poe growls, staring down at you with unwavering, intense concentration. “Tell me. You gonna cum?”

“I…” you whimper, blinking at him slowly, “I… liked your… b-beard…”

Poe’s eyes, previously hardened and steadfast, suddenly go a bit dumb, a bit dazed. After a second, his eyebrows lose all strain, his gaze turns warmer and he rolls his hips deeper—

But the swell begins to become the only thing you can comprehend—that and the fact that you should be fighting it. You should be revolting against it, but now he’s looking so softly down at you and you can’t remember what could possibly be so bad about letting him take away all this ache and desperation again. Let him continue to take it away, over and over and over until it’s nowhere to be found at all.

And then Poe leans down and kisses you. And it’s… nothing like you’d expect.

It’s gentle. It’s tender. It goes on forever while he rocks into your soaking wet cunt, easing his throbbing cock in and out of you with such a smooth, repetitive motion that sends sparks of ecstasy down your spine at the apex of each thrust.

You handle it silently. At first. You don’t audibly react to any of it, you force your voice to at least keep quiet if you can’t hide the pleasure from your face or body, but then true to fucking form, he has to go and ruin it all. Poe uses his knees to scoot up just the slightest bit, and then his moan breaks through the absence of the desperate sounds you’ve been holding back as his tongue slowly slides into your mouth.

Your pussy flares, contracting painfully around his cock as it hits a spot that makes your legs shake against his sides. Your eyes roll back as his soft tongue dips into your mouth and everything just gets tighter, and tighter. Poe moans again and his hips push a little bit harder into yours on the next thrust, and it’s almost like a domino effect, except that doesn’t do it justice. It doesn’t topple one by one, it doesn’t take any time at all for the beginning to reach the finish—it’s a house of cards, the whole thing collapses and crashes down in on itself all at once.

You cum.

You lose. Fair and square.

You make a long, anguished whine into his mouth as you just start spasming, clutching hard at his shoulders and drenching his cock with it, your eyes squeezing shut as you cum so slow and fucking helpless around him. Oh Maker, it’s fucking devastating, it feels even more destructive and powerful than the first one. You pull and shove and claw at him equally, mouth slack as Poe tightens his hold and keeps tasting your whimpering cries, fitting his hips snug to yours as he slowly pushes you down through the debilitating ecstasy. You sob in euphoric defeat and a low, bone-shattering groan of satisfaction rumbles through his chest in response, grinding his cock into you and holding it deep as your pussy convulses.

All those weeks of holding out, just to lose. You had a freebie, he gave you an orgasm already and it was like a massive dose of spice to your deprived system—all it did was make your body want it more. Even worse, your orgasm doesn’t immediately inspire one in Poe like a part of you hoped it would, if only so you could reasonably contest the validity of the outcome. He’s able to ride out every twitch and flex as you shudder your way through it, continuing to lazily slide his tongue into your mouth while it’s held open and slack. He tastes like you. He tastes hot and slick and everything about your body feels the same way, damp and unbearably warm from your nape to your elbows to your cunt to the backs of your knees.

You lay there for what feels like a lifetime afterwards, powerless to the way your thighs tremble violently against his hips and letting the tip of his tongue slowly trace the bottom edge of your teeth while he firmly keeps his cock buried inside you. It pulses thickly and you know he wants to cum, you can feel the tension pulling at his shoulders as he keeps perfectly still. But then Poe shuffles his arms up until they’re braced around your head, using himself to box you in completely without moving his lips from yours. His teeth close on your bottom lip as he inches his hard cock out long and aching from your sensitive channel, and then groans and goes back to the same exact dragging pace from before.

Your expression furrows, even as he keeps kissing you and the movement lights up your oversensitive nerves. Fuck, you want him to speed up, it’s all the more shattering and viseral when he takes his time. What is he doing? What is he waiting for?

“Fuck me,” you whine against his lips, demanding a quicker pace. You don’t know why he isn’t just letting loose on you now, giving into his body’s need to cum. He’s aching for it, still rock hard inside of you. “Come on, I already l-lost, just fuck m—”

“Told you before,” Poe whispers back, refusing to speed up. He keeps his pace dragging and steadfast, no matter how much you work to entice him. “Never… fuck. Never gave a fuck about that stupid bet. Suffer though.”

The complete lack of harshness in his tone sears through your nerve endings even though what he said wasn’t exactly nice. You never thought hearing him tell you to suck it up could be delivered in a way that inspires so much arousal in you, but then his tongue is in your mouth again as his hips work slow and easy, and your eyes roll back at how… overwhelming it feels. So intimate. You’re completely surrounded by him, his forearms propped next to your head and his mouth on yours, and… Maker, there it is again. Your body is so deprived that it’s already gearing up to go again. He’s being lazy and you can’t fucking stand how it’s breaking you down. Gradually, with incredible stamina and a patience you never expected from him. When you first feel that pull, part of you still wants to pick up the other end and start a tug-of-war with the sensation. You’ve been fighting for so long that your body almost doesn’t know any different, its automatic reaction is to resist.

A distraction, that’s what you need. That’s what guys do to stop themselves from cumming too soon, right? Fuck, think of something, think of…

—Poe, you can't think of anything but Poe. Fuck. His cock sinking deep, the way he tastes, how his fingers thread into the damp hair at your crown so you can feel him that much more, how you can hook his biceps with both hands and swirl your tongue around his while he fucks you open. Your hips roll up with the pace and almost immediately stutter back down again, not sure if you can handle the wicked shot of oversensitivity—but then Poe groans and shifts up until his thighs are under your ass and he can curl you in more, lift your feet a bit more and make you feel smaller. And—stars, the next thrust in is enough to nearly make you bite him on complete accident, an unexpected sound ripped from your throat as he keeps that specific angle.

Poe keeps going. He keeps kissing you, keeps rocking into you. He lets you claw at him, lets you grapple helplessly while his cock shreds molten hot euphoria deep inside you, and then everything tightens up again.

“Ah, fuck,” Poe breaks away and curses a whole few seconds before you descend into mindless chaos once more, garbling out broken syllables with the absense of his mouth keeping yours occupied. Your voice crescendos and breaks at the same time you do, the pleasure arcing through you over and over and wringing you out repeatedly around his throbbing cock. Poe’s lips quickly move forward and give your whole cheek an open kiss while your expression crumples with it. Teeth drag down your skin as he moans hot air across your skin, his hips slowing to a complete stop with an obscenely slick sound.

You throb and clench around him and his lips are suddenly on yours again, his tongue sinking deep and dominating. Your mouth is slack and all you can do is squeeze him through the bliss, scrape your fingernails down his back and hope it leaves a mark.

Eventually the tremors pass and you’re dead in the aftermath, you don’t have energy. Your body is starting to acclimate to the slow orgasms and just let them steamroll you flat, fully accepting now that you can cum but still putting everything you have into it like every single one might be your last for a while. You come back to yourself enough to feel Poe’s cock solid and achingly hard inside you, and your bottom lip is being tugged between his teeth.

And then he eases out and goes back to fucking you. Same speed, same control.

Your eyes nearly fucking cross. “P-Poe—”

He immediately makes a noise of disapproval with his mouth closed, a nuh-uh but kept tight in his throat. He doesn’t want to hear it, he’s not even letting you finish your thought.

You can’t take it, though, you didn’t think he was capable of this. This is torturous in an entirely different way, overstimulating and shattering you with every thrust.

So, you think back to the one thing that got him to nearly snap earlier, the one time you really got to see that fire you love playing with. Only now, you need that fire, you need him to take everything out on you. Your floor muscles clamp down without warning and squeeze him as tight as possible, squeeze squeeze squeeze until you feel his hips stutter to a halt once more. Your breath catches—fuck, is this gonna work?—but then Poe breaks away from your lips to drop his head and sink his teeth into your neck.

You nearly squeal at how careless he is about it—an animal that bites you lazily even though it sends sharp agony rocketing through you. Again, your attempt at sabotage backfires spectacularly as a subsequent flare of pleasure swells up, and oh, that’s what you want, you want him to be mean—

“Please,” you whimper, hooking your ankles behind his back and locking down hard enough to make your toes curl. Poe groans as you grab a fistful of his hair and tug at the way your skin pinches between his teeth—you know you’re gonna have a bite mark for a few days and it thrills you. “Fuck, please, Poe—please just fuck me, please, I want you to fuck me until it hurts, fuck me the way we both nee—”

“You and me almost died today,” Poe grits into your neck, cutting off your desperate whimpers with a short growl. “Maker, it was so close, I don’t think anybody has any f-fucking…” His hips pull out and then spear deep and you choke, tightening and tightening. “But—shit, we didn’t, we lived and now—oh fuck, now baby’s finally letting me fuck her and I’m not cutting it short, no matter how pretty she sounds asking.”

His words sound slurred against your neck and you can’t tell if it’s his delivery or your perception that’s lagging. But when you feel Poe inch his cock out and start to slowly fuck you through the tightness, you let out a weak little whine and feel yourself drifting… somewhere else.

Things subtly lose their clarity, your eyelashes dip and you stop talking because words won’t come. You can’t tell if you’re staring at the ceiling or your eyelids or the back of your head, but Poe’s voice abruptly breaking through the silence makes you realize you don’t have a concept for time anymore. You couldn’t tell him how long you’ve been floating, but you almost don’t understand what he’s saying at all and it takes you a remarkable delay to fully comprehend. But judging from what he says, it sounds like it hasn’t been long.

“Shit, are you cumming again?” He suddenly gasps into the crook of your neck and grinds his hips achingly hard into yours, “O-Oh—fuck yeah, you are—baby’s cumming again—”

“P-Poe?” You stutter and smack your hand against something, him maybe, not knowing literally anything else. Not knowing what he’s talking about, not knowing where you are, not knowing your own name, “Poe—oh m-my… God—”

“Whhh—W-What—?” You hear him breathe a split second before everything compresses down tight, and then it all shoves forward at once. All of the buildup makes itself known the very moment it becomes too much to control, like a flash flood but the downpour happened miles away. You think you might actually squeak this time, helplessly cry out like it hurts because stars, it does. It hurts so fucking good, it spiders pure plasma through your entire body with rhythmic jolts and wipes your mind completely vacant. Your shoulders shoot you up and knock your chin into something and you think you might be crying? You don’t know anymore. Your spine comes back down to the mattress like the damp fitted sheet covering it is made of pure ice—your body is overheated and you keep tensing and jerking back up until Poe forcefully pins you tight against it, growling filth under his breath as he slow fucks you through it.

You feel his hand dropping down between your bodies and you sob pitifully at the ceiling when the tip of his calloused finger brushes your clit.

***

You lose count.

It’s just… constant, there isn’t a point in keeping track anymore even if there happened to be the ability—which, nope. Not even close.

He ruins you slowly. Meticulously, with nothing more than steady, unwavering determination. Every structure you built, he takes apart by hand instead of bulldozing it the way you beg him to when you find the words. You’re certain you find them—you must find them at some point, but they’re interspaced between babbled gibberish and breathy whispers of his name.

Even though it’s slow—Maker, it’s so slow—you’ve never been so fucking exhausted. He makes you give him everything and then he drains the reserves, the hidden ones you weren’t even aware existed. He never goes fast enough; in fact, you think he’s actually slowed down over the unknown amount of time it’s been since you first called out his name and asked for this. If you were in a frame of mind to notice, you’d probably realize he’s trying harder and harder to not cum, but in your wild headspace, it just feels like a prolonged punishment for you. It still feels like he’s depriving you for his own pleasure, even though he’s actually depriving himself for yours. But you always do manage to find some way to read things wrong with him.

Eventually, he begins to waver. He stops talking so much, stops chastising you when you plead with him. He hasn’t looked at you since he first kissed you—he’s either hidden his face in your neck or closed his eyes as his soft tongue slides across your bottom lip before dipping inside.

But then there comes a point where even you realize he’s struggling not to let go now, and in your faded traces of sanity, you hear your broken voice cut through the sounds of the soft radio.

“Y-Y-You—” you gasp, trembling under him, “—youneedtocum. You need to—”

“No,” Poe grits against your chin, sounding shaky and weak no matter how sharp he makes his consonants. “Fuck, not yet, I—I-I don’t want to yet.”

“Oh no,” you wheeze out, feeling the swell begin again, the familiar flicker of warning you get as his cock slowly rocks into you. Maker, the pleasure is getting raw and painful even as your pussy is drowning his cock with it, allowing him to glide slow and deep into your sensitive channel and letting the sheer tightness of it be the only resistance your body puts up. You can feel the wetness on your cheeks though, the tears of frustration gathering as your body prepares itself for yet another wave of attack. “Oh no, ohhhhhnononononono—”

“I don’t want—” Poe gasps, his hips stuttering just a bit and one of his hands coming down to smack the pillow next to your head as he chokes, “—don’t want this to… e-end yet, I—”

Your next orgasm suddenly slams through you and Poe immediately rips himself out of you before it’s too late. He shushes you frantically while you sob in distress and writhe side to side through the contractions solo this time, having nothing to clamp down on, not even able to grind up into him because he keeps his leaking cock elevated far beyond your reach.

Oh, that’s it. That is it.

“Fuck me!” You wail up at him, water blurring your vision and tears streaming down your cheeks, “Stop fucking around and just fuck me, you asshole! Fuck me and fuck me hard Dameron or I swear to every fucking star in the sk—”

You don’t get too far. He’s immediately scrambling over top of you and a strong hand is clamping down tight over your mouth, muffling your high-pitched cries against his palm. Your legs are shoved apart and one is caught under his arm and wedged back as far as it can go. His head drops to your neck, and then he snarls a ragged, “Brat—“ under your ear before ramming his cock back inside you.

Stars. Stars light up, it’s so much—the angle, the force, the speed, the sound his hips make as they start ruthlessly colliding with yours. Your eyes screw shut and you dig your nails into the meat of his back, but he doesn’t slow down—he speeds up—

“Fuck, you still think that throwing your little fucking fits works on me?” He hisses, drilling into your g-spot with such blinding hard precision that you can’t do anything more than just claw at his chest, gasping for air that just won’t come into your lungs. “Huh? Think you can just be a little bitch to me about it and it’s gonna change anything? You still don’t have any fucking idea, do you? Look at me—” he snarls, grabbing your face and shaking it to get you to respond, “—look at what you fucking do to me—”

But you can’t. You already came countless times and he’s lurching you up the bed with every single rabid thrust into your blindingly sensitive cunt, fucking you into the railing and then the wall behind it. You still feel his fingers grasping at your jaw, forcing you to address him, to look at him, and you can’t seem to focus your vision on his blurry features even when your eyes flutter open. You’re too dumb with grinding pleasure to see anything besides blurs and stars, to say literally anything back to him. But that’s not what he cares about.

“Oh fuck yes, there it is,” his voice whines, pitching up something vulnerable as his hips ram you into the corner hard and unyielding, “fuck, there’s those pretty eyes, that’s what I wanted, baby, that’s all I wanted—th-that’s—fuck, that’s—”

They must cross, or roll back, or something, because suddenly you can’t see him at all anymore. You don’t know what happens—but you know it’s wet. You know it bursts forth something fierce and you shriek his name with a hoarse and shredded voice like he steals the last part of your whole fucking soul with it. Fuck, you’re not even there for most of it, you might actually black out.

In your conscious moments, you can feel his whole body flexing over and over again on top of you. He empties his load deep inside you and takes a fucking eternity doing it, so many breathless praises leaving his mouth so quickly that they slur together and you can’t understand any of it even if you could hear him. All you can do is feel your cunt tighten and convulse in tandem with the throbbing of his cock, rhythmically working the cum out of him until Poe stops stuttering his hips, until he finally trails off into nothing but labored gasps and slumps down on top of you in exhaustion.

You both lay there for a while, dead weight breathing.

You want to hold him, your cum-struck mind quietly provides in the comedown. You want to feel his body now that you can finally think straight and take a moment to enjoy this blissful relief. He fucked you so good and you want to touch him, you want to run your fingers through his hair and massage the tight muscles at the base of his neck.

But then you just start giggling.

It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. You smack your hand over your mouth but the garbled noise easily floats beyond it, completely elated and having absolutely no explanation at all.

Poe quickly pulls his head back to look at you and you try to twist sideways under him to hide it, but you can’t stop—like a complete loon, you snort and start to laugh harder at the ridiculous sound. Oh, you don’t just float, you’re the air itself, so light with endorphins that you close your eyes and get lost in the fit until water wets the outside corners.

After a moment, a hand gently grasps your wrist and slowly pulls it down until he can see the way your mouth opens as you giggle, hear it unobstructed and let the sound bubble up at him and fill the room. And you blink your eyes open just in time to see him slowly break into the most dazzling smile you’ve ever seen him bestow a person.

And… you’ve seen him grin a million times. He’s almost always smiling, as long as you’re not right in front of him. He smiles at his squadmates, he smiles at girls, he smiles at complete strangers, and you always thought it was pretty. Always knew that he could light up a room with it, you always knew he could get anything he wanted with it, but this… this isn’t that kind of smile. That one is practiced and alluring. It wasn’t fake, necessarily, but that smile��s purpose always had more to do with making anyone who happens to witness it feel a certain way than it did about signifying his own emotional state.

This one is… goofy. Amazed, and uncoordinated. Thunderstruck in a way, except the clouds all part at the same time and let you see a rainbow. It makes you feel… alive. Colorful. Radiant. Sunshine. Butterflies.

Poe quickly drops his lips to catch yours and you moan happily, sliding your tongue into his mouth this time. You both adjust, you arch into him as he pushes your damp hair back and makes a deep noise of satisfaction, letting you explore while he wraps his arms around you and finds a way to make this atrocious position comfortable. Every part of you is smushed up against him and there’s absolutely no space to be found, and you’ve never been happier.

“We made a mess,” he groans against your lips, rocking his hips into you with a disgustingly slick sound as if to illustrate, and his cock is soft but it’s still so thick that it stays buried inside your sloppy entrance. “Shit, I—I think I might be bleeding.”

“What?” You ask breathily, and he heaves himself up with his elbows just enough to reveal his chest. You both tuck your chins unattractively to look and you don’t immediately see any blood, but your claw marks are clearly red and visible scraping down his pectorals. “Oh. Pfft. You’re fine.”

He drops back down with a huff and your head is tilted at the perfect angle catch on the tiny droplets of blood decorating the marks criss-crossing his shoulder blades. Oops.

But he’s already kissing up your neck and over the curve of your jaw and making out with you again like he can’t get enough of it, and you forget. You forget everything. You forget every disagreement, every gripe with him you’ve ever had. It’s all wiped away and replaced with giddy, childish adoration. Resetting completely and starting off on the rightest foot imaginable.

“Let’s go to my bed,” he murmurs, and you make a tight noise of disapproval. No. This is good, this is how you want to stay. The railing is digging into your lower back and he’s heavy but you’re perfect like this, this is perfect. “Baby,” Poe pants against your lips in exasperation when you quickly clutch the back of his neck and keep him glued to you, “mmph—you got everything all wet—”

This time you make a low hum of agreement and drag your hand down the bare curve of his spine to his ass to give it a squeeze. A testament to how hard and raw he fucked you. Poe shudders hard enough for you to feel his body tremble but you just kiss him harder, pulling him down onto you more.

“You’re gonna have to give me, just like—I don’t know, at least an hour or two,” he chuckles, grabbing your hands to make it easier to peel himself from your body and groaning when his cock finally slips out. “Come on, let’s hang out in my bed.”

You’re so boneless when he pulls you to sit upright, you roll a little bit and Poe has to catch you, and you laugh again. Maker, you’re a complete mess and absolutely delighted about it. Your attempts at grumbling and complaining don’t hold any sway when you’re still trying not to giggle, and Poe is able to pull you to the top of the ladder and make his way down first.

As soon as he’s out of sight and calling up to you, you weakly slide into position with a groan and feel yourself leaking at the movement. “Gah—look what you did. I’m all… gooey.”

“I know, s’the hottest fucking thing,” he says under his breath from the floor, before beckoning you by tapping on the closest rung a few times. “Come on, be careful.”

You do as he says, easing your naked body down one step at a time with wobbly legs. It’s clumsy and you whine the whole way through, wordlessly grousing and mumbling.

“Oh, I just know it,” he comments on the sound, “nice clean sheets, I’ll get the violin.”

Normally, you probably would’ve snarked something back down at him, but you’re still so loopy and shaky-legged that you just start laughing again. The fact that he’s absolutely right and you’re being ridiculous about something like moving beds suddenly strikes you as incredibly fucking funny for some reason. You don’t realize his hands are hovering inches away from your hips until your legs buckle and Poe quickly supports your weight.

“Maker,” Poe chuckles before giving you a firm yank, and then catching you before you can tumble down the ladder in your naked, teary-eyed mania, “let’s go, giggles.”

He carries you a few steps to the mattress and plops you down on top of the comforter, letting you take up the whole bed while he sits on the end and puts your feet on his lap. Poe grimaces for a second and then shuffles until the radio is pulled out from under him, and you can hear the soft sound of it playing once again. You bury your face into his pillow, inhaling the warm scent lingering there while he tosses it carelessly to the side and rubs your shins for a little bit, watching you stretch out naked on his mattress.

“I’m not giving you two weeks of pay,” you suddenly grunt, and he just grins down at you, not arguing. Not saying anything. Sitting in comfortable silence with you when you’re expecting him to bicker. So you stay like that for a long time, breathing deep and relaxing, until Poe’s hands leave you for a second…

… to pull a bag of chips out.

Maker, at the first squeaky sound of the wrapping assaulting your eardrums, you want to roll your eyes. You want to tease him about how fucking typical it is. Like clockwork, you could probably set your watch to his middle of the night cravings. You don’t know why you thought fucking him would change any of that.

You want to give him shit for it. You even open your mouth, the snark on the very tip of your tongue. But then your stomach growls as soon as he rips the thin plastic apart.

Poe’s eyes shoot to yours and neither one of you move, but apparently your tummy doesn’t get the memo. It takes forever to trail off into silence again, and he blinks. Fuck, you know you should’ve forced yourself to eat at least something earlier. Warmth floods your cheeks and you scramble for something to say, but there’s no way to play it off.

“Would you like some chips?” Poe suddenly asks with a boyish grin, raising his eyebrows and tipping the open bag freely in your direction.

The corners of your mouth pull downwards even as the inside of it waters. You wouldn’t call it stubbornness necessarily as much as it is a… a desire to stick to consistency. After the unbelievably hard time you always give him about midnight snacking, you’re hesitant to partake.

Though, the chips rustle against each other and sound absolutely fucking delicious as Poe shakes the bag and bounces his eyebrows, and you know what? Fuck it.

You snatch it without thinking, cradling the precious food to your chest as you dig your whole hand in and shove a bunch into your mouth at once. You catch him smiling again, but he doesn’t comment.

You both take turns, and by take turns you obviously mean you take turns stealing the bag from each other instead of just setting it equidistant between you and openly agreeing to share it, but it works for you. It seems appropriate. And then it’s quiet again, just munching and crinkling, except for the radio continuing to play from its place in his lap. You have to work to listen over the loud crunching vibrating through your skull, but when you finally manage to stop chewing and catch a few bars, you suddenly find yourself trying not to smile again. Fuck, it’s been years since you’ve heard this song, you love this s—

“Fuck, I love this song,” Poe promptly exclaims with his mouth full, licking the tips of his fingers before scrambling to pick the radio up and twist the volume knob without using his wet fingertips. He starts humming over the melody, loud enough to almost drown it out completely, because of course he does. The one damn time you actually want to listen to his radio and he still finds some way to mildly irritate you.

But this irritation is almost… fun. You want to laugh just as much as you want to yell at him.

“Hey, who sings this song?” You immediately ask over the sound of him clearly not knowing the lyrics, already ready with it. Oh, the round is in the chamber, your finger is on the trigger, you are ready, and Poe’s eyes sparkle as he seems to stop and think about it.

“Mm, not sure,” he eventually shrugs, just before you rush, “Let’s keep it that—”

And then he’s slapping a hand on your leg and belting out the chorus while you scoff, giggling. He ruined the punchline on purpose and is now getting chip dust all over you, but you know any complaint you make will be drowned out by his suspended notes and backing track, so you just roll your eyes and swipe the bag of chips from him while he continues to serenade you.

“My ears are bleeding,” you mutter under your breath.

He has a nice voice, you think.

#poe x reader #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #reader insert #Smut #no-droids

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thehollowprince · 3 years

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so i guess delusional means 'actually pays attention to canon'. hmm, not what it says in my dictionary. these people must use a dictionary that comes from the same alternate universe that their version of teen wolf is from. it's almost fascinating how many people buy into this warped fanon version of the show. so many actually believe that st*rek is canon? that scott is the real villian? it's so wild. thank god for blogs like yours that keep some sanity alive in this fandom!

It is a truly baffling concept, isn't it?

That so much of a fandom bases their entire experience in said fandom on stuff that never happened? Don't misunderstand, I'm all for headcanons and the like, but mine are based on what happened in the show. I could get behind a "Stiles is Jewish" headcanon, because there's nothing in the canon that directly contradicts that. The same with Derek being Native American. The problem with the headcanons that so many focus and fixate on often come at the direct expense of the characters that are already part of a minority.

This branch of fandom never even considers Scott's heritage or want to explore the backstories and possibilities of characters like Deaton or Kira or Mason. They will outright erase character traits in others that offer a more complex look into those characters while simultaneously heaping more and more and more upon characters they like. And usually in doing so they often forget what about the characters made them so interesting and likable to begin with.

One of the big ones they love to throw around is the whole "Scott is a bad friend" or "Scott is abusive", despite nothing in the show even remotely supporting that idea. And so to back up those claims, they'll latch onto a scene (often a single scene) and exaggerate it to death, while simultaneously removing any and all context from it.

They will call Scott a bad friend based solely on the episode Abomination, because he didn't immediately drop everything to go rescue Stiles and Derek from the kanima. They take the fact that Scott was at the Argents house for dinner and will scream to the heavens and back that Scott was ignoring his best friend because he was so obsessed with Allison (the exaggeration) - that he cared more about his romantic life than the life of his friend (and Derek). What they leave out (the context) is that Scott and Allison were having dinner with Gerard - the same man that Scott had witnessed bisect an omega werewolf with a sword. They leave out that once Scott was in the clear, the first thing he did was rush to the high school to save them.

And most importantly, they're so fixated on the danger that Stiles had been rescued from that they ignore the scene that came almost immediately after that.

How many times have you seen any of them reference this scene when they call Scott evil for working with Gerard? How often do you see any of them mention the fact that Gerard threatened to kill Scott's mom? More than once, at that?

The answer is that we don't. When Stiles called Melissa "mom" in season 3B when he was exhausted, they took that and ran with it, add that to the many headcanons they already had about Stiles and Claudia (a lot of whump in those). But when it comes to Scott's relationship with his mother, something we actually saw on screen - how his relationship with her affected him and how he responded to certain situations - suddenly they're Helen Keller reborn.

I can't tell you how many times I've gotten an ask from A certain anonymous asshole talking about Scott's "canon abusive tendencies" solely because of the episode Anchors where Scott shoved Isaac.

Once again, what they completely ignore is the context of that scene, specifically what happened immediately before he threw Isaac.

This episode was immediately after Lunar Ellipse, where Scott, Stiles and Allison all sacrificed themselves to awaken the Nemeton. This was the immediate aftermath, where all three were struggling with the side effects of that ritual - namely Stiles inability to read anything, Allison seeing Kate everywhere and Scott losing control of his ability to shift.

These people will remove all that just to try and make the show fit the narrative they made up in their minds. And when we call that out, not that they have their headcanons but that they're outright lying about what happened on the show, they call us delusional.

Delusional? Just because we point out what actually happened and can provide the episodes and scenes that back it up?

Like you said, clearly we're using different definitions of what that word means.

It's exhausting, sometimes. Dealing with people who have no actual interest in the show they profess to be fans of. Watching them use every horrible racist stereotype you could think of but then proclaim that they're not because (insert repetitive "reason" here)

At the end of the day, their fandom experience is based entirely on their love for the actor and, if we're being honest, said actor's physical appearance.

#teen wolf fandom problems #teen wolf racism #fandom racism #scott mccall defense squad

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myelocin · 3 years

Text

Postcards From: Kanazawa | Tsukishima Kei

Synopsis: The fear that comes with love is the realization that it isn't always just light. Love, rediscovered as both the fear and the drive that depicts the push and pull of whether it's worth it to say "I do," if the unknown is what's to come beyond the vow. In which it's a week until the wedding, and the both of you return to Kanazawa--to day one--as strangers.

Characters: Tsukishima Kei

Genre/Tags: Engagement!AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending | WC: 10,200+

A/N: this is a piece commed by @tsukishumai ;w; tq for trusting me w u and ur bb boi ily to the moon n back

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commissions | ko-fi

The illusion of the soul is the false belief that love must always—always—be just light.

The truth is, it’s not. Love is many things. Primarily, love begins from desire. Then, that desire seeps into a drive that pushes you to keep wanting. Then finally, when it’s seeped in through the skin deep enough, love pools in the soul.

Love is bound to be raw at the very core. A desire. To say, “I want you,” and think it holds as much credibility as “I love you.” To look at what you know is only the tendrils of something at the very most, and trick yourself into thinking that it’s enough. A beating heart—bloody red. The line just barely hanging in-between what’s selfish and selfless, before it ultimately sways and becomes selfish sometimes.

Sometimes, being right now, Tsukishima thinks.

Sandwiched in-between you to the left, and Yamaguchi to his right, he finds his eyes flickering towards the clock a lot more often than he would have liked. Akaashi, who sat across from his seat on the table, was the first to catch on.

He quirked a brow, presumably in question earlier, and mouthed the question if he was in a rush. Tsukishima’s never been known for having too many words, but because Akaashi pauses and insists to relieve his question with an answer, he shrugs, waving him off and mouthing back that he’s alright.

“So,” Bokuto starts, his voice already slipping into somewhat of a slur. “How’s it feel to be the first to pop the question?”

You laugh, finding amusement in the man’s enthusiasm. Turning to Tsukishima, you sit and wait, expectant of a reaction.

In response, he just shrugs, but a smile breaks through and redefines the nonchalance of his expression anyway. Raising the glass to his lips, he takes a quick sip before answering smugly, “It’s nice to finally settle down. You should try it sometimes.”

Bokuto waves him off, cheeks flushed and eyes already drooping from the inebriation. “Nah,” he slurs, shaking his head. The exaggeration warrants a quick laugh from Sugawara, who sits on the other side, nursing his own drink. Continuing, Bokuto huffs and takes a slight pause before he connects the last of what he says with, “—getting married is nice and all, but I don’t know, man,” he laughs. “Just feels like I’ll end up hitting a fucking blank space after I do or whatever. Not my vibe.”

Visibly, Tsukishima shifts a little, the smile on his face maintained but the lighthearted energy that earlier fueled it just slightly more drained now.

From the corner of your eye, you notice it. Though, Akaashi’s the one who gives him a pointed stare, to which the former simply ignores.

“But—“ Bokuto continues, as if trying to remedy the cracked part of the atmosphere that isn’t even visible in the first place—“If that’s your thing, then I’m obviously not going to judge you for that.”

Tsukishima responds by his silence. Bokuto, with his head still warped around the heavy state of his inebriation, doesn’t do so much other than sip a little more of his barely filled glass of beer, Tsukishima’s apathetic expression just a blur in his eyes now.

“You seem happy, though,” Bokuto notes, then raises his glass towards you.

Blinking at being the sudden subject of his interest, you raise your own glass of water. The ice inside shifts, clinking against the sides of the glass, and slowly, Tsukishima watches. There’s familiarity in the way it moves down: trickling slow like the patience inside him that’s suddenly running by the clock. His palms just barely gripping the utensils, clammy. While his head, still whirs at Bokuto’s halfhearted words.

It’s halfhearted, he reminds himself.

The thought of hitting a plateau after “I do,” in a way is terrifying.

But he is happy, right?

The way his palms respond solely through tensing suddenly spikes the fear that maybe his ring will slip. So he looks at you, trying to find an anchor to keep the love he pushes to stay intertwined with his truth afloat as he responds, “Of course I am. I’m happy.”

You look back at him, eye to eye, though you find something waver just for a split second— wondering if there’s credibility in the saying that gold will always deliver truth.

The rest of the night flows easy.

Almost naturally, he’s quick to wave off Bokuto’s invite for more drinks at the bar just down the street, tugging your interlaced hands towards the parking lot as soon as the group found its way to the exit.

“You know he probably just wanted more company,” you laugh. Thirty minutes after making it back home, instead of jumping straight into the shower and getting ready for the night routine, you instead take out the suitcase and take your place, seated on the floor in the living room.

“We needed to pack,” you hear him respond, his voice a little distant from the bedroom down the hall.

You shrug. “Yeah, but we could have made time.”

“Sometimes we can’t just make things, if we don’t have any to make it with in the first place,” he sighs.

You chuckle. Perhaps it’s just one of those nights again. In the ten years you’ve known Tsukishima Kei, you found that he had a tendency to become a multitude of things.

A stranger, at the start, because that’s where every connection begins. The neighbor who lived with his grandfather across the street from your childhood home. Kanazawa was a long way from Sendai, but before his parents had whisked him off to Miyagi some years later, he had been the friend that oftentimes spent his afternoons with you.

Strawberry cake and tiny sips of boxed juice from the convenient store down the street, and not much conversation exchanged between the both of you. He’d tell you about the things on his grandfather’s old encyclopedia, and you’d listen with rapt attention, finding it nice how he seemed to carry a little bit of the stars the more his eyes gleamed. He just talked about dinosaurs, you remember. At ten, Tsukishima had always been a wonderer.

Then he moved.

From the friend who told you stories and shared his juice boxes with you under that tree, to the occasional email that would pop up on your phone, when you were in highschool and weaving your way in and out of pathways and dead-ends. Miyagi was a little like Kanazawa, he said. There was a lot of quiet in the two cities. His email would come once a week, then twice when you reckon he felt a little lonely.

You’d reply with the same kind of enthusiasm as he had established, though you still couldn’t deny the fact that the notification with his name on it never failed to have you smiling—at least just a little bit. At fifteen, Tsukishima was far from a stranger, but he was also falling just a little short in making it to the halfway mark of being a friend too.

The once-a-week emails were welcome, none the less. It stayed like that, until once a week turned into twice. Though most were just the customary how-are-yous and obligatory holiday greetings once the seasons came and went, one year it turned into emails about the little nothings.

‘I had strawberry cake today,’ it once read. ‘The one we used to share tasted sweeter.’

‘I joined the volleyball team.’

‘Winter here is a little colder. I remember your puffy green jacket.’

‘I don’t know if you want to know…or if I should tell you...but our team won, and we’re going to nationals.’

Somehow, you were managed to be convinced by one of your friends that same week to travel with your own highschool’s volleyball team to assist in the preparation for nationals in Tokyo. It was just a coincidence, you used to reason. You were there, and so was he. There was a hundred other courts his team could have played at, and your priority was assisting your own team in what they needed.

But still, you couldn’t help but wave back and cheer the loudest from your stands when he perfected the block and scored the winning point for the first set.

It was then, where you realized that perhaps Tsukishima Kei wouldn’t just be a stranger.

Kanazawa to Miyagi, but somehow Tokyo became the in-between. Childhood friends to the sort-of friends from the other ends of the country sharing a few scattered memories in slices of strawberry shortcake and random dinosaur trivia from an old man’s outdated encyclopedia.

He was the first to approach you after that match. A hand held out to shake, perhaps to commemorate the evident shift between strangers to friends—but it was nice.

Because after that, friends turned into something more.

Maybe Tokyo really was the middle ground. After you graduated and moved out of your respective cities, Tokyo became the third place of hello.

Then things just slipped into place. He was here, and so were you. He had plans to stay, and you just signed the contract that bound you to the city for the next two and a half years. The apartment right down the hall from yours was recently vacated, and he was looking for a place to stay.

His new work place, coincidentally enough, was just a stop away from the train station closest to your place.

You had always doubted the presence of serendipity and everything that had to dictate with the celestial control of fate, but the ease that came with the relief of him signing the lease the very next week almost seemed to validate what had been just a farfetched something.

From strangers, to friends, to lovers, then to this:

Ten years later, a ring on your finger, and an I do, bound to be said just a little over seven days from now.

Tokyo was kind to the both of you. His mother’s close enough to visit on the weekends, while Kanazawa was just a shinkansen away from Tokyo station. A new apartment with enough space for two, plus maybe an extra, and a bakery right down the street with the best strawberry shortcake made fresh every day.

The wedding’s just a week away. His grandfather, still living in Kanazawa was meant to travel with Akiteru to Tokyo last week, but because plans changed, the both of you were instead tasked with going there yourselves to travel with him. While Tsukishima hesitated, you didn’t. Yes was easy to say in a situation like this. Though your parents had moved to Tokyo some years ago, you were aware that his grandfather didn’t.

The house across the street was still his, while the one you grew up in just now became a summer home your family would frequent to when Tokyo became too swarmed with tourists.

You look at the half-filled contents of the suit case on the floor in front of you. The right side’s meant to hold your clothes, while the left was left bare for Tsukishima’s. You turn and look at him.

“You can just grab the stuff you need me to bring for you and I’ll fold it in. We should probably catch the first train tomorrow if we wanna get there before sundown.”

What comes as a reply is only prolonged silence.

You let what he started stay for a little, but because you had never been the type to be fond in gouging out answers from the blank spaces, you sigh, and break the impending silence before it could get a chance to even settle. “You’re quiet again, Kei.”

When he makes it to the living room, instead of coming back out with a stack of clothes, he stands by the wall with his hands in his pocket. His eyes shift from wall to wall, but skip over you.

Knowing that you’ll just prompt another conversation again the more he keeps his silence, he sighs, swallowing the hesitation and clinging onto the bits of courage that floats by him in the moment. Grasping at the very tips of it, he forces the words out of his mouth. “Are you really coming with me?”

You raise a brow. “Back to Kanazawa? Of course. I’m from there too, you know. Plus I haven’t seen Grandpa in a while.”

He shifts his gaze to the side, thankful for the blur that came with forgetting to slip on his glasses. He’s always had a tendency to give in the moment he looks at you, so the vagueness in the blur was a welcome change. “It’s just for a week,” he mutters. “I think I’ll handle the trip just fine.”

“Plus,” he adds, the hike in the tone of his voice giving away his panic. “—I heard there was a problem with the florists? Maybe one of us needs to go in and fix it ourselves just in case.”

In the ten years you’ve known him, you’ve always considered it a given that you’ve well perceived him by now. In front of you, he’s stammering. While Tsukishima has never been the face to poise and perfection—because at the end of the day he still is just a boy—you knew he only stammered when he was nervous.

Perhaps trying to manipulate the situation through a wordless exchange was his way of doing so. In your head, you chuckle. Tsukishima Kei is many things, and is witty when it counts—but he could never be blunt when it came to the things he was unsure of.

You try to gouge out his truth. Speaking straight to the point, you let him know that there’s no purpose in trying to skirt around. You turn to him, his sweater half folded on your lap. “You know I could have believed what you just said, but,” you pause, giving him a pointed look, “—you’re not even looking at me.”

“Is this about what Bokuto said earlier?”

The way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, confirms your suspicions that that it is about that, before he can muster up the courage to even say it. “Tell me,” you initiate. You’ve never been afraid to speak what needs to be said. “What’s got you so afraid?”

Once more, he hopes for the silence to speak for him. And like before—it doesn’t. Silence was never meant to fill in the blanks. What it did, rather, is add three seconds more on the clock that’s ticking regardless. Tsukishima bets on a timed clock to speak for him, and because you’ve never been the type to shrink at the presence of raw truth, you huff and poke into what obviously hits for him just a little deeper.

“You’re afraid we’ll hit a blank space after we get married, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t look away, but little by little, his body language starts slipping bits and pieces of the truth you’ve already long sensed. “I think I just need to think this through.”

“What?” you scoff. “You planned to go to Kanazawa by yourself for a week to what? Soul search? To decide if you even wanna marry me?”

“I’m sor—“

“That’s what you’re not supposed to say,” you interrupt him. “You don’t say you’re sorry for how you’re feeling, because you’re allowed to feel it how it is, but shit, Kei,” you exhale, pausing to suck in a quick breath. “You couldn’t have just said this earlier?”

He looks away again, the guilt evident on his features. “You’re mad.”

“Do you blame me?”

This time, he turns to you. “No,” he murmurs. “I don’t, but I’m gonna be blunt here—“

“—first time—“

He gives you a pointed look, but in the moment, you don’t really have much in you to care too much.

“I think I need space to clear my head.”

“Sounds like you’re contemplating on whether you wanna stay with me or not,” you respond. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.”

Tsukishima’s steady, this time. “Of course I wanna stay with you.”

“But,” you counter. “You aren’t sure if you want to marry me.”

He looks away. “What if—we hit a plateau after.”

“That’s still not an excuse to back out before we even try, Kei,” comes your reasoning.

“You’re right,” he sighs. “It’s not.”

Then it’s you, who shrugs this time, giving in a little and throwing him what you hope he doesn’t see as a lifeline. There’s no comfort found in knowing that an out is a means of mercy when it comes to love. Why should there even be an out?

You settle for just cracking the door open instead. Though it was never locked, the fact that it remained close must have been understood differently by him.

“Let’s go back to Kanazawa separately, then,” you propose. The open suitcase in front of you still has the right half filled with his half folded clothes, so you reach in, taking it out one by one. “You stay with your grandfather and I’ll stay at my parent’s house.”

Tsukishima raises a concern. “He’ll wonder why we aren’t staying together.”

In response, you shrug. “Just make something up then.”

“Is this just a passive aggressive way to say you’re mad at me?”

You scoff. “When have I ever been passive aggressive, Kei? I’ve said shit as it is since day one.”

He flinches, maybe because of what you said or the tone of the deliverance, but either way, you decide you can’t give much of a shit. It’s a given that you’re angry, but because being hurt just paves the path to silence more than lashing out, it’s not much of a surprise that you probably look deflated in front of him.

“What I’m saying is,” you explain. “Let’s go back to Kanazawa as strangers. Do what you gotta do, however you’ve gotta do it to get your head sorted out, and then we’ll talk. I’m not dancing around in circles with you on this. Either we get married next week, or we don’t.”

He panics. “I don’t want to lose you—“

“You’re already talking like you’ve decided that you won’t be at the other end of that aisle, Kei.”

Words feel lacking all of a sudden, so you pause. The absence of the split second brevity has Tsukishima standing still, his breath held, throat dry.

But like always, clarity seems to weave its way through the cracks in the room and find you first. “Yes or no isn’t easy to decide between,” you finally mutter. Eyes to the half folded sweaters you meant to tuck into the other half of the suitcase, you realize that you’ll need to switch to a smaller trolley now because you won’t be needing this much space anyway. “I don’t know what I should tell you, because I don’t know that we’d be having a possible fallout a week before the wedding. But at the same time—I don’t want to say you’re despicable for feeling like that, Kei. It just—“

“—fucking sucks,” you sigh.

“If you feel like you need a week to figure whatever this shit is, then okay,” you nod. “Okay. Let’s be strangers for a week and by the time we’re back in Tokyo, you give me a yes or no and be fucking blunt with it.”

Later that night when you turn your back against him and face the wall, his whisper breaks through the quiet. “Why are you still patient with me about this? You could have just left me.”

You shift, laying on your back and sighing to the makeshift glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling of your room. “Because I love you,” you sigh. “Loving someone just means you have to exhaust every other option before even thinking of throwing in the towel.”

He sleeps that night, feeling heavy.

He woke up later that morning, feeling the same too.

In a sense, things admittedly started weird. You woke up before he did this time, when he usually would be the one trying to be quiet when he slipped out of bed. Even though early mornings had never been a thing for the both of you, there was still something unpleasant in waking up to an empty bed.

The sheets on your side were done, and your phone that usually would be pinging with email notifications by now wasn’t there.

It’s odd, he thinks. While he agreed to be strangers for a week, the walk to the train station was the same. Silence was normal, but the five extra inches that added to the distance between the both of you wasn’t. You nodded his way when he pointed at the shinkansen’s direction, and wordlessly would hand him his usual brew when you stopped at the coffee shop just before going in.

Seated beside you in the train, he tries to ignore the urge to poke you on the side and make conversation. Words have always come easy when it came to moments with you, he noticed.

Tsukishima’s aware that he’s always been dubbed as the kind of person who never preferred to say too much, and while that was true—to an extent—he realizes that there is some truth to the saying that silence kills.

You’re seated beside him on the train, eyes to your phone, and earbuds in place. He resorts to just staring at you through his peripherals, caught in between wanting to satiate the want to talk to you by breaking the silence, or keeping it as is.

This is where fear grips him a little tighter. The deal was, as you had pointed out just last night, that the both of you would move through the week pretending to be strangers again. You’d stay on your side of the street, while he stayed in his.

It’s a given that his grandfather’s bound to ask about you, and so in the event that it does happen, you would just spend a few hours with them and pretend like everything was fine.

You made it clear that you’d try to exhaust all the options before resorting to that, though. And it’s easy, he thinks, doing so. It doesn’t take much to fake a phone call from work or a last minute meeting with an old friend that wouldn’t be able to make it to the city for the supposed wedding.

The lines were drawn, and the outline of what was to be expected in the next week was made clear.

He thinks of what you said before you slept. Love, as that one drive that has you exhausting all your options before even thinking of quitting. It’s fair, he thinks. You’ve always been the rational thinker in the relationship.

But then again, he doesn’t doubt your hurt either. A week was lengthy, he realizes, and to act as strangers again just a week before the wedding was a different kind of test when it came to your patience.

Still, he owes you truth.

You’ve always told him to lay things bare, and even though what’s bare is ugly, because love always pushes to try—he stays, doing just that.

Undoubtedly, this is a jump. There’s no question in the fact that the possibility of reaching the peak and coming face to face with a plateau scares him. But still, his thoughts counter, to face a drop that doesn’t guarantee a landing somehow terrifies him even more.

The sound of your phone vibrating snaps him out of his thoughts. Before you answer it, he snags a look of the name written on the screen—Akiteru’s.

Tsukishima sighs, shooting you a cautious stare as you pick up the phone and turn to him.

The tone of your voice is easy, though you look at him, unbothered. “Hey,” you answer. “Just got in the train, so Kei should be calling you in about three hours when we’re there.”

In comes a pause, before you chuckle a little. Unconsciously, Tsukishima scooches in, curious. But before he could get a chance to lean in too close, you pull away a little, looking at him curiously, an eyebrow raised. “I meant to tell you,” he hears you say, and as you look at him, he chooses to hold your stare.

“Kei and I will be staying separately for the week.”

Beside you, he shifts, fighting the urge to turn away and face forward.

Assuming that your flinch afterwards was only a response to what he’s only certain is Akiteru’s sudden outburst, the prior nervousness of his stare shifts into concern. Understanding the are-you-okay that he mouths, you wave him off. “We’re fine,” you laugh. “I just miss staying at the house that’s all, and I’m pretty sure Kei wants to spend quality time with his grandfather.”

You stay silent after that, which truth be told, doesn’t exactly help with his nerves.

“He’s right next to me,” you add. “We’re fine, I swear. Just wanna enjoy Kanazawa in different ways that’s all.”

To put it bluntly, the first day is awkward.

His grandfather’s waiting from outside the gate the second you make it to that familiar street. Nothing much has changed, the two of you notice. The gate’s rusted a little by the edges, and the door’s still got the same chip on the left side he always said he’d take a look at.

“Heard they were cutting down that tree,” his grandfather says, when it’s a little over three hours later and you’re all seated at a local restaurant for dinner. His old friend owned the place, he explained. Low lights, home cooked meals, and a family run business you vaguely remember your father talking about when you were young.

Tsukishima pauses, eyebrows rising in question. “What do you mean that tree?”

“The one you used to run off to,” he laughs.

Elbowing him, you nod towards his grandfather before pointing out, “We met by that tree, you know.”

His grandfather’s quick to responding, laughing at Tsukishima’s perplexed expression. “Seems like your grandfather’s memory is doing better these days than you, boy.”

You suppose that at the end of the day, it shouldn’t have been a big deal that he forgot. You’ve never been one to dwell too deep within the symbolic little nothings that’s bound to come with life. Rationally speaking, maybe you’re just a little miffed because of what he said the night before. And maybe that’s the reason why you’re taking this a little harsher than you would have on a normal day.

But strangers, you remember. Strangers wouldn’t care if the other forgot.

So with that, you shrug. You take another spoonful of the food in front of you and shift your body just slightly to the left—to which Tsukishima took noticed—and leaned forward. Without even saying much, his grandfather already has his attention on you, the smile on his face kind.

He’s always been kind, you remember. With a smile, you choose to keep the peace in the room at bay, willing yourself to ignore Tsukishima’s stare boring holes into the side of your head from beside you.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t remember a lot of people stop by that tree,” you comment, as you take a step into nostalgia.

His grandfather shrugs, absentmindedly nodding his head as he mulls over your word through a spoonful of broth. “It was in the middle of a residential area. Bound to get taken down if you ask me. People nowadays need a place to park.”

This time, you really feel his stare beside you almost intensify. Truth is, you can make sense of what you know he only fears. The point in life was to brave through the unfamiliar to establish a consistency in familiar grounds. To continuously rise from day one, only to hit the peak and possibly come face to face with a plateau instead of something greater than even the height of all highs—you admit that it’s terrifying.

The plateau, that perhaps works sort of like that tree.

It’s been there, so here it still is.

You’ve both been at that tree—at the start—so here you both still are. Side by side back in Kanazawa, sharing a meal like I do, isn’t hanging on the line.

His grandfather’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

Tsukishima’s voice is quick to cut into the conversation, his voice smooth. “She just doesn’t wanna lose it.”

You nod along to his lie, undecided with how to feel in regards to how smooth he seemed to have delivered his lie.

“You know, now that I think about it, it’s good that they’re cutting down that tree.”

Tsukishima speaks his mind this time. “Last week, you said you were looking forward to coming back home so you could visit that tree again.”

You don’t look at him when you answer. “I know, but your grandfather has a point. When things change, what else can you do but get rid of it?”

“Oh nothing’s changed,” he laughs across you. “Even before the two of you were born, people would always talk about how it’s just there when the space could have been used for parking.”

“Then why put off cutting it down this long?”

“Who knows,” he laughs. There’s an unfound wisdom in his eyes that read through your soul when he looks at you. “Maybe cutting down what people already see as a permanent fixture will do more harm than good in the long run.”

“Even if it doesn’t contribute anything?”

Tsukishima thinks of his fear, then of the plateau.

Through the rim of the glass, he keeps a steady eye on his grandfather, breath held as the anticipation for his words begin to really settle.

“People these days just see what’s the most obvious from the surface and consider it as the only fault then run with it. Maybe it’s not the tree,” he laughs. “Maybe it’s just the people. They want convenience so they cut off everything around them instead of adjusting to it.”

The food tastes bland in his mouth, suddenly.

“Goes to show how selfish people can get sometimes,” his grandfather finishes, as an afterthought. “A shame, really. That old tree’s done nothing but give people shade.”

At the end of the day, you really had to give his grandfather a lot more credit than what was due.

The second and third day was awkward. Even though you tried to stay inside for most of your day, venturing outside and meeting up with old friends was inevitable. And really, you should have remembered that he often started his day with a couple laps walked around the block.

On day two, he hinted that he could sense something was off. Tsukishima had been a lot more silent lately, he pointed out. First, as just a passing comment, then by the third time he’d bring it up and wouldn’t get too much of a response out of you, there came more emphasis to what he says.

He passed by the tree every time you’d round the street too. It occurs to you that passing through it was a shortcut, and contradicted his prior statements to having a route that catered towards the long way home, but you chose to not comment much about it.

The second day was curiosity, and you figured that you could live at least just a week with it.

The third day, on the other hand, gave you a little more trouble than you had bargained for.

You’re on your way home from an old friend’s house, and ironically enough, both Tsukishima and his grandfather are out by their front door, tending to the weeds of a garden that doesn’t even look remotely grown.

Tsukishima’s the first to look at you.

Stubborn, and frankly intent on upholding your end of the deal in staying strangers, you attempt to wave them off with a passing greeting as you look through your bag, feeling around for the keys to the gate.

“You don’t have to think of an excuse,” you hear him say. “He’s back inside now. It’s just you and me here.”

It’s funny how ever since you’ve made it back to Kanazawa, he’s been the one to break the silence a lot more lately.

You don’t turn. Strangers, you think. The deal was to pretend the other was a stranger.

“Cam,” he calls out again, the desperation in his voice inching more and more out of its shell. “I’m really sorry.”

You turn around, the buried anger getting the best of you in the moment. “You know the more you say that, the more convinced I am that I should just give you back your ring right now and go back to Tokyo alone. You talk like the only thing you’re sure of is the fact that you won’t be marrying me next week, Kei.”

The moment you shift your gaze from the ground to his eyes, a part of you aches at the idea that you may have to bid farewell to gold. Swallowing down the mass of emotions you hope isn’t entirely just made of anger, you steady yourself and sigh.

It hits you that it’s been a long day.

“It’s just you and me here,” you repeat, slowly. There’s a flutter in your heart that tells you it’s still love that stares back when you look at him. “Then why do you feel so far away, Kei?”

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Day three of being strangers, but he hasn’t had anything figured out. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but what only grew was the silence. The distance is really just a few feet away—across the street and through the leaves of that tree that your father would always say he’d get to.

The light from your room is still turned on, though the curtains are drawn.

8PM and it’s early. 8PM, and on a usual day, you’d usually be seated beside him in your Tokyo apartment’s living room, mulling over the nothings that went on in your day.

It’s nice to talk about the rest of the world as if all they’re meant to be is just a passing blur in the background, he thinks. He’s never been much for words, but you were.

Then again, you had always been one for truth.

Reality is, he knows he could always swallow his doubts, walk across the street, cover the distance, and apologize to you with an I’m sorry, that covers all that needs to be addressed in a standard apology. Life can be lived as easy as that. You swallow your own thoughts, adhere to what they say needs to be done in the way they tell you how to do so, and be done with it.

But he knows you just as well as he knows himself.

You’d call him a coward—and truth be told, he’ll think the same.

Present wise—he does think he is a coward.

Tsukishima sighs, knowing that blinking at your closed curtain visible from his window won’t do much of a difference. Begrudgingly, he sits up, grabbing his glasses from the bedside table.

The streets around the neighborhood are quiet this time of night. The perks about living away from the city was the silence, he thinks. As soon as he tugs on a sweater, he makes his way downstairs, carefully, so he doesn’t stir his grandfather he presumes is sleeping on the room across the hall.

He exhales, relieved at the barely audible creak the door clicks to as soon as he shuts it and turns the lock from the outside. The keys, jingling in his pockets, is the only sound that rings in the quiet.

It isn’t lonely, but it isn’t comfortable either.

Kanazawa has always been a town he’s considered as a piece of constant that’s meant to drift inbetween.

Neither like Tokyo or the towns by the outskirts of Okinawa, it stays as is. Twenty years ago, the crack on the sidewalk was there, and now, twenty years later, it remains.

There’s comfort in recognizing constants, Tsukishima admits. The tree just down this road, the crack on the asphalt, and the fact that your room is still the second window to the left visible from his on the second floor.

When he was younger, he remembers he often would stand under your window, caught in between wanting to knock on your door and ask permission from your parents if you could accompany him for the afternoon, or just wait around until you’d come down yourself.

While he left a lot of things on chance, the conscious choice to stay rooted in the spot by your window remained constant.

The gravel under his feet crackle everytime he’d take a step. The moon’s hazy behind the clouds tonight, he muses. While you’d wish for the stars, he found a temporary safety in the midnight clouds. A timelessness felt when it’s midnight, stays.

Before he turns to the corner that would lead home, he stops midway—recognizing the tree from a good few meters away.

There’s a sense of feeling an urgency to let something go, the more he stares at it. Nearing autumn, the colors start to change, and just like that, he’s reminded of the impermanence in life.

As the earth eventually changes throughout the years, he fears that perhaps in love—it would too.

“You’re out late,” is the first thing Tsukishima hears as soon as he enters the room.

From the genkan, he peers over the shelf, noticing the lights from the kitchen is what floods into the dim living room. Slipping on his house slippers and making his way around the corner, Tsukishima gets a feel of the warmth that’s radiating from the familiarity of the space.

After his grandmother had passed, his grandfather stayed in Kanazawa. Though his mother often expressed her desire for him to move with the rest of the family in Tokyo, every time, he’d only wave them off and say that there’s too much rooted here for him to just up and leave.

Walking into the kitchen, his grandfather’s the first to raise a mug his way and offer a smile. “I’d ask you if everything’s fine, but I think I’ll just wait around and see if you’re even willing to tell me.”

Tsukishima chuckles airily. “Sounds like you wanna ask anyway.”

He takes a slow sip. “Okay then,” he nods, smiling like he’s just struck a deal. “First question is—are you okay?”

In response, Tsukishima smiles, pulling the chair and taking the seat across his. He nods. “’Course I am.”

His grandfather’s eyes don’t leave him. “You’re not wearing the ring, and neither is Cam.”

Suddenly feeling like he’s caught in between a blocked exit and the spotlight, Tsukishima freezes, but wills himself not to look away. “Just needed some space, that’s all.”

“To think?”

He sighs. “To reconsider.”

“Ahh,” the older man sighs. “Cold feet. Pretty normal, if you ask me.”

He raises a brow in question. “It’s normal?”

“To be nervous, yeah,” his grandfather laughs. “But looks like it’s a different case for you.”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond, his eyes fixated towards a spot on the wall that feeds more into the blank space of his thoughts than anything more.

“You’re afraid,” Tsukishima hears, and as soon as the retaliation he tries to string together at the very last minute don’t come—he realizes the core of all the chaos in his head is meant to be just like that—

Blank.

“What are you so afraid of, boy?”

In the silence, he lets the rawness of his truth slowly spill. “What if I hit a plateau after this?”

His grandfather wastes no second in countering. “How is it life if we just keep climbing? What’s the point in doing all that work if we never get rest?”

Tsukishima laughs. “You know, by that logic it can just go the other way around too.”

He settles in his seat, trying to appreciate the silence instead of looking for company in the noise, before he adds, “What if we decide we don’t love each other anymore?”

“That’s not all there is to a plateau,” he laughs. “It’s a valid fear, but being afraid isn’t all there is after you marry someone.”

“Then what’s there?”

With a smile, his grandfather leans back, raises the mug to his lips, and relaxes—his eyes looking fondly at a faded photograph hung beside the wall clock. “Everyday,” he answers. “What’s there after I do is just everyday.”

Sensing that his grandfather means to say more, he chooses to retain his silence. Sighing softly, his grandfather keeps his smile steady as he continues to speak. “Everyday you wake up. You roll over in bed, you think about the checklist you do to consider a day done, then you come home, eat a meal, rest a little and start the whole day over the next day. Everyday’s like that.”

He shifts, leaning forward with his arms crossed supporting his weight on the table as he eyes his grandson with a smile. “Best part is, you can do all that with someone you love. Makes the boring part of the plateau a lot more bearable.”

“You wake up with them and complain about how boring the rest of your day will be, then come home and eat a meal with them. Wash the dishes, share the silence, and just go to bed knowing you’ll wake up with somebody.”

The smile on his face is honest, then he shrugs. “It’s nice, though. The plateau after you hit a certain point in life is just inevitable, Kei. You can either complain about life alone or complain about it with somebody. At least there will be two pairs of slippers by the genkan waiting for you everytime you come home. You’ll say you’ve made it home and someone will greet you. You’ll roll over in bed at 2am and someone will be there with you. The point of climbing in life is to get somewhere, not ascend past the norm.”

Tsukishima stays quiet, pondering over the truth in his grandfather’s words. “So life’s just meant to stay in the middle?” he asks, slowly coming into terms with his grandfather’s redefinition of the plateau. “Life’s meant to find a consistency in everyday,” he corrects.

A few moments pass before he stands back up, pointing to the counter with a thermos. He knows it’s yours. The old one that your mother refused to throw away, because there’s a crack by the lid and a couple faded sailor moon stickers stuck by the side.

“Look at that,” Tsukishima hears. He turns his head just in time to see the old man offer him a patient smile, the message in his eyes delivered without a hitch. “That old thing’s seen a couple of decades, but it still gets to you when you need it, right?”

It’s not so bad to have an old thing be your constant, right?

Twenty minutes after his grandfather climbs back to his room upstairs, Tsukishima’s seated on the side of the table beside the window. Peeking through the half-opened blinds, he can still see that the light from your room is still flicked on.

Without mulling over the decision, he takes his phone out, scrolling through the contacts until he taps your name. A swipe without too much pressure, because even his thumb’s memorized where your name is by now. Kind of like muscle memory, he supposes.

Bypassing the unannounced rules about what to do as the strangers you had claimed from the start of this week, it results to the lack of hesitation as he types a quick text and presses send without a thought that would counter it.

I love you, it reads.

From his spot in the kitchen, he leans back and smiles, pouring himself a cup of the tea he knows you brewed yourself on the nights where he can’t sleep.

The lights from your room stay on for a few more moments before it dims, but before the metaphoric silence could take root, the screen of his phone lights up.

Stop walking around at night. Drink the tea and try to get some sleep.

Exhaling almost in relief, it’s the slow beating of his heart that resettles him back into the love he’s known everyday.

It’s not quite the end, but it isn’t exactly somewhere unpleasant either.

Two days before you’re meant to return to the city, instead of spending the day in your room—like you had initially planned—you somehow found yourself in the passenger seat of his grandfather’s old car, with a grocery list in hand.

You sigh, understanding what his grandfather’s trying to do.

As you look down, there’s nothing much written in the grocery list. He had complained about some back pain earlier, followed up by his insistent request of desperately needing his groceries done so when Akiteru was to arrive later on, dinner would be taken care of.

Beside you, with his hands on the wheel, Tsukishima sighs. “We could have just ordered in food for dinner. It’s just Akiteru coming,” he mumbles.

Keeping your eyes to the window to your left, you shrug. “He likes making the ordinary special, I guess.”

Tsukishima stays silent after that, mentally thankful for the green light and the empty roads. The more stops, the longer silence would stay. And even after the sort of middle ground from the night before, he doesn’t know what to say to you.

After making a quick turn, he pulls up into the parking lot and kills the engine. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he turns to you, with an expectant look. “You can just stay here if you don’t wanna go in with me,” he offers. “It’s a short list, I can be in and out in a bit.”

You wave him off, already slinging on your bag and opening the car door—the list on your hand. “It’s alright. I think I’m more familiar with this area than you are, so we can just meet back in the car in thirty minutes if that’s okay with you.”

“You don’t need me to come with you?” he raises a brow.

You shake your head no, but upkeep the smile on your face anyway as you exit the car and close the door.

Something about what you say sticks with him, the more he thinks about it.

He can distinguish the hesitation laced each of your decisions. You look past him, but not exactly at him. You speak to him, but keep the conversations short. Though conversation was rare between the both of you this past week, the times that you did speak to him, your words often were clipped short.

It’s your means of upkeeping your end of the deal, he realizes.

You’ve always been one for communication, but then again, patience can only stretch so much.

He respects your wish for distance and walks the opposite way from the grocery store, towards a building he doesn’t really known. It’s a gallery, he realizes. Three steps past the entrance, he notices that he’s one of the few that’s in the room.

Traditional artwork line the wall, hung in frames that have rusted throughout time.

Tsukishima stares, eyes drawn to the pieces of art he recognizes from the few scattered memories in his childhood that relate to his time in the city.

A fieldtrip, when he was seven. He remembers leaving the house upset over the yellow hat he had to wear, and the rain boots his teacher wouldn’t let him change out of. Unlike the present, rain was present that day. He stood beside you in line, and had to tilt his head up at the piece of art he always thought was the prettiest out of the bunch.

And now, almost two decades later, he still thinks the same.

He smiles at the memory, finding the comfort of returning to what’s familiar, pleasant.

As if caught by an epiphany, and suddenly enveloped in a sense of a rediscovered home, here, within a room that’s familiar, he finds purpose in the permanence of love.

Love, that’s never meant to be stretched into the likeness of what the poets declare as the absolute form of love after “I do.”

Staring at the piece of art with the rusting frames, the strokes within the canvas still depict the same story. It still is beautiful.

It’s doesn’t become more—but it stays as is.

And maybe that’s what his grandfather was trying to convey.

To fear a certain phase in love is something that comes and goes, but it often never stays. It can linger, but eventually, it too, fades.

What stays is what’s rooted.

Primarily, just you. Truly, just love.

That tree in that old street, these paintings on the walls, and the kind of serenity that washes over him at the thought of you.

The fear in life comes in the form of thinking that beyond the peak lays a plateau. Beyond “I do,” what’s next to come is love, dwindling until “I don’t love you anymore,” is the only thing left to be said.

It’s fear, that spoke to him the past few weeks, so this time, as he gives in, he listens to love.

It’s quiet.

But through the smoke in the room, the message that’s meant to deliver truth comes in full clarity. Illuminated, it appears before him as it is. A painting that’s struck him as beautiful then and now, and the thought of you as the face that’s always been the first to greet him every morning for more than just a few years now.

An old man stands not too far from him, hands clasped behind his back as he stares—with a smile on his face—at a similar painting on the wall. Sensing Tsukishima’s presence, he looks over and redirects the smile his way. “Been coming here for years, and looking at this still feels the same.”

Poking at the doubts, Tsukishima responds, “Are you afraid that it won’t get old?”

The gentleman laughs, though soft enough so it doesn’t echo too much in the halls. The joy lingers around Tsukishima, on the other hand. “To have something grow old with you isn’t a bad thing. Day one, this piece was beautiful, and now, almost forty years later, I look at it and think the same too.”

A beat of silence passes, but the man speaks once more.

“My wife, when she was alive, showed me this piece. Maybe I look at this and still find it beautiful after all these years because I think of her, but I don’t think trying to focus on that matters much. The feeling’s the same, even if it grew old.”

Reciprocating the older man’s goodbye with a nod to the head, it’s then where he laughs, a little bit more of the truth unraveling as each moment comes and goes. Thinking of his words, he dwells on its meaning.

Standing there, alone in the museum hall, the smoke clears, and he presents himself his words of blended truth and patience.

Love is timeless, his thoughts say. The plateau after the peak is as possible as the drop, but life’s meant to be lived in the lows and in betweens as much as the highs. Time moves in waves, and perhaps love doesn’t always grow stagnant. It can be timeless, even though the frames rust. His hair will grey, and maybe you’ll stop linking your pinky with him beneath the sheets during the rainy season’s thunderstorms, but the root of love stays.

Within the plateau, time will move, and you’ll both grow old, but the taste of the tea you’ll brew for him will remain the same.

And thirty minutes later, when he makes it back to the parking lot with you waiting by the door, the love that steadies his beating heart will be the same too.

Steady, present, and timeless.

Eyeing the dashboard, you’re the first to break the silence. “Why’d you buy a postcard?”

Rolling into a stoplight, he eases on the brakes and shrugs. “Lived here for so long, and I don’t even own a postcard from here.”

“Me neither,” you blink.

A couple minutes pass, and the car’s rolling again, but he misses a turn. Assuming that he’s just not used to the usual route, you stay quiet—until about he pulls up to a familiar street.

Parked to the side, through the windshield, you find yourself face to face with a familiar tree. “Kei.” He hums.

The coming autumn has a few leaves beginning to change its colors, you notice. The summer hues, unbalanced, as bits of red begins to bleed through the green. “You were supposed to turn there, not here.”

He shifts the gear into park, then takes his hands off the wheel, leaning back. “I know.”

It’s quiet after that, but it isn’t all that unpleasant either.

This is the part where the questions begin to poke at you, the what-ifs in love let out in the open as you voice a little bit of your vulnerability. And because the truth is daunting, you hope he understands you through the metaphors. “Do you really think they’ll cut it down?”

He doesn’t allow the silence to take more than a moment. “I think so,” he nods his head.

“It’ll be good though, I think,” you add, nodding your head.

It’s quiet in the room even though the words of your truth coaxes the unhealed wound to resurface. As it comes into light, it doesn’t sting.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder beside him in the car, the tree that witnessed the first hello stays rooted, and watches.

He doesn’t turn to you as he speaks, but in a way, you feel as if a farewell was the finale that was meant to be delivered somehow. “It’s good,” he starts. “Letting go of something that needs to be let go of.”

Tokyo

Tsukishima’s the first to speak.

“I’m not good with words,” he starts.

There’s a hush in the crowd, so you stay with it, knowing you’ll only add to the silence should you choose to respond. It wasn’t your turn anyway, so you will yourself to be still and listen.

“Hey Cam,” Tsukishima continues, choosing to begin his vow with a hello. “I think a lot about what love’s supposed to have meant, mean, or eventually mean in the long run. I thought too much about it to the point where it…” he trails off, blinking at the piece of paper before flicking his eyes up to you with a slight shrug. “—to the point where love began to scare me.”

For a brief moment, he closes his eyes, confident in the fact that when he opens them, he knows he’ll see the world in clarity this time. With the smoke cleared and the scattered pieces of all his doubts set in order, the words of his truth may not speak of the most tender poem of love—but within the lines lies his truth.

As he lays his truth on you, he holds a breath and lets it all go. “I wanna wash the dishes with you for the rest of my life,” he laughs, exhaling softly, his shoulders shaking a little. “Never occurred to me how much of a liar the downside of your thoughts are when you listen to everything that isn’t love,” he continues.

Your shoulders relax, and even through the blur of the veil, you can tell his eyes are steadily watering.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the microphone just barely picking up what he says. You nod your head anyway, wishing you were holding his hands instead of the bouquet. Reassurance comes in many forms, but you know he’s always been the type to receive it well through physical touch.

A kiss on the cheek, your head on his shoulder, or your hands squeezing his. But the smile you give him suffices for now, you think.

“I wanna wash the dishes with you for the rest of my life. I’ll wash, and you dry. Nothing much happens in our day usually, but nothing has to. I’ll listen to you talk about how shit the traffic is in the city, because I know you’ll listen to me talk about the same complaints I have from Monday to Friday anyway.”

You realize he’s written his vows in the back of a postcard—the one you saw on his dashboard a few days ago, from Kanazawa.

He sniffles a little then looks up, laughing to himself at how emotional he’s getting. Allowing more than just truth to trickle out slow is a part of love too, he realizes, so with a soft laugh, he lets the tears be and speaks again. “What needed to be let go of was let go of,” he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for this long.

In a sense, maybe he has. Sometimes fear grips you tightly enough that it shifts your point of view from one thing to another. What’s love, becomes fear. Then what’s fear, becomes the smoke that buries the core of truth too deep within the haze.

“I let go of the thought the thought that after marriage, if nothing great would come then that would be the end of love,” he breathes. “I stared at that tree and thought of Grandpa’s words again and again then wrote my apology and I love you on the back of a postcard that only had one a couple of blank lines at most.”

He waves it for you, then to the crowd, to see. The words, jumbled up together look almost incomprehensible written so closely together, but in a way, you have a feeling that he’s just speaking the rest of his truth as it comes in the moment.

The truth in love, you realize, is that its truth comes, fully unraveled the moment the initial plan falls apart.

He puts down the postcard, and just looks at you.

“There’s a lot I don’t think I will ever understand when it comes to love, but maybe I’m here to just feel it and not try to decipher it.” He pauses, ignores the few tears that roll down, and shrugs his shoulders, admitting to himself that the truth in his love is the first thought that comes.

“Love doesn’t have to the greatest,” he tells you. “I just wanna wash dishes with you for the rest of my life and hear about how traffic was unbearable.”

You smile, and your assurance reaches him.

“I think that counts as love too,” he finishes, the smile on his face tender.

As he leans in after I do, he murmurs a question in your ear that you’ve been expecting since the start.

You could have just left, he said. How did you deal with me and still choose to stay?

Your answer was said without a hint of hesitation. With a shrug, and an honest smile, you told him, “Because I love you.”

“I think we both had to let go of the thought that to love always means to have the biggest reasoning behind it. We do things for love, and because of love. That’s just how it is,” you shrugged.

Oddly enough, it’s in that same exact moment where he remembers Bokuto’s question from that dinner a week and some days ago.

How does it feel? he recalls, and even though words have never found him first nor met him in the middle easy, he gathers what he can and just settles on the conclusion that it just feels like love.

Wherein love, is this.

An identical band on his and your finger, and the taste of I do pleasant on the tongue. I love you, as a truth that’s easy to fathom and healing to hold, and the fear of what comes next just a passing thought that goes as soon as it comes.

Later that evening his grandfather sits him down and asks him what he really thinks about why people have been putting off cutting down that tree for a few decades now.

With a laugh, the hesitation that often turns decisions is made clear to him. “You know I think that people would decide things and think they’re so solid on it before even being face to face with it. The second they get to that tree with a chainsaw, I promise you they changed their minds. You think you go there and cut off or let go of one thing, then realize you’re cutting off something else in the end. They go back to what’s been there and realize that it’s not the problem at all.”

Tsukishima sighs, and his grandfather watches, the smile on his face easy. It’s like watching some emerge from a smoked out room, he thinks. Clarity’s always been a blessing, and he’s glad his grandson’s finally found it.

“Sometimes going back to the start is the one thing you need to be reminded that it’s worth it to keep going.”

“Sounds like you’re not talking about the tree,” his grandfather comments. Looking at you, Tsukishima smiles. “You could say that too.”

298 notes · View notes

forever-rogue · 4 years

Note

Boba calling you princess and making sure you are okay after a mission.

Sigh..I love my OG Mandalorian so much. This is more or less softness!

Boba Fett x Fem!Reader; warnings: violence, language

Star Wars Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

"Where is he?" the voice was laced with venom as the man grabbed your face and forced you to look into his dark, hateful eyes.

"I-i-i don't know who you're talking about," you lied as you tried to keep your lips from quivering too much. Your eyes were already stinging with tears, but you refused to let them spill over. This monster was not going to force you to cry.

"Where is he?" he jerked your face again as you made a small sound of surprise, "where is Boba Fett?!"

"I don't who that is!" it was the only lie you could come up with on the spot. Hopefully it wasn't too weak.

"You are a lying bitch," he hissed as he pushed you away, causing you to slam into the metal wall of the cargo hold, "you bare his insignia! The insignia of Clan Fett. Where is Fett?"

"I swear I didn't know where he is," you insisted, holding your hands up to defend yourself as he raised his blaster and pointed it right at your face. You swallowed thickly as you realized you'd be no match for him, and none of Boba's rifles or blasters were nearby. Shit.

"You're on his ship and bare his mark," he scoffed as you realized just how bad it all looked, "but you have no clue who this man is. Seems hard to believe."

"I'm a stowaway," you offered up, "I just grabbed some clothes because no one was here and I've been hiding. I don't know who you're talking about. Please - just let me go and I swear I won't do anything."

"Funny," he smirked as he took a step closer, "but I know exactly who you are. Did you really you could lie to me and get away with it?"

"Please I'm-"

"Tell me where your husband is and I won't kill you-"

Before he could say anything else, a heart stopping blaster shot resounded through the small cargo hold and the man dropped to his knees with a shocked expression on his face before collapsing completely onto the floor.

A small, horrified gasp escaped your lips as you watched him say there. Dead.

Shifting your eyes from the body and up, you found yourself gazing into the black T of his visor. He wasted no time in ridding himself of the helmet, setting it down carelessly as he rushed your side.

"Boba," it was almost a whimper as you watched him with wide eyes. Tearing off his gloves, he quickly reached for your face, tenderly running his fingers over your skin, almost as if to prove to himself that you were okay. This time you didn't stop your lip from trembling as a few tears pearled and slid down your cheeks, "Boba, t-they came for you."

"I know," he admitted with a heavy sigh as he pressed his forehead against yours. He let out a long breath before wrapping his arms around you and you into his chest, "are you okay, princess?"

"I was scared, Boba," you burrowed your face into the soft cowl of his neck, letting him rub your back in soothing circles to try and get you to calm down, "what if they had found you? What if they had hurt you?!"

"That bastard had you at blaster point," he huffed, somewhere between amusement and annoyance, "and you're worried about me?"

"Of course," you sniffled lightly as you pulled and put a hand on his cheek, "I - kriff - I messed up! I hadn't secured the cargo hold and he got in. What if something had gone wrong and I wasn't able to....I dunno. It would have been because of me!"

"Princess," he eased up when he realized that you weren't hurt, more shaken up than anything else, "its going to take a lot more than a rookie guild member to bring me down. You don't have to worry about me."

"I love you," your eyes were locked on his dark ones, and the two of you shared a moment of intense intimacy before crashing your lips onto his. Your suddenness surprised him, but your Mandalorian quickly responded in kind, keeping you anchored to him but cradling the back of your head.

"I love you," he promised as he pressed soft kisses to your cheeks, forehead, and lips, "if anyone should be worried its me."

"I'm okay," you let him wipe away your tears, "just shaken up. I just tried to think on my feet and tried to talk my way out of it all. I'm horrible, I didn't think to grab a blaster, I froze and I-"

"Mesh'la," he put a finger to your lips, "your job is not to be a fighter or anything. You did nothing wrong. You acted on your instincts and that's good."

You looked at him with such gentle eyes that he felt his heart to melt behind the armor and and deep within his chest. He touched your cheek and trailed his large, tan hand down your side and rested it on the gentle swell of your belly. You sighed contentedly as you put your hand on top of his, "we're both okay. Especially now - that you're here and safe."

"I'll always come back," he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, "always."

"Will you promise me one more thing?" you gnawed on your lips as a curious expression crossed his handsome face. Quirking a dark brow, he motioned for you to go on, "teach me to fight?"

"Mesh'la-"

"I know, I know," you laughed at the surprised expression on his face, "eventually! How am I supposed to be a Fett and raise one if I can't even bring honor to the name?"

"You being honor to it everyday," he insisted firmly with a kiss to your lips, "don't ever doubt that, princess. Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum."

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Boba," you beamed at him, "now one more thing."

"Hmm?"

"Let's get rid of the body."

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #my king #the Mandalorian #star wars #boba fett x fem!reader #boba fett x you #temeura morrison

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justreadingfics · 4 years

Text

It’s a Deal (Ch. 14)

Chapter Summary: Hearts are broken.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: angst, “The Mandalorian” reference.

A/N: One more chapter after this and we’re done. Thank you, incredible Suz, @bucky-the-thigh-slayer for having my back. Love you. The link to my masterlist, where you can find the other chapters, is on my description. Feedback is highly appreciated.

Tag list for this story is closed.

There’s that annoying little chilling feeling running down his spine while Bucky parks his bike on the nearest parking lot to your building and steps towards your place. Not the dreadful feeling he gets on missions when his life or others’ are in danger. No, not that one. Is that feeling he gets when he knows something’s up, something’s out of order, not necessarily bad, but something that he needs to put his focus on…

He’s been trying to hold himself from going to your place, he knows that it may sound like he’s imposing himself in your personal space, in your life, but he’s been trying to call you in the last few hours, sent a few messages but you haven’t answered and then that annoying little feeling came to say hello.

And in his long ass life, he’s learned better than to ignore that feeling. He knows you’re not at work because it’s a Sunday and maybe you just went out somewhere without your phone and he’s just being paranoid or something… But he’ll just check if you’re ok, see those pretty eyes of yours and leave. That’s it. He may seem like a fucking stalker, but if that is going to assure him you’re ok, then so be it.

And God knows how much he would appreciate a glimpse of you right now.

The little hairs on his neck stand in attention at the sight he catches from the corner of your street and brings him to a full stop. That short little asshole of your ex, dragging a big suitcase with one hand and holding a couple of boxes with the other.

Bucky’s heart races and he frowns, watching when that Eddie guy lets go of the suitcase and balances himself to not let the boxes fall while he types the code to open the front door, getting into your building right after, dragging the suitcase with him.

The air catches in Bucky’s throat before it comes out in short little breaths. His mind runs with all the possible scenarios that would explain that scene… he desperately searches for ones that don’t have to mean what his jumping heart is telling him it means.

He’s not thinking clearly through the mess that his mind has become, but he decides he needs to see it for himself, as dreadful as he is of what he’s going to see.

In a few long and quick steps he’s at the building’s door, typing the numbers he’s just registered the douchebag typing and in a second he’s in the elevator up to your floor.

Once he’s at your door, ready to knock on the wood, his hand stops midair, before it drops to his side while he sighs. Deeply. This is madness… he shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t need to see anything, he can wait and talk to you some other time, when he’s less… anguished… anxious… He knows what he’s thinking, but it doesn’t mean that’s the case. You and the guy had lived together for years… maybe he’s just returning some of your stuff… maybe… damn… he brushes his hand over his face, harshly. He should leave.

And he’s about to do exactly that when the door opens.

Bucky has been calling the guy a short little asshole all this time and, while he still may be an absolute jackass and Bucky surely and easily beats him in height, somehow he feels like the smallest person on earth standing in front of the man right now.

“Can I help you?” Eddie asks, hardening his face after an immeasurable moment of stunned silence between the two men.

“Ahm,” Bucky clears his throat and keeps his voice firm, “Can I talk to Y/N?”

Eddie lets out a small puff and God knows how much Bucky needs to hold himself back from punching that stupid little face, “She’s not home, she had a call for something at work,” Eddie answers plainly.

Bucky feels when his jaw tightens painfully and his chest puffs, “Then what the hell are you doing here?” His voice comes out dangerously low as his chin tips up.

A little and annoying smirk twists Eddie’s lips and… fuck, Bucky has a terrible feeling about that. “Not that I need to give you any explanation but I’m moving back. This is my home again.” He regards Bucky for a second after adding, “Our home.”

The words punch the air out of Bucky’s lungs and, looking behind Eddie’s shoulder he sees the numerous boxes… your place… where he had you in his arms so many times now filled with that guy’s stuff next to your things… His stomach churns violently.

“Are you… are you and Y/N...” he can’t even finish the question, the words getting stuck in his throat, choking him like a deadly poison.

“Listen, dude…” Eddie bursts out, “What Y/N and I have isn’t some kind of fling or deal or whatever one small time apart can destroy, we belong together.” He huffs and bites his cheek before continuing impatiently, while all Bucky can do is stare at him, frozen in place, ”I have no time for this. If you have questions you can ask her whenever you want, if she has anything to explain to you, she will. Now if you excuse me.” He gestures towards the elevator.

Bucky would rather die a thousand times before he would allow himself to continue showing a single more minute of vulnerability in front of that guy… so he sucks it all down his throat and, holding himself in the excruciating pain rushing up his chest like it’s an anchor, he puts on a hard face and just nods, stepping away while he meets, for the first time, the ache he knows is the feeling of his heart breaking.

~~~

At the sight before her, Natasha sighs and remembers the time when she would find much different scenarios when she would burst into Bucky’s place. Where she would usually find different underwear tossed around the floor and small parties in his room, now she sees a metal armed dude sprawled on the sofa, face deep into not one, but two huge pints of Stark Raving Hazelnuts from Ben & Jerry’s, while Home Alone plays on the TV, and an Alpine lays comfortably on his lap.

Her little head perks up once Nat’s steps into the room. At least one of them acknowledges her presence.

“Jesus, Bucky...”

He then moves his gaze to her direction, showing off his puffed eyes while shoving a huge spoon of ice-cream in his mouth, “What?” He speaks with a mouthful, “Breakfast?” He makes an offering gesture with the pint.

“I see you at least put on your uniform,” Nat ignores the offer, stepping towards him, kicking aside the many remains and open packages of junk food on her way. She slaps his leg off the sofa so she can sit beside him. As he grumpily adjusts his position to give her room, an equally grumpy Alpine jumps off his lap and aims a gaze of sheer contempt at Nat, before sauntering towards her plate of food in the kitchen.

“Well… Show must go on, right?” Bucky answers while his saddened gaze fixes on the tv again.

Nat just stares at him for a moment, her heart twisting in sorrow at his miserable demeanor, “Listen…” she says, with a softer tone, “I checked, she really is on a mission.” At that, she spots the twitch on his jaw, but he doesn’t look back at her, “Apparently it was some last-minute thing about Thor and earthly technology.” Nat frowns and shrugs, “That’s probably the reason why she’s not picking up your calls or mine for the last couple of days. She’s just busy. You can talk to her when she comes back.”

“Why?” He puts the pints of ice cream aside as his face snaps at her.

Despite the initial harshness on his tone, there’s no trace of anger there on his expression. Just… sadness… and, honestly, Nat would deal better with the anger. She’s never seen Bucky like this… not after he came back from Wakanda.

Bucky breathes in a shuddering breath, like it’s painful for him to even do that before he continues speaking, “The guy is back to her place, Nat… all his fucking boxes and clothes and shit next to hers. They’re back together. That’s it. I honestly don’t wanna listen to her telling me how much that guy matters to her…” His voice cracks, but he goes on talking, “That she and I was fun, I was a good fuck and all but not good enough compared to ten years with that…” He huffs, “That douchebag. I don’t wanna hear her saying he’s the real deal and not me.” He bites on his cheek, looking at Nat with eyes becoming glossy, “I just don’t think I can.”

“Bucky…”

“Ugh, no, seriously Nat, fuck,” he growls while he narrows his eyes and his jaw tightens, “Seriously, that guy… if he only… shit… he doesn’t deserve her.” Indignance pours out of his voice, which comes out through his teeth while his hands clench into fists, “He doesn’t appreciate what he has… ugh…” He groans, and lets himself fall back into the sofa, “But…” He sighs, and nods, licking his lips, “If that’s what she wants… I’m not gonna try and take it away from her. I won’t.” He shrugs.

Like she’s sensing the distress in her human, Alpine materializes on the sofa, between Nat and Bucky, and lets out a meow before curling herself against his thigh. Bucky absentmindedly starts petting her neck, staring up to the ceiling.

Nat could hear the pain of his heart shattering through his words. As for her… regret creeps up inside her. Regret for starting this between Bucky and you. She had a feeling that things could go south, but in all the scenarios she pictured for that, Bucky being the one heartbroken definitely wasn’t one of them. And yet, there he is. Devastated. Completely fucked. In a way she never thought she would see him for… love.

Damn…

“Are you guys ready?”

The three of them turn towards the voice, spotting Steve there, in his full gear and his signature worried and yet soft look that belongs to Bucky.

“Yup,” Bucky taps on his thighs and grabs Alpine in one hand, who meows loudly, and two suitcases, one bigger and one smaller with the other one.

“Are you seriously taking her with us?” Nat checks, following him towards the door.

“Wherever I go, she goes,” he answers, his voice as down as his face.

“Buck,” Steve puts his hand on his friend’s shoulder, stopping him at the door, “Are you sure you’re ok to go on the mission, I can-“

“I’m fine, punk,” Bucky cuts him off, “I’m a grown ass man, I can handle my feelings.”

As Bucky walks past his friend and moves to the elevator, Nat exchanges looks with Steve. She’s heard Bucky saying that exact sentence numerous times lately, after he acknowledged the way he feels for you.

The difference is that the usual confidence is just not there anymore.

~~~

You’re frowning while looking down at him. His words making their way into your senses.

You free one hand of his secured hold to reach over and cup his smiling face.

He leans into your touch.

You make a decision.

Your heart and mind are finally set together in what you now know you want. Hell… you think you know this for a while, but now… with Eddie bringing all those memories and telling you all of that, it did help you get through the split in your heart and mend it back into one. A whole new heart.

One that is all his.

His.

“Eddie,” your voice is soft, while he smiles up at you, “I remember all of that.” You smile, too, referring to the box of memories next you, “Every single memory… everything we shared… those ten years… they helped me mold me into what I am. There’s no me, there’s no what I am today without them,” you state, while, with your thumb, you caress his cheek.

Eddie nods, “There’s no me without you, either, that’s why I’m here.”

“But, Eddie…” you sigh and lick you lips, “Remember how you’ve told me a couple of times I seem different?”

The smile on Eddie's face slowly drops.

“That’s because I am… I’m not just… I’m not just that anymore.” You nod towards the box, “I found out there’s more in me, and honestly, I think there’s more in you, too, that just doesn’t fit to what we used to be anymore.”

He blinks repeated times, staring up at you, and you lean even closer and cup both sides of his face.

“I’m sorry. This is all part of who I am. You’re part of who I am. But I can’t go back.” You shake your head, “I can’t.”

He keeps his stare on you and, after a moment, like he’s been processing what you said to him, he lets out a huff, “Are you serious?” he harshly pulls your hands away from his face and gets up, “Are you fucking serious? Is this because you’re fucking that guy?” He raises his voice, gesturing away.

“Eddie…” You tilt your head as a warning sign.

“No, seriously, you’re trading me, you’re trading us for what?” He spits and points to his chest while his face contorts into something ugly you’ve never seen on him before, “A player who will throw you in the trash for the next nicer piece of ass he sees? For what? A good fuck? An eight pack? A few more inches of dick? Come on…”

“Hey,” you snap, rushing up from your seat to level him, “What the fuck, Eddie?” You curse, as he stares back at you defiantly, “First of all you don’t get to talk to me like that, you lower you goddamn tone.” You point a finger at him, “And, honestly? Bucky is not just “that guy” to me. He’s not a player. You don’t know him, and you don’t know who I am with him, you could never know.”

Through the anger bringing red blurs to your vision, you see when his Adam bone bobs, but he keeps an insolent chin lifted up and he has struck something in you by talking about Bucky and your feelings for him in such a belittling way.

“I didn’t want things to end like that,” you continue, shaking your head, “I really didn’t, but if you’re talking shit you don’t know the first thing about… ugh… fuck that,” you let out a harsh breath, “In one month or so Bucky respected and appreciated me more than you did in ten years. With him I don’t have to pretend I like or don’t like things just not to upset him or whatever, I learned I can be fun and honest… and… and he fucking eats my pussy, for God’s sake,” you burst out in a rush of spite.

Eddie takes a step back, completely stunned by your words and outburst, while a dead silence settles in the room.

“Wow,” he mumbles nodding his head and looking away from you.

You shut your eyes and breathe in deeply, letting your head drop for a moment, while reason starts to come back to your senses, “Shit… shit…” You curse under your breath, looking up at him again, “This is not about that, Eddie…” you say, being honest with him and yourself, “I loved you, I really did, you are so important… I appreciate our time together so much… but now…” You press your lips in a taut line and shrugs, “It’s over…And, yeah… Bucky may be in my life now, but-“

He snorts, crossing his arms in front of his chest. There’s pure scorn in his gaze for you, but you decide to ignore that. Eddie really matters a lot to you and you don’t want to end it in such a bad note. You want closure for the two of you, so both of you can accept what you had is over and move on with your lives.

“But this is not about him. Not completely, at least,” you continue, “It’s us Eddie.” You plead, taking a step closer to him, “Our relationship meant the world, but… but I think we outgrew it-”

“You speak for yourself,” he spits.

You sigh at the anger that is still there, spilling through his voice, but you nod, and speaks softly, “Ok, then… I outgrew our relationship, but even if you think you haven’t, that doesn’t mean it would be good for you to insist on something you realized at some point it wasn’t what you wanted anymore. You can’t deny that.”

You gasp and try to keep your balance when he drops on his knees and latches himself at you, hugging your waist tightly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know I caused all this, but please don’t leave me, don’t give up on us,” he begs, his voice breaking, pressing his cheek on you, “Please… please.”

“Eddie… Eddie…” You try catching his attention, as he keeps his chant of remorseful and begging words, “Stop... stop, Eddie, come here.”

You reach down for his forearms, adding some force to pull him up, to which he lets you.

When his weeping face levels yours, you gently wipe the tears falling down with your fingers, “You ended this because you weren’t happy, either, and it’s ok. It’s ok to let go,” you say, gently, before cupping his face and fixing your gaze on his, “Let go, Eddie. Let go.”

He exhales, his eyes shutting. While you keep gentle hands on his face, he brings his forehead to yours.

“We’re gonna be ok,” you whisper, wishing that he would understand that moving on is the best thing for the two of you.

At that, he harshly parts himself from you. Hurt and rejection plastered all over his face while he averts his gaze from you.

“Eddie… I don’t know what else to say,” you heave a sigh.

Before he gives you the comeback he’s about to give you, which you know it wasn’t gonna be a nice one, your phone rings. Nick Fury’s ringtone.

“Shit,” you curse, “I’m sorry, I need to pick that.” You rush and reach out for your phone on the center table, “Yes, Sir… of course… absolutely. I’ll gather my team and will be there in one hour, tops. Alright.”

“It’s work…” you tell Eddie, looking down as you turn off your phone.

“On a fucking Saturday night?” Eddie scoffs, not looking at you.

“Thor is on a solo mission and needs assistance from my team. Fury asked me to lead it. I…” You look at him, but he doesn’t look back at you, “I need to go change,” you say, defeated by his refusal to engage with you or with what you’ve been trying to tell him so far.

Once you come back from your bedroom in a hurry and ready to leave, Eddie is there in the living room, now sitting on the sofa.

“Are you sure?” He asks once you walked over the sofa and met his dull gaze.

“Yes.”

He nods slowly, biting his cheek.

“I’m gonna need to go now, Eddie,” you tentatively say. You step closer to him, but he turns his face to the other side and you take the hint. Stopping on your track.

“What of this place?” He gestures around.

You look around the place you two got together and as from that moment, you don’t see yourself in it anymore. Satisfied with your decision, you walk towards the key hook on the wall and he watches as you come closer to him again and take his hand from his lap, putting the keys in his palm.

“This place is not mine anymore,” you give him a tight smile.

You hold his hand a little longer while his gaze lingers at where you’re touching him.

“Goodbye, Eddie,” you say.

When he doesn’t give you an answer or even spares a look your way, you sigh, deeply. If that’s how he wants it to go, so be it. Letting go of his hand you walk to the door.

As soon as you step aside from your now former home, you realize you’re also walking towards a new phase of your life and you take in a big and refreshing breath before a loose smile forms in your lips. There’s only one thing in your mind, now. Or better, one person.

Bucky.

~~~

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky angst #bucky fluff #marvel fanfiction #it's a deal #it's a deal ch. 14

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sneezefiction · 4 years

Text

midnight murmurs

Iwaizumi x Reader - Scenario

a/n: Iwaizumi rattles off some late-night thoughts to you while you’re “sleeping.” little does he know your eyes may not be open, but your ears are still catching quite a few of his one-sided conversations.

warnings: some language

wc: 1.5k

dedicated to: @star-puff, because your Iwaizumi fluff had me riding a high for like 2 whole days & we all need him in our lives

---

Incoherent whispering. Soft, short rambles. Maybe he was sleep-talking?

At least that’s what you thought when you first heard Iwaizumi’s voice over the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and against the muted song of the cicadas buzzing outside of the bedroom window.

But as the nights passed, you began to hone in on the contents of Iwaizumi’s mumbling.

His words were… pointed. Holding an air of quiet confidence and trickling ever so gently into your ear like a lullaby. Sometimes it had to do with his day. Other times it was about how cute you’d looked that morning, still fast asleep while he was getting dressed for work.

But whatever the topic is, you’ve grown used to the conversations that he’s been having with the back of your head.

And here you are again. Lying stiff as a twig by Iwaizumi’s side and listening intently to his voice.

“I wish you’d heard what Shittykawa did today…” He rasps softly.

“...Even though he’s all the way in Argentina, literally surrounded by beaches and resorts, he still hardly takes a day off. That dumbass sprained his ankle and kept practicing for another hour.” Iwaizumi sighed, his thumb barely skimming the surface of your forearm.

If you’d actually been asleep (like he’d thought you were), you’re sure you wouldn’t have felt the brush of his fingertips. It was too delicate. Too careful.

Honestly, you’re just glad he still holds you this tenderly. Especially late at night when you’d least expect his affection. After all, you’ve not had a chance to cuddle with him in a while.

Iwaizumi had been getting home later every single day for the past few weeks and for good reason. He felt obligated to stay with Japan’s national team into the darker hours of the night as the Olympic games approached. And you admire his dedication. You’re so proud of him for chasing after his passions and it would never dawn on you to undermine his career by holding your relationship with him over his head.

But this usually meant that, by the time he cracked the bedroom door open, you two would only have a few moments to share some words and a quick kiss before tucking under the covers. You, of course, missed his voice. And he longed to hear yours.

However, as you closed your tired eyes, Iwaizumi’s would remain wide open, body and mind relentlessly processing through another intense day. You’ve never said a word to him about his shifting and deep sighs, worried that he might feel guilty for keeping you awake with him. Yet still, you feel Iwaizumi’s exhaustion in the way his weary arm drapes around your waist. There’s a tautness, a sort of tension, there.

So you do your best to remain completely still in his hold, hoping that your outward calm would bring him some inward peace. That your steady breath might lull him into a state of rest. That you could be the anchor to his rocking boat, like he’d always been for you when your life got windy and overwhelming. But even with your best, silent efforts, he stayed alert and somewhat unsteady.

That’s when the whispery words would start… and you soon came to the realization that he was talking to you.

You hear the rustle of his hair as he runs a firm hand through it. A small smile adorns your lips as he continues his line of thought, Iwaizumi’s breath wafting across the back of your neck.

“Y/n, he’s such an idiot and he won’t listen to me anymore… maybe I’ll get you to text him tomorrow. You’re so good for him and… maybe a little nicer than I am.” Iwaizumi admits.

There’s a pause and you wonder if that’s it. If that’s the end of his dialogue for the night… but there’s more this time.

“And, God y/n, I missed you today.”

The confession shakes you. Your chest tightens as you try to take it all in.

You’re pretty sure you weren’t supposed to hear that.

Those words were reserved for the most... intimate of moments. For trembling tears or reunions after long distances or maybe hot, heavy kisses after a frustrating day. But, as a general rule, you hardly ever heard those tender remarks out of the blue. After all, Iwaizumi is a man of actions and not so much a lover of words.

So this is new, to say the least. You’re dumbstruck. Your heart is beating far faster than it should be - especially since you’ve been dating him for over a year now.

However, it wasn’t just the words that stunned you. His tone was different too. Where there usually would be, there wasn’t an ounce of embarrassment in Iwaizumi’s voice. It wasn’t rushed; not bashful or heated like some of his past devotions and confessions had seemed.

Tonight’s Iwaizumi is perfectly sincere. No, not just sincere. Fond.

Fond and maybe a tad wistful. Vocal inflection isn’t exactly Iwa’s forte, at least not when it came to sweet words in passing. So this is a historical moment in your book.

Thus, you let your cheeks burn a little longer and shut your eyes a little tighter in order to hear his next words.

“And I miss your voice.” He adds, tone dropping into what seems like… longing.

Iwaizumi pulls you a little closer into his bare chest, the rise and fall breath now pushing up against your own back. He’s really pushing it now.

It feels wrong listening into a conversation when the words are meant for you, but at the same time they aren’t. Who wouldn’t be conflicted? He had clearly trusted that your closed eyes and barely moving figure meant you were deeply asleep. That you couldn’t possibly hear a word he was saying.

I mean you had to say something, right?

So you inhale quietly, preparing to insert yourself into the one-sided discussion.

“...I wish you’d said something sooner, Iwa.”

You almost startle yourself with your own voice, the once soft atmosphere of the moonlit room, turning frigid.

Iwaizumi’s whole body goes stiff, arms frozen in place. He holds his breath and the gentle tickling of air on your neck pauses with it.

You shift your head to look back at him, his eyes already peering into your own. He was red. Beet red. Enough so that you could see it in the dim light of the room. You could practically feel the heat radiating off of his neck and arms, embarrassment flooding through every inch of his body.

“How… how long have you been listening to me?” Iwaizumi whispers, voice wavering almost as though he doesn’t want to hear your answer.

You blink.

Should you only tell him about tonight?

Or would it be better to let him know that he hasn’t had a single midnight conversation this week that you hadn’t listened in on?

You opt for honesty, knowing that he would probably be able to tell if you were lying anyways.

“Everything from this past… week?” You say shyly, slinking away from him, but one of Iwaizumi’s strong arms holds you in place.

His head falls back to his pillow and the other arm covers his eyes. As many times as he’d slipped up in front of you, he’d really done it this time. You must think he’s so strange. Why was he always doing stuff like this? Of course you would hear him.

I should’ve just kept my damn mouth shut, Iwaizumi thinks, his body still being flamed by an internal furnace from all the other embarrassing things he now remembers rattling off to you in your ‘sleeping’ state.

“But I liked listening to you.” You cut in quickly, sensing his discomfort and attempting to smooth it over with gentle words.

“And we… don’t get to talk much lately. So I- I just didn’t want to say anything because… I like the sound of your voice. You’re actually very soothing, Iwa.” You’re still sleepy, so the words come out choppily... but considering the circumstances, it wasn’t the worst recovery.

If it weren’t for the blushing male in front of you, you would probably feel just as flustered by the whole situation. But somehow, you kept your cool, too focused on calming Iwaizumi down in his flushed state.

“...Y/n?”

“Yes?” You breathe out.

“Just… just come here already.” He takes his hand away from his burning face and turns toward you.

You’re immediately pulled snug against him, your front meeting his chest, legs twining around his toned ones. Iwaizumi has a hand behind your neck tucking you into the crook of his neck as he hides his face from you, chin resting softly atop your head.

“I’ll call Oikawa tomorrow.” You joke, breaking the tension.

“It’s shittykawa.” He corrects. “And please forget about everything I said.” His tone dropping, turning sour.

A humored sigh leaves your lips.

He feels your mouth smiling faintly against his collar bone, which only sends him further into this embarrassed affection for you.

You were really something.

Never making him feel bad for running late hours. Letting him crawl into bed with you way past midnight when you could easily demand more time from him. Listening to his rambles, some more crass than others, consciously without judgement.

He’d found a treasure in you. A golden, shimmering treasure that didn’t need light to be seen. You shone even under the pale, underwhelming moonlight that peered through the window blinds.

So Iwaizumi finds himself pressing a few soft kisses onto your forehead. You plant a couple lingering ones on his neck in return and he squeezes you even closer into him.

And just as the two of you begin to drift off, you decide to top the night off with a cherry of sorts.

“Iwa?”

“Yes, y/n?” His voice at a whisper, once again.

“I’ve missed you too.”

---

Do Not Repost

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @miss-rin, @shou-kunn, @senkuwu-chan, @super-noya, @stcrryskies, @holaaaf, @sugacookiies, @vintgicals, @moonlightaangel, @kit-tea, @theworldupthere, @sugasugawarau, @randomesk-yuku, @ideshine, @macaronnv, @anseoo, @aprettyfruit, @bbakougo, @bloom-uwu, @spikertrash, @iguessimastannow

(comment, dm, or send an ask to be added to my general tag list - blogs in bold could not be tagged)

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi #haikyuu fluff #hq #hq x reader #hq imagines #hq scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #iwaizumi imagines #iwaizumi scenarios #aoba johsai #seijoh #oikawa #oikawa tooru #sneezefiction

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quantumlocked310 · 3 years

Text

Bjørnekram

I’m a super newbie to the Vikings fandom (better late than never?), but I saw @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie post about writing fluffy Bjorn. And, like my Hvitserk fic, the idea wouldn’t leave my brain. This is my second published fic ever, so I hope it is enjoyable.

Warnings: Heavy petting, bear hugs, fluff, ignoring the entire Vikings plot

Crossposted on AO3

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When the envoy came, you didn’t think it would change your life. Your father and Ragnar had been close friends when you were young. At that time your family had lived in Kettegat, but when your grandfather died your father was called to return to the village so he could be Jarl. Now, Ragnar requests your father’s presence at the Solstice feast to talk about raiding together in the spring.

It has been a few years since you’d played with Ragnar’s sons, but hearing the envoy talk about Kattegat thrusts you back to your memories of running around the town square, playing hide and seek between buildings. Always trying to hide Ivar with you, or getting Ubbe to carry you on his back.

Of course your father accepts the summons of his oldest friend, and decides to bring you and your mother along, leaving your elder brother in charge of the village.

During the journey to Kattegat you thought about how you’d changed. You’re no longer a tiny child to be carried around. You’re a woman with wide hips, large breasts, and the larger squishy middle of a person who is well cared for, and has the luxury of being a Jarl’s daughter. Your mother always says your body is made for children, but you’re not so sure about that just yet. “I need a man for that first, Mother” you usually respond, but no one in your village has caught your eye or even tried to pursue you.

Your family’s arrival is a celebration. After the long journey all you wish to do is lay down on a bed of furs and sleep until the next full moon, but your mother’s look says your presence is necessary. There is food and mead, and you fill your belly sitting with the sons of Ragnar and hearing of their raiding adventures.

The boys have all changed too. Now they are handsome young men, with beards and longer hair than you remember. You’re next to Ubbe, and tug on his impressive beard saying “When did this come about, hmm?”

“Probably around when those did for you, love.” He cranes his head as if to look down your dress. Then winks and laughs nudging you with his shoulder.

You turn bright red and cross your arms, returning his nudge with a hearty shoulder shove of your own.

“We have all grown up in the years we’ve been gone, no?” A voice rumbles from your left.

You look over to see Bjorn has sat next to you. And he seems to have changed the most of them all. Even sitting he seems to tower over you, and his shoulders take up almost two spaces themselves. You nod over your cup of ale and giggle saying “Hello, Bjorn.”

His returning grin is playful as he responds “Hello, Y/N.” Your early time in Kattegat was spent while Bjorn was with his mother, but clearly he knows who you are. If you’d heard tales of Bjorn Ironside from his brothers, perhaps they were telling tales of you too.

Another guest captures his attention from across the table, and you’re all swept up in the feasting and conversation. Over the course of the night you get closer and closer to Bjorn and he takes the chance to wrap an arm around you, resting his hand on the bench. You’re wrapped in warmth and all you can smell is him. He smells soothing, like home fires, cooked meat and the mead you’ve been consuming. Soon your head is resting on his shoulder and you’re nearly falling asleep at the table. After a massive yawn you feel his chest shake with laughter as he says “Maybe I should take you to sleep, Y/N.”

You hum and close your eyes, burrowing further into his soft tunic. He laughs again and starts to move. Dislodging you a bit he climbs off the bench, but starts to anchor a hand around your hip. You realise he is meaning to carry you to bed. Your eyes shoot open and you start to protest.

“Bjorn, no. I am too heavy.” You say though he continues to scoop his other hand under your knees. “Nonsense.” Is all he says as he lifts and suddenly you are in the air. He stays still for a moment, and you wriggle a little then nestle your head under his chin and close your eyes again. No one has attempted to carry you for many years, and you don’t want to stare at him in awe the entire time he is holding you.

The walk to your room feels like seconds as you start to drift back to sleep feeling supported, wrapped in his scent and his arms. Between the long journey, delicious food, and copious amounts of mead and ale there was no way you could stay awake for any longer.

Bjorn sets you gently on your bed, but you whine as he pulls away. He huffs touching his forehead to yours, and covering you in furs. Before he leaves, you feel him press a gentle kiss to your head and his massive hand pushes a few strands of hair away from your face. “Sleep well, Y/N,” he whispers, and it is the last thing you hear before a deep sleep takes you.

++++++++

In the morning you are embarrassed at your behavior. Falling asleep at the table, and on Bjorn no less. You thought that would receive endless amounts of teasing from the brothers. At least he was sweet about it, and as you get ready for your day you touch your forehead remembering his gentle goodnight kiss.

When you arrive in the great hall there is only your mother and Aslaug who tells you, “The men have gone hunting.” You nod and sit at the table to eat your morning meal. The rest of your day is spent with your sewing tasks and learning about the village from Aslaug.

Close to dinner the great hall doors thrust open and your father and Ragnar burst in with their arms around each other laughing uproariously. Those who are in the Great Hall stand to greet them.

“We will have to hold another feast to eat the meat we’ve caught this day!” Ragnar shouts. “No, Brother! Food enough to salt and keep for raiding England!” Your father returns, rejoicing. They continue to the head of the table where your father presses a kiss to your mother’s brow. You smile gently at their affection, before letting out a horrific squeal!

“Y/N!” Bjorn bellows as he lifts you up and spins you around. “Come see what we have caught!” You can smell the ale on his breath. They must have been drinking while hunting.

He places you next to their palette of slaughtered animals. They’ve got rabbits and fish, but the most impressive is the large buck whose antlers reach out from under the smaller prey. You try to step closer, but don’t move an inch. Bjorn holds his hands fast around your middle and pulls you back just a little so your bodies are aligned. You stiffen slightly before turning to look up at the big man and see his incredible blue eyes inches from yours. Blushing, you nod just a little and turn to look back at their haul.

“A magnificent array indeed! We will have to celebrate.” You turn your head to look around the room and loudly suggest “Some mead for everyone, perhaps?”

“Mead!” All the men shout and the thralls pour in with jugs and cups, and soon another feast has begun.

You smile widely and tip your head up to look at Bjorn, your hands coming to rest over his and you squeeze just a little. “Mead?” you ask him, and he starts to lower his head. Your heart starts pounding, thinking perhaps we will kiss you in the middle of the newly crowded great hall.

But alas he only rests his forehead on yours, inhales, and says “You smell like home,” so quietly you almost think he didn’t say it. He presses a quick kiss to your brow before tightening his arms and lifting you gently to the table where he sits and places you on his lap. Your heart is in your throat and you know your eyes are wide as saucers as you realise Bjorn has no intentions of letting you off him as you feast.

Hvitserk pushes a mug of mead toward you, and you’re grateful to try and hide your blushing cheeks behind it. You grab the nearest plate of meat and begin to eat. Meanwhile, oblivious to your pounding heart and warm core, the tale of the great hunt begins.

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As the evening winds down you start to move off of Bjorn, getting as far as moving your butt to the bench before he catches your knees and holds you to him. “And where are you going?” he asks.

“I wish to sleep, Bjorn” you sigh.

“Then I will take you.”

“May I walk on my own this time?”

He seems to think over your question, before staring you straight in the eye saying “No.”

You furrow your brow and stick out your lower lip, pouting.

“That trick won’t work on me, maiden.” He releases your knees to tap you on the nose, and you cross your eyes, sticking your tongue out at him. His laugh is deep and hearty, and your heart soars to hear it.

You can’t help but smile back, and he pulls you with him to stand from the bench. The table whoops and hollers at the two of you, his brothers the loudest of all. You wrap your arms around Bjorn’s significant shoulders as he adjusts his hold on you, fingers brushing your thighs and sides causing heat to rush through your body.

You’re both quiet on the way to your rooms, and his hands are so warm where they press as if branding your skin through your dress. It is hard to think of anything but how his body feels against yours and how you wish he had kissed you in the great hall.

When you get to your room, he doesn’t lay you on the bed as you expect. Instead, Bjorn wraps both arms around you and holds you so you are eye level. Both his hands are pressed tightly against your hips and butt, and he is just holding all of you. It feels special, like nothing you’d ever experienced before.

Slowly he lets you slide down his body, your eyes never breaking contact. As your toes touch the floor he leans down and presses his lips to yours. His lips are softer than you imagined and they feel so gentle. Slowly you press back against him, keeping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer to you.

His mouth opens against yours, and you nip at his bottom lip. He groans into your mouth and those massive hands travel across your body, one hand grabbing at your full bottom and the other taking a handful of your breast. Your fingers scratch against the soft shaven parts of his hair, and you moan into the kiss.

He bends his knees and lifts you up again. “Bjorn!” You exclaim as the kiss is broken. “Why in Odin’s name do you lift me so much?” He stares at you, eyebrows raised, while he just keeps you in the air, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Not... not that I am complaining. You’re so strong, but no one has lifted me since I was a child. And I didn’t think... well I didn’t think anyone could.”

He lays you gently on the bed and climbs in after you, all the while keeping you in his embrace. “You’re a beautiful woman, and I want you in my arms. Is that reason enough?”

You stare at him for some minutes, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, the strong arch of his brow, his patrician nose, the stubble forming on his cheeks. He lets you look your fill, as you feel his hands travel up your back and around your stomach, skimming your mound over your dress. You’re exploring him with your eyes, but he is worshiping you with his touch. You nod and kiss him again, taking the opportunity to press your body to his. He is scorching, pressed against every inch of you as the kissing continues.

His hands travel further across your body, lifting your dress and squeezing your bare ass. In return you reach to shove his tunic off. The next thing you know all your clothes are on the floor. His naked body feels soft against your chilled skin and the hair on his chest is pressed tight to your bare breasts. Your kisses are lazy, tongues dancing as you explore each other’s newly exposed skin.

After what feels like hours with his hands cradling your thighs and playing with your breasts you interrupt the kissing with a large yawn. Bjorn chuckles as he rubs his nose against yours.

“Sleep, maiden. I will make you scream my name tomorrow” he says quietly.

“I suppose that will have to do,” you reply, and push yourself up to blow out the candles next to the bed. He takes the opportunity to fondle your exposed breast, and you giggle dropping your body down to squash his hand between you. He hums, pressing a kiss to your temple and you kiss his chest, moving to tuck your head under his chin. You both settle together as he pulls out his trapped hand to pull you ever closer.

And that is how you fall asleep. With Bjorn’s heartbeat in your ear, wrapped in the warmth of this unexpected gift from the gods.

#bjorn x reader #plus size reader #vikings #bjorn ironside x reader #bjorn ironside #bear hugs #fanfic #fanfiction #Yes the name means Bear Hugs in Danish #no i’m not sorry #this time I made a moodboard!#pics are from pinterest #no i’ve never made a moodboard #so many new things #I’m a Hvitserk girl all the way #but there’s something about being smothered by a big man that’s just alluring #now I can get back to my Pirate!Hvitty fic

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doctenwho · 4 years

Text

Talk Me Down

Oof, not me disappearing for like a two months. I’m so sorry! I have the attention span of a goldfish and I’ve been fandom hopping. I sadly hyperfocus in and out, and then I’m back (currently stuck on Prodigal Son again, if anyone’s interested!). D: Still working on the prompts in waiting, if I haven’t gotten around to yours yet!

Anywho! Thank you so much for the prompt! It was a lot of fun to work on, and I’m sorry it took so long! Hopefully this was what you were looking for, I thought it was pretty fluffy!

Warnings: Panic/ Anxiety attacks, light angst

Word Count: 2,731 (Sorry it’s a bit short!)

Summary: Read the prompt above!

(Gif is not mine! All credit goes to the creator! :D)

You hated when you and the Doctor would get separated. It always filled you with a sense of dread. You knew he didn’t mean it—he'd never try to intentionally hurt you, but the two of you always somehow broke apart.

It wasn’t as bad when you were on earth—defeating whichever alien decided that earth and humanity was an easy target—but in space, when the Doctor would get carried away and leave you to fend for yourself like he tended to do with companions, you always felt like you were suffocating whenever he did that.

You loved travelling with him, and you were confident in your ability to fend for yourself, but you were just filled with a sinking feeling of doubt whenever he’d leave you alone on a planet you didn’t know.

Today was no different than any other day.

Then any other adventure.

You couldn’t for the life of you remember which planet the Doctor had been raving about when he’d landed the TARDIS. You’d followed along like you always did, excited for the adventure, but with that small inkling of doubt in the back of your mind.

He’d taken your hand with a wide smile and led you along. He talked your ear off, telling you of the planet’s history, the inhabitants. His personal favorites about the planet. You liked listening to him, listening to him ramble and gesture enthusiastically about what interested him.

And then you were running.

You were starting to think that there wasn’t a place in the universe where the Doctor wasn’t at least one person’s target. Where he hadn’t accidentally wronged someone.

He’d dragged you along by your hand before you’d come to a fork in the road. He’d looked both directions calculatingly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before chancing a glance back at you. Then, his eyes seemed to go through you and to whomever happened to be chasing you, which seemed to make some sort of decision for him if the way his eyes hardened was anything to go off.

His hand broke away from yours, and then he was giving you the slightest push towards one side of the fork with flustered order of “Go!” falling from his lips as he turned hurriedly and shot down the other road.

Your feet moved on autopilot as you sprinted down the path he’d directed you towards, instantly missing the warmth and comfort of the Doctor’s hand in your own. You weren’t sure how long you continued down the road. How long you ran—how far you got.

You were sure no one was chasing you. You couldn’t hear any other sounds besides your own feet pounding along the gravel, and you heart thrumming in your chest in both exertion and anxiety.

They wanted the Doctor, not you. Whatever it was the man had done to wrong these people, it had been long before you’d started travelling with him. Long before you’d even met the man.

That still didn’t stop the clawing worry in your stomach. Was the Doctor okay? Would he come find you? Would he find you?

What if he wasn’t okay? What if you’d be stranded here forever? Not only did you not think you’d ever be able to make it back to the TARDIS, but there was absolutely no way you’d be able to get her to fly even if you did somehow make it back.

You weren’t a Timelord. The TARDIS wouldn’t fly for you, even if you tried.

You’d be stranded here.

Somewhere deep in the back of your mind a tiny voice was whispering to trust the Doctor. He hadn’t gotten the two of you into any serious danger yet. He took care of you, and you’d never been injured beyond bruises and scrapes. He always came for you. Always found you and swept you back into the TARDIS and far away from the threat.

He’d always taken care of you--

But the larger, louder calling in your head shouted your fears. He wouldn’t find you. He was dead. They’d captured him. You were alone. Alone on a planet you didn’t even know the name of. You’d never see the Doctor again. You’d never see your friends and family, or planet again.

You were stranded.

Your movements slowed, and before you could fight to keep yourself up, your knees buckled under you. You fell to the dirty road below; your knees and hands scraping on the gravel.

You were stuck here. On this strange planet. Without the Doctor.

Alone.

You crawled to the side of the road, hiding yourself the best you could manage in a bush of some sort. It dug uncomfortably into your body, but you couldn’t be bothered. What did it matter?

A gaspy cry fell from you lips as you coiled in on yourself, pulling your knees to your chest as you buried your face in the fabric of your pants. It was a sinking feeling of loneliness—fear of the unknown environment.

You could barely force in any air. It felt like you were dying. This was it. You were going to die of lack of oxygen—which was weird considering the Doctor had told you this planet had the same atmosphere as earth. There was plenty of oxygen, but you couldn’t manage to suck any in.

You struggled for each gasp of air you got.

Your head was an uncomfortable mix of lightheadedness and pounding headache, and you were sure you were crying. Tears slipping down your cheeks as your thoughts consumed you. The bigger, louder voice washing over the tiny pleading one like a title wave.

How were you going to make it out of this? How would you survive this strange alien planet without the Doctor by your side? Your fingers subconsciously dug into your forearms where they were wrapped around your legs, holding your knees snug against you.

“(Y/N)!” You heard, but it sounded far away. Far away and drown out. Why did it feel like you were underwater? You struggled to suck in another breath as a foreign touch settled on your hand, curling to just slightly grip around yours, “you need to take a breath, c’mon, deep in...”

You tried to steady your thoughts, taking a stuttery intake of air like the voice suggested, and it was quick to cool your lungs down. That suffocating feeling eased the slightest amount. The soft voice talking you through this was steadying you—anchoring you back, “good, good, my dear, now out? You’re doing perfect.”

It took a second before you let yourself blow out the air in your lungs, “perfect,” the voice told you, soft and comforting, “very good, another one? Nice and slow, alright? Breath with me, in and out.”

You sucked in another breath, waited for the hand around yours to tighten just the slightest before blowing that breath out too. Now that you could breathe through the mist of anxiety, you were desperate to pull in more air. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lost—unsure how long you’d gone without a decent breath.

“Good,” the voice whispered lowly as a second hand settled on your forearm, thumb rubbing softly along your arm, “you’re doing brilliantly, (Y/N). Come back to me now, alright?”

You weren’t sure where you’d gone, but you’d try for the voice.

You forced your eyes open, unsure when you’d really shut them. You couldn’t remember squeezing them shut, but it was almost a relief when you let your face relax. You continued with the deep breaths, replaying the words that had been spoken to you in your head—in and out.

Before you, dropped in a panicked kneel, was the Doctor. He looked out of breath, and frantic. Worried eyes searching your face for... you weren’t sure what he was looking so intently for. The worry didn’t look quite right on the usually so confident and narcissistic man.

It was definitely the Doctor though.

“Doctor?” you wheezed out, uncoiling just enough to settle a hand on his chest to test if he was real or not. You hand flattened against him, and then one of his hands was pulling away from you to settle over top of your hand.

“I’m here,” he promised, “I’m so sorry, (Y/N). I’m here now. You’re alright.”

You let yourself fall forwards into him with the confirmation that it was him. That the Doctor was real before you. Alive. Here. You weren’t stranded. You weren’t alone anymore. A rush of that suffocating separation anxiety flowed out with your next heaving breath.

You buried your face in his suit jacket as his arms wrapped tightly around you, “keep breathing, love, alright? Deep breaths for me.”

It was easier to suck in the breaths with the Doctor in close proximity. Even if it really should be harder to get any air through his clothes. You managed to wrap your arms around him too, holding him close.

The two of you were at an awkward angle, the Doctor still on his knees in front of you, and you in an awkward mess of desperate limbs. Neither of you seemed to mind the odd position much. The longer you sat, the stiffer you got, but it was the furthest thing from your mind.

“You’re doing so good,” the Doctor whispered into your hair, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

“You’re okay,” you whimpered out against his jacket.

“I am,” the Doctor agreed tenderly, “it was a misunderstanding. I’m okay, and you’re okay. We’re both okay, alright? Deep breaths.”

You just curled yourself in closer to him, afraid that you’d lose him if you let go. Your thoughts still ran rampant in your head, anxious and panicked, but the longer you forced in breaths, and sat in the Doctor’s arms with his hands trailing along your back and petting down your hair, the more everything eased away.

The Doctor didn’t say much else as you slowly calmed down in his arms. With your breaths finally starting to even out, he didn’t keep reminding you. But whenever you slowed, or swallowed a shallow intake, he’d calmly remind you again.

You didn’t know how long the two of you sat there on the ground, on some planet you didn’t even remember the name of. The Doctor made no move to get up, to move, and to speak until you’d calmed. Until you were okay, and breath steadily.

“I’m sorry.” The Doctor told you once more, his chin settled on the top of your head as he held you close.

“What for?” You finally asked when it no longer felt like you were fighting for every breath. His heart beats below your ear calmed you down, focused your attention. Reminded you he was here. That even if your head was telling you that you were alone, that you definitely weren’t.

“We shouldn’t have split up,” the Doctor told you, “I should’ve kept you with me, but I needed you to be safe, and I knew they were after me, and not you, so I sent you away.”

“I thought you were gone,” you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing another breath just because you could, “I thought you were gone, and I didn’t know where I was. I... I thought I’d be stuck here forever. I was alone.”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your head, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. We should’ve stayed together. I’m so sorry, (Y/N). It was stupid, I know you’re different from other companions, and I still thrusted you into something that made you uncomfortable. I just needed you to be okay.”

“I’m okay,” you breathed out, but you weren’t sure if that was his sake, or a reminder for yourself. You’d never had a panic attack quite as heavy. Never one that broke you down like this one had.

“You’re okay,” the Doctor repeated, tightening his hold. You didn’t know if he really believed your words—his tone was pretty neutral. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you. I’ll always come for you okay?”

“Okay,” you swallowed, letting your forehead settle against his chest.

“Think you’re okay to stand? You weren’t hurt, were you?”

“No,” you shook you head, pulling away enough to look up at the Doctor, “I’m okay... you were right, no one came after me. I... I just, I tripped, I think.”

You pulled your hands away to look down at them, frowning at the scratches from the gravel. The Doctor took your hands into his own, leaning away just enough to look down at your palms. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” you told him with a small laugh that didn’t sound quite right. Not as okay as you’d hoped it would’ve. You ignored the kicked-puppy look the Doctor shot in your direction as you pushed yourself up, using the Doctor’s shoulder as support before offering a hand to help him up too.

It wasn’t his fault—he'd been protecting you. You’d always been a bit clingy anyways. The separation anxiety wasn’t new either—you'd just... never expected it could get so much worse on a planet that wasn’t your own. Being alone on a planet that you didn’t know; one not even in your own galaxy had hit you harder than ever.

The Doctor took your offered hand, accepting the help up, but he didn’t look convinced by your words.

The need to not let go was clearly just as evident in him as it was in you. You went to pull you hand back after he was standing, but he didn’t let up his grip. You didn’t mind though, just squeezing his hand in return.

He pulled you closer by your hand, only letting go when you were close enough to wrap his arms around. This hug was a lot more comfortable, standing instead of whatever odd sitting thing you’d been doing before. You could push closer, and he held you tighter.

You tucked in against his body much easier.

You melted into the embrace, letting him hold you. You weren’t sure if it was for your sake at this point, or his own, but you didn’t question it. Whether for him, or for you, it was a tenderness you needed right now. Comfort and protection from the Doctor.

“You scared me,” the Doctor whispered against your head.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you murmured.

He pulled back enough to cup your face in his hands, thumbs trailing under your eyes with a feathery touch, wiping away the tear tracks with a frown, “I didn’t think my plan through, and it put you at risk, even if it wasn’t my intention. The need to make sure you were safe was stronger than the logic that you don’t know this planet. That I was pushing you into the unknown.”

“I know you were trying to protect me, I just...”

“Not the right way,” the Doctor decided. You felt him gave a light shake of his head, “it’s not protecting you if it manifests like this, (Y/N). It was the wrong choice because you panicked, because of me. I won’t do that again, I assure you.”

“No more splitting up?” You tilted your head at him. It made you feel very clingy, and you were sure your voice sounded more relieved than you would’ve liked, but the Doctor just gave you a tiny smile, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“No,” he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, “no more splitting up—especially not on planets you don’t know. I can’t promise we’ll never get separated again, but I can promise I’ll always keep you safe, and I’ll always find you again.”

“I know,” you swallowed, nuzzling up against him and pulling him back into a tight hug. “I trust you.”

“I’m glad,” you could hear the playful smile in the Doctor’s voice, “now, what do you say we head back to the TARDIS and get off this planet. We can clean your hands up too.”

“Sounds good,” you returned the small smile. You wiped your hands against your pants halfheartedly.

The Doctor wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side easily. You curled in close, pressing the side of your face against his side. His thumb swept along your shoulder, arm keeping to tight and sheltered against him.

Protective, but comforting all the same.Comforting to the both of you.

<><><><>

Heyy! Thanks for taking the time to read this! I hoped you liked it! As always, if it wasn’t what you were looking for, feel free to prompt me again!

Hopefully the anxiety/panic attack was realistic enough, I’ve only got me to go off, but I know it’s different for everyone! Also, alternative title suggestions would be appreciated if you’ve got one!

#Tenth Doctor #tenth doctor x reader #tenth doctor x you #ten #10th doctor #10th doctor x reader #10th doctor x you #dw #doctor who 2005 #reader insert #fanfiction #fanfic #TARDIS #writing prompt #writing requests

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pedrosbisch · 3 years

Text

My Sun and Stars

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x Reader w/ nickname

Chapter 1- Call Signs

Chapter 2

Summary:You go out on a Friday night with your buddies, and meet Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia for the first time Rated M for Mature themes, but would prefer the fic stayed 18+ since it gets a little spicy later 👌

AN: Hello everyone! This is my very first fanfic I’m posting, and I hope it’s up to par 😅 I’ve been delaying posting it for so long but I’m so excited to finally get this posted and starting this journey.

TW! Alcohol, Slight Violence. Please let me know if I need to add anything else!

It was just another Friday at the bar after a dull day at work. Your friend Will invited you out for drinks with him and a couple of his buddies to celebrate a friend coming home.

“Where is this guy anyway, aren’t we supposed to be celebrating him?” You ask, frustrated by the fact the person they were celebrating was nearly an hour late.

“Pope’s always late, he runs on his own time. But he’ll be here.” Will took another sip of his beer before glancing toward the door.

“He better be, I can’t stay late. I have to go back home to Maria, I promised her I’d help with the baby after I got back tonight.” Retorted Frankie.

“Speak of the devil.”

Up walked a man with curly hair and sun kissed skin. He's undoubtedly handsome, smiling before he claps a hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“What’s up cabróns? Sorry I’m late, there was traffic coming from the airport and then there was this girl out in the parking lot who had this ass that-“

“Ah-hem.” You clear your throat, hoping to cut off whatever vulgar story he was about to tell.

“Pope this is Hail. We met through the VA, thought I’d invite her out with us.”

“Hail? Cute, what’s that short for, Hailey?” He pours himself a mug of beer, barely looking your way.

“Hail Mary.”

“That’s a hell of a name. Parents were religious huh?”

Benny snickers and Frankie leans back, preparing for the shitshow to unfold.

“Call sign. Hail Mary, as in the prayer most people say before they’re about to die; A last ditch effort. For a man whose nickname is Pope, seems like you’d know better”

“Oh baby, people call me Pope because I bring them closer to god, whether it’s out in the field or in bed.” He side eyes Benny and they fist bump behind your head.

“Classy.” You roll your eyes and look over to Will who pinches the bridge of his nose and mouths 'sorry' over to you.

“Anyways- glad to have you back safe man, but I really gotta go. Wife’s gonna kill me if I don’t help with the baby like I promised.” Frankie fixes his hat and slaps Pope on the back before walking out.

“Yeah man me too, I’ve got my fight tomorrow and I already got too drunk waiting for you. You gotta come though!” Benny says as he wobbles standing up.

Will quickly stands after and steadies him propping him up on his shoulder. “I better drive Benny home, what about you Hail? You need a ride?”

“I’m alright, I’ll probably stay a little longer. I need to decompress from work.”

“Whatever works for you darlin, text me to let me know when you get home safe.” He says goodbye and shakes Pope’s hand before walking away with his brother.

“And yous better be coming to my match tomorrow!! I need my Hail Mary!!” Benny yelled with his head flopping back and forth.

“I’ll be there Benny.” You punch his ass and send them off, leaving you entirely alone with the menace of a man you’ve just met.

“So uh— you and the Miller brothers seem close.” Pope eyes you up and down, clearly trying to figure out what he’s missed while he was god knows where.

“Sure. Like Will said, we met through the VA. We’ve been pretty close since then.”

“I take it you’re a vet then, with your call sign and all?”

Was he actually trying to get to know you? “No, my dad served. 20 years in the Marine Corps, I just drive him to the meetings. He tried dragging me in one day to set me up with Will.”

“So you two are together then?” He looked up quizzically.

“Ha! If he’s interested he sure doesn’t show it. Plus I don’t think he’s really my type.”

“What is your type then?” Pope raises an eyebrow and a wide grin spreads across his face.

“Definitely not a man some of whose first words around me were ‘there was a girl who had this ass’”

“So you don’t like me because I appreciate the female form?”

“Ha! I don’t like you because you make assumptions. Like how you just assumed that you could get me to go home with you.”

“I’m offended you think so lowly of me Princesa, and how are you so sure I want to you to sleep with me?”

“Don’t call me Princesa, and because if you didn’t want to— you’d be off chasing that girl with the ass down. But you’re here, talking to me about if I’m taken and what my type is. Now if you excuse me, I’m going home.” You gulp down the rest of your beer before grabbing your purse and speed walking to the door.

Pope rushes through the crowds and grabs your arm before you raise it to hail a taxi. You break from his grasp and slam your palm into his chest before realizing it was him.

“Agh! So you’re not all bark after all.” He rubs his shoulder and winces. “Listen, I truly am sorry for this bad first impression. But I don’t think Will would be happy with me if I didn’t at least offer you a ride home in your inebriated state.”

You roll you eyes before you look in your purse and realize all your cash went toward tipping the bartender; You sigh and toss your head back in defeat. “Fine. But you’re not coming in for a nightcap.”

He leads you to his Jeep and you buckle yourself in as he pulls out of the bar parking. You punch your address into his GPS and lean your head against the cool window as the music plays softly. The alcohol hits you all at once like a tidal wave, and your head starts to spin.

You’re thankful the ride home is quiet, and even more so when the car comes to a stop. The car door opens letting the fresh night air hits your face waking you slightly.

“Can I at least walk you to your door?” Says Pope, but this time his tone is different. It’s not assertive or defensive, almost like he cares you get home safe. And he has this look on his face, what is that look? You’re too drunk to tell.

"That would be great, actually." He walks beside you, careful not to touch you unless you expressly needed help. You were doing better than expected, swaying slightly and bumping arms as you walked side by side. You were about to send Pope off, all up until you came to foot of the stairwell.

“Shit. You can go, really I’ll be fine. You’ll be here all night watching me climb these stupid things. Without an ounce of of dignity, I may add.”

He chuckled as you planted your palms on the stairs and began to crawl up them like an overgrown toddler.

“I have all night to help you up the stairs Hail, but I’ll have to touch you. If that’s ok?”

Why did those words send fire through your cheeks? ‘But I’ll have to touch you.’ You quietly nod your head in defeat and feel two strong arms lift you from under your knees and behind your back. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck and press your head to his chest. The world is spinning and you’re doing anything to anchor yourself, even if it’s to him.

You turn your head and shut your eyes, taking deep even breaths into his chest doing everything in your power to calm yourself. ‘Focus’, you tell yourself. Focus on literally anything but the spinning. You take another deep breath, but this time you take a second to appreciate the scent of Pope’s cologne. It smells expensive, but sooo nice. You hear his heart beating, or—wait. Is it yours? Your mind continues to wander further as footsteps echo off the stairwell. His arms feel so nice, maybe you could invite him… No, you decide. You won’t just be another drunken conquest.

You reach the second floor of your apartment complex and tell him your door number. He steadily places you down, and keeps a steady hand on your back as you dig out your keys. You open the door and catch yourself on the frame turning yourself to face Pope.

“Thank you for taking me home, and for carrying me up the stairs. This is so embarrassing, I swear this never happens.”

“Shh, it’s alright Princesa. Drink some water and get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow at Benny’s match. I’ll bring my best manners, and hopefully we can forget about today.” He gets you a glass of water and places it next to your couch where you ungracefully plopped yourself down.

“Mmhh. Pope?” You reach, as if trying to reach him without knowing where his is.

“Santiago. My real name is Santiago, but you can call me Santi if you want.”

Your brain is far gone, blacked out in a half asleep state with no filter attached to your mouth. “Well then Santiago, thank you again for bringing me home. Sorry it wasn’t in the context you wanted. Next time if you want it to go more smoothly, ask me to dinner. You smell too good to say no.”

He chuckles and looks at you with a soft expression before locking your door behind him as he makes his way back to his car. For the rest of the night, he replays the way you said his name in his head and makes a mental note to wear the same cologne again tomorrow night.

#santiago pope garcia #tf fanfic #pope x reader #santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #tw alcohol #fanfic

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permanentcrossfics · 4 years

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Blurred Lines: A Different Christmas // h.s.

How do we write Christmas fics in a really weird year? I’m still not sure, but I tried to string together a bit of relief for the end of December. I’m shutting myself up now, even though there’s lots I want to say. This is for anyone who wants it, anyone who needs it, anyone who enjoys it (or hates it!) silently and vocally alike. My Christmas gift is the happy and unexpected bonus of anyone reading what I have so much selfish fun thinking of and spinning out. Happy and Merry Christmas if you celebrate it, and a happy and merry end of December if you don’t and are just doing you! x

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It was the big Christmas tree you’d dragged back home by yourself on top of a rickety shopping cart all the way from a place on Second Avenue that had been your breaking point. Picking it had its own bittersweet undertones, but the smell of fresh pine tickling your nose even through a mask had kept you afloat as you struggled to get it off and onto curbs before traffic pancaked you in the middle of the road. It wasn’t until you were back inside, still wrapped in your coat and struggling to get it upright in the stand the correct way that you burst into a torrent of hot, selfish tears and bowed your head, kneeling next to the mass of needles and branches. He should be here! He should be helping you. He should’ve helped anchor lights in windows, he should’ve had an opinion on the scented candles, he should’ve made you go back for decorations you just weren’t sure of because you wanted them regardless of what he thought, and he should’ve helped pick, and carry, and set up the tree. The whole reason you’d gone out to get a fresh tree – something real in a year that had felt anything but – was to lift your spirits, but instead you were sobbing next to it and it all felt a little dramatically pointless. It was everything you’d avoided last year by flying off to England but that you couldn’t escape this time. What was the point? What was the point of pretending?

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“You coming home with me this year?”

Again. He asked the same question you’ve been dodging for weeks since plans had started to look uncertain again, not because he was pestering you, but because somehow, some way, you were both hoping for an answer with a loophole.

“I can’t,” you said softly, regretfully, holding your phone close to your face with one arm as you curled up under the duvet of a bed in an apartment that had somehow become yours together instead of his alone throughout the course of a very new, very different, very unsettling year. “For a few reasons.”

And he knew that.

Harry’s deep breath crackled and he dragged his hand down his face, holding it there as he shook his head, the thought processes you’d learned to read so well hidden from view.

You’d liked going home with him last year -- loved it, even. You’d hardly had time to look forward to a repeat when the world had flipped in the first quarter or sooner, and the sand had just kept slipping through the hourglass until all time for hope of a new and normal Christmas was gone and sucked away into the void of the year.

So many plans. So many memories that lived only as memories of daydreams now. So much else, so much more important, devastating, and tragic you couldn’t even put it into words and, frankly, didn’t want to. Not now -- you spent too much time thinking about it to think about it now, too.

“Filming’s done soon,” he said from behind his hand. “I can book my flight to New York--”

“Harry--”

“And then go to Manchester after Christmas -- after the New Year, we always take a bit of a longer break. Mum won’t mind--”

“Your mother’s barely seen you since last Christmas,” you said. “Your sister, too, and there’s not enough time to--”

“Course there is!”

“Two weeks quarantine in each?” you asked. “That’s a month of staying put, let alone--”

A split second glance at his face was all you saw before the screen went black and you bit your tongue. He hadn’t hung up, because you’d heard the soft thud when his phone collided with his chest, and you could hear him breathing now, so you waited, suppressing your own urge to snap as he had his. Despite having spent the better part of the year together, it was frustrating to think about not being together for the season. All you wanted was him, though you knew better than to voice it out loud. He’d do it -- for you, he’d do it if you asked him to -- and you’d have to live with the guilt of taking him away from his family at the time of year where family should be together most, if it mattered to them. And you’d been weirdly lucky enough to have him most of the year between carefully navigated business trips. He was only one man with one body. It didn’t -- couldn’t -- matter that you wanted him, too.

That you wanted to be with the man you loved.

When he picked up the phone again, his face was drawn, tired, and not just from filming, you suspected.

“Go home,” you urged, swallowing the break in your voice. “You miss home, and home misses you. I’ll have fun decorating and send you all the pictures you won’t be able to do anything about.”

His throat bobbed hard, audibly, and his eyes looked dangerously shiny.

“Next year I’ll go home with you,” you said, burrowing half your face into your pillow. “London and Holmes Chapel both.”

“Next year,” he said eventually, voice raspy. “We’ll have Christmas at home next year.”

You nodded, forcing the lump rising up, up, and up back down. “You should go to sleep,” you said. “It’s late and you have to be up early.”

“Later for you,” he said and you sighed, noting the 3:08 timestamp at the top of your screen.

“Let’s go,” you said. “Call me when you can.”

“I will.” Sad, but resigned. You wanted to reach through the screen and touch the downturned corners of his mouth to push them back upright again. “Sleep well, and I love you.”

Taking a deep breath, you murmured, “I love you, too,” before hanging up the call and the room descended into darkness and you into a fitful sleep.

***

At first, you were determined to make the most of it. Your studio had always been small, cozy, and Christmasy to the best of your abilities, but his -- your -- apartment had so many more possibilities. Candles were the first to be set out, with strategic clusters of red, green, and gold-colored wax placed all about and nestled in fake holly wreaths. String lights that cast a pretty glow lined windows even in the bedroom for some last minute holiday cheer, and despite the urge to drive him up a wall, you did your best to only pick out other decorations that you’d both like and want to use in the future. Because as much as you might avoid talking about it in many certain terms the longer the relationship went on (it still felt so funny to think that a one night stand had turned into a relationship), there was a future. He was your future. It wasn’t your first Christmas together, but it might be your last one apart.

He should be here! He should be helping you. He should’ve helped anchor lights in windows, he should’ve had an opinion on the scented candles, he should’ve made you go back for decorations you just weren’t sure of because you wanted them regardless of what he thought, and he should’ve helped pick, and carry, and set up the tree. The whole reason you’d gone out to get a fresh tree -- something real in a year that had felt anything but -- was to lift your spirits, but instead you were sobbing next to it and it all felt a little dramatically pointless. It was everything you’d avoided last year by flying off to England but that you couldn’t escape this time. What was the point? What was the point of pretending?

Wiping your nose, you stood, eyes heavy, swollen, and itchy. With your coat gone, you heaved the tree up until it was sitting securely in its stand, needles scattered in its wake but branches full and outstretched, enveloping you in the warm smell of Christmas in a way the cedar- and balsam-scented candles couldn’t. Stepping back with your hands on your hips, you looked up at it, the swell of your anxiety simmering, thanks partly to your crying fit and partly to succeeding at the task. You’d decorate it bit by bit to draw the season out, and then on Christmas Eve, you’d call him and you’d both sit by your own trees and talk until it was Christmas Day for him. It was just for now -- this wasn’t the way of all ways for all time.

Click.

You nearly passed out cold from the rush of fearful adrenaline shooting through you when the lock on the door clicked. In three seconds, you ran through whether or not you’d locked the door, determined that you had but then had forgotten, and figured out that somehow, someone had gotten in and they weren’t supposed to. You spun, frozen, brain zooming to determine if you dove behind a sofa or if you charged, but you didn’t get the chance before the door opened.

A duffle bag, a foot, a body, in that order, and then a pair of wide, green eyes rimmed with circles just above a cloth mask.

“You do not get to be mad at me,” he said, voice muffled. He grunted and pushed the door open wider to bring in the rest of his luggage as you stood there, as equally speechless as you were breathless. “I tested before I came here,” he said, speaking with a loud if exhausted sort of authority, like he was trying to get the words out before you could protest. “But I’ll take the guest room, and I’ll get my own food, and we’ll keep out of each other’s space until the two weeks are up.”

He brought his bags in the rest of the way, and it was only when he was halfway by you that he stopped in his tracks. “Y’haven’t moved,” he said, eyebrows furrowing as he narrowed his eyes on you. “Are you all right?”

Lightheaded, you nodded.

“O… kay,” he said, stilted, still eyeing you. “M’just gonna go get settled and showered, then.”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, the words finally forcing themselves from you.

“S’Christmas.”

“You’re supposed to--”

“Mum knows,” he interrupted. “M’taking Christmas here this year. Gem’ll have Christmas with her and I’ll go along after. She’s excited about having two. ‘Scuse me….”

Nodding, you waved him away to hurry, shoo, because you could feel the emotions rising in you again and your confusion wasn’t enough to quell them. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d been kneeling on the floor with aching knees, crying, and now here he was.

You’d wrestle with the confliction of doing what was right and doing what you wanted… later. Later, when you could wrap your head around it and the choice he’d made.

Two weeks. That would put you just on Christmas Day, basically. Just two weeks.

***

Dodging him around the apartment was a lot more difficult than you would’ve guessed for how big it was. More than once you nearly slammed into him in the kitchen, and someone was always in the favored bathroom. For his part, he’d taken to wearing a mask when he roamed, and even though you told him he didn’t have to do that, all he did was hum behind it. You got it -- the positive result from the crewperson on set had spooked everyone, and he was being safe. You both were being safe, but for as mindful as you’d been throughout, all you wanted to do was hold him, hug him, kiss him. Video calls were ridiculous when you were in the same house and you could hear his laugh through the walls. But you got it, and if you kicked too much he’d book a hotel to quarantine away from you, so you’d rather have him here, as selfish and risky as it was.

It was three days into your little bubble that he finally dared to get within arm’s reach of you. You were mulling over where to put the chimney sweep ornament when he shuffled over to the foot of the ladder you were leaning on, and you raised an eyebrow, arm outstretched.

“Can I help you?” you asked.

He shook his head, the lights from the tree reflected in his eyes. “Just watching,” he said from behind his mask.

“You’re standing a little close, aren’t you?” you teased. Jokes were all you had -- all anyone had this year, if they were lucky.

Immediately, he scowled -- how funny you could tell what his face looked like so clearly even with the cloth stretched firmly across it -- and you giggled. “Watch what you’re doing,” he said, taking his hands from his sweatshirt pocket to grab the ladder legs, and with his support, you held on tightly and leaned over to place it on the prime branch.

“Thank you,” you said. “Do you want to pass me that box?”

He did so and you murmured your thanks, resting it on the top step as you pulled ornaments out to hang them.

“Not there,” he said before you could drop a hook over a branch with a snowflake. “Give it… thank you.” He took it carefully from you and placed it on a different one closer to him, lower than where you were placing it but slightly higher than you could reach without a ladder.

“Thank you.”

Together, slowly, ornaments were hooked and rehooked (and rehooked yet again when one of you noticed the other had moved them from a spot you each thought was perfect) until the tree was trimmed, each branch heavily laden, bearing the weight of ornaments and of providing joy after the year behind.

“How’d you get this home?” he asked, looking up at it with you once you were off the ladder.

“Carefully,” you said dryly. “Oh! The top.” You turned, but he cut across your path.

“I’ve got it,” he said, grabbing the box from the precarious stack next to the coffee table.

“I want to,” you whined and he snorted.

“You’ve done the whole bloody thing,” he said without venom. “Let me do just the one.” With it in hand, he climbed the ladder as you held it steady, and he set it on the topmost branch, prodding it until it was tall and straight up, all five points outstretched and shining.

“That’s perfect,” you said under your breath, resting your head on his leg, and he patted the top of your head gently. You stayed like that for a minute, two, three, and more, with your arm curling around his calf, embracing as much physical contact as he’d allowed since he came home. “How many more days?”

“Eleven.” He sounded thoughtful, resentful, and exhausted all in one go. You squeezed his leg and kissed his knee through his joggers.

“Then it’s Christmas,” you said.

He exhaled slowly, still patting your head. “Christmas morning.”

***

Eleven. Whole. Days.

Eleven days of more of the same. He’d eased up, thankfully, and dared to venture a little closer with a mask on, because, as you’d reminded him, he had tested negative. You sat on opposite ends of the couch, enjoying the Christmas tree and decorations together, laughing, talking, planning, and exchanging stories about everything that had happened while you were apart. His, of course, were wildly more interesting, but he somehow managed to hang onto every word of even your most droll and mundane ones, and always with the right questions and supportive murmurs of agreement as necessary.

Eleven days of saying goodnight and crawling into a bed that was too big for one when two was next door.

Eleven days of not being able to share meals properly or touch each other -- sex aside -- and eleven days of Hell.

“It’s your fault,” you said one night from your end of the couch, scowling with your arms crossed. The tree twinkled happily despite your sour mood, and music that was too merry and bright played from the television.

“Me?” he asked indignantly.

“Yes! You had to do that stupid film.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“You’re wearing a mask in our home,” you said, burrowing into the cushions. “If I want to call it stupid, I will.”

He groaned, dropping his head forward. “Baby….”

You grunted.

“It’s only a couple more days. A couple more days, and then it’s Christmas. Think of it like a present you’re waiting for.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

“I’m all you want for Christmas, aren’t--?”

“Shut up,” you said, kicking his thigh with your extended leg. He snickered, eyes crinkled and full of light all their own.

“Couple more days,” he said, patting your ankle. “Couple more days, and then you won’t even be able to get rid of me. We’ll be in bed all weekend.”

“I’m not calling your mother from bed.”

He waggled his brows with some exaggeration and you rolled your eyes.

That had been around day five, maybe six. Suffice it to say, by Christmas Eve, you were done.

“It’s one day!” you said over breakfast in the kitchen. “One day, Harry!”

“We made it this long,” he said, pouring hot coffee into a mug that had his face printed onto the head of dancing elf -- a gift from his mother shipped along with a matching one for you that she insisted you both open ahead of time to enjoy for as long as possible. “We can make it a couple more hours.”

“If I stripped naked, what would you do? Stand there and watch me?”

He froze and looked at you over his mask, the heated warning pinning you in place. Huffing, you pushed the stool away from the counter and hopped off it.

“Where are you--?”

“Out,” you said. “I’m going to get--” You floundered. “Coffee.”

A beat passed and his eyes dropped to the mug in his hand.

“We literally have--”

“I’m going out!” you said, wrapping your neck and half your face up in a scarf to keep warm. You were going out, because you were mad, and the tantrum was burgeoning. That poor man had seen more unreasonable tantrums from you this year than he had in the entire two and a half you’d reciprocally acknowledged each other’s presence, and you hated it. But he’d hate it, too, if you’d gone on a trip for work and come back and things were off.

Could be worse, you reminded yourself. It could be so very, very much worse.

“I love you,” you said, calmly, firmly. “I’ll be back. I’m only going around the block. Take that--” You waved at his mask, “--off. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way in..”

When you returned, he was in the guest room, but a fresh cup of coffee in your own dancing elf mug rested on a mug warming plate. The last of your frustrations that hadn’t melted with the walk deflated and you picked it up, enjoying the aroma before taking a deep sip.

He always made it better. And the coffee was nice, too.

His mother called in the afternoon and you hardly noticed he was at your side until the phone was in front of your face and you gave a startled hello.

“Has he been wearing that the whole time he’s been home with you?” she asked, her gleaming eyes and wide, genuine smile matching her son’s own warmth.

Home. With you.

“He has,” you said.

“S’posed to be proud of me,” Harry said and Anne laughed.

“Of course, sweetheart. We’re still calling tomorrow?” she asked you.

“Yeah,” you said. “We’ll be here.”

“Next year will be different, won’t it?” she all but clucked. “Did you like your mugs? I got one for me, Gemma, and Michal, too.”

“Used them just this morning,” he said, squeezing your hip and wandering away. “Won’t be posting them anywhere for people to see, though….”

Eventually -- finally -- the day drew to a close, and you crawled into bed with the knowledge that it was just one more night. One more night, and then in the morning you could say hello like you wanted to. One more night and you wouldn’t want to bite his head off. One more night and you wouldn’t feel so mental, as he would put it.

And yet, lying there, the minutes dragged. Ten? No, just one. Fifteen? Five.

It felt like Christmas, though. As much as this was pure torture, this was what Christmas was supposed to feel like -- like it used to feel when you were a kid and you’d wait for weeks tingling anticipation, counting down, hoping that you’d find what you wanted under the tree, bursting with more energy than any amount of sugar could give you. Except instead of presents, or money, or sweets, you were waiting for the man who’d been under your nose for two weeks by this point. You got to kiss your boyfriend tomorrow. You got to see your boyfriend, hold your boyfriend, and celebrate Christmas with your boyfriend.

Twenty minutes? Two.

12:02.

Two minutes after midnight.

Christmas.

Fourteen days.

Oh!

You sprang from the bed before you could think about the matter and darted to the door over the cold wooden floor, but when you rounded the corner in the hallway, out of nowhere, something all but slammed into you. Sucking in a sharp breath with a screwed up face, you squeaked when you collided with a very warm, very sturdy frame. Belatedly, two arms shot out to grab you by yours to steady you. “Oh my God, I--”

Hair, forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth, too. No mask.

“Are you o--?”

He didn’t get to finish his question. You clapped your hands over his cheeks and kissed him soundly before he could kiss you first. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d laugh -- you both would -- but rather than that, he locked both his arms around you tightly and spun you, teetering precariously with you in tow until you got to the guest bed. Tackle was an apt word for how he delivered you to it, but you were the farthest thing from upset at finally having not even an inch of space between you. The bed smelled like him and it was warm, he was warm, and you were kissing again, and again, and again, cold noses smushing together as you found new angles.

“Christmas,” he mumbled between them.

“Mmhm,” you returned against his mouth, legs interlocking with his. “I missed you,” you whispered.

“Missed you, too.”

Shivering, you both pulled the duvet up over your shoulders, and you curled up against him. Cologne, skin, and laundry detergent, with a bit of his minty toothpaste. There was no scented candle for that. You pressed your fingers against his chest and scratched lightly through the smattering of hair there. “We could go to our bed,” you reminded him, but he shook his head.

“Y’here now,” he rasped, leaning in to press his lips comfortably to your hairline, one arm draped over your back. “Let’s stay here tonight and we can change things later.”

“Were you coming to get me?” you asked, voice shaking as the last of the shivers left your bones.

“Yeah,” he admitted. You laughed, teeth chattering, and he pulled you closer. “Don’t laugh!” he said, rubbing your back and warming you. “S’been two weeks for me, hasn’t it?”

“For you!”

“You try bein’ home with you for that long,” he mumbled.

Shaking again, but less than before, you kissed the underside of his chin. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, darling.”

***

When you woke up, his back was to you, and his one shoulder was rising and falling with the rhythm of his sputtery, wheezy snores. You smiled, closing your eyes, and snuggled into the pillow. Better -- much better. You dozed on for an unknown amount of time, and you were walking the line between sleep and consciousness when featherlight kisses across your brow startled you and you jerked awake.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, only sounding slightly truthful. You made a noise and stretched, shaking from head to toe before curling up into a tight little ball next to him and opening your eyes fully. His own were puffy with sleep, but he grinned radiantly as if he’d been awake for a while.

“What?” you asked in a croak.

“Nothing,” he said. “Mum’s gonna call soon.”

Groaning, you halfheartedly turned your head to look over your shoulder. “What time is it?” you asked, straining to see the window and get a gauge.

“S’ten,” he said. “So about three for them. Sure you don’t want to call from bed?”

You glowered at him and his lip twitched. “I’ll put the coffee on.”

When you finally managed to leave the warm nest of the bed, the living room had been transformed. The tree was on, twinkling under the streams of light pouring in through the windows, and he’d lit the fireplace, too, flames licking up and up behind the glass. Soft, melodic Christmas music floated from the far corners of the room, and the smell of coffee tickled your nose.

“So,” he said from his spot at the island as he unwrapped cheeses and opened jars of olives, and jams, and honeys, and other goodies. “What time do we pop the bubbly?”

Laughing softly, you shuffled over. “It’s ten.”

“Little after ten now,” he said, lips pressed tightly together and arms flexed until the lid popped. “And somewhere in the world it’s five o’clock.”

You pulled a grape off the bunch lying on the counter and popped it into your mouth, chewing not so delicately but enjoying the sweet burst of freshness. You’d no sooner swallowed than his phone started buzzing and you grabbed it, sliding your finger to answer the call from the incoming Mum and pointing it at him.

“Happy Christmas, honey.” Anne’s voice was warm even through the phone, and Harry’s head whipped up.

“Wh-- Happy Christmas-- didn’t know you were-- ‘scuse the mess,” he said as you giggled behind the phone.

“Having a good morning so far?”

“Goin’ ok, yeah,” he said. “Just getting started, heating up the coffee.”

“Where’s your better half gotten off to?”

Trying not to melt, you waved your hand in front of the camera.

“Hello, love,” she said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Anne.”

“Are we going to get to see you today?”

“Fair’s fair,” Harry chimed in. “Turn that thing around, why don’t you?”

Rolling your eyes, you flipped the phone and waved, sliding around the counter to stand next to him.

“That’s better,” Anne said with a firm nod. She had a red top on with a festive, sparkly necklace, and looked a good deal more put together than either one of you.

“Where’s Gem?” Harry asked, taking the phone from you so you could unbox the crackers.

“Upstairs napping off the morning,” she said. “She’ll want to call again later.”

And that was how the morning went, with each of you passing his mother back and forth while you carried plates and trays full of snacks to the coffee table and couch in front of the tree to nibble while tearing into gifts on camera, including a box full of chocolates for you, Branston pickle for him, and Christmas crackers for both of you to have, “A little bit of home this year.”

“Thank you,” you said, clutching your sweets close. “And thank you for--” Unbidden, you choked up, and Harry glanced at you sharply, his inquisition vanishing with his understanding. For sharing him -- allowing you to steal him away during the holidays in a year where everyone needed family, either by blood or choice. He squeezed your shoulders and his mother, as adept as he was at redirecting a conversation, piped up.

“Promise you’ll come see us again next year,” Anne said. “It’s been too long.”

“It has been,” you agreed, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

“Maybe sooner.” Harry looked down at you. “If things ease up?”

You nodded. “Summer in London,” you mused. “That would be nice.”

“And then a bit of time back home. We could go before things pick up in August.”

Summer in London. A beacon of hope you couldn’t erect just yet, but a beacon nevertheless. A bit of time with him before he, hopefully, went back to work and you got to revisit adjusted and postponed plans.

The rest of your Christmas Day was quiet -- different from the year before when you’d been overwhelmed with names, faces, screeches of Uncle Harry, and not being sure how to break your way in. You kept trays of cheese, crackers, and other snacks within an arm’s reach, and by the early afternoon both of you had a comfortably steady buzz from the bubbly he was good at topping off both your glasses with -- never sloppily drunk, but enough to be warm in your fingers and toes and to seek out cuddles from him under the blanket you were snuggled in on the sofa with paper crowns on both your heads.

“Can I tell you something?” you asked, ribs crunched from how far you’d slid down on the sofa to nestle into his side, all but eye-level with his chest. “And have it not be as awful as it sounds?”

You felt his laugh before you heard it. “Sure,” he drawled. “What is it?”

Squeezing his wrist, you turned your mouth into his forearm, eyes on the television as a snowman leapt and bounded over a wide, snowy plain before jumping into the air. “I like this Christmas,” you admitted into his skin.

Harry snorted. “S’not awful, s’the point -- Christmas is supposed to be likeable.”

“You know what I mean,” you said, sighing. “I know it’s just us and there’s no family or anyone around, but… I dunno… it’s not all bad, is it?”

“Like having me to yourself?”

You groaned and rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Shut up,” you mumbled.

He kissed the top of your head, crown crunching under it, and you grunted. “S’not so bad,” he said into your hair. “Like having you all to myself, too, y’know.”

“You’re just saying that because you have to because you’re stuck with me,” you said and he laughed with another smacking kiss.

“Not stuck with me yet,” he crooned. “Can leave any time you want.”

“Maybe I will….”

“Oi!”

Giggling, you untangled yourself from him and squirmed out from underneath the blanket. “More bubbly?”

***

Boxing Day was a Christmas redux, with more cheese, sparkling wine, music, and calls with family and friends. Long distance versions of old favorite games were adapted and adopted, and you snickered quietly from the corner of the couch, staying out of his way when he shouted about how he had hit the button, it was his trackpad that hadn’t worked.

The late afternoon and on, though, was yours together and alone with the time difference breaking up the party earlier than it normally would be. The bittersweet cloud vanished, though, when you at some point you separated even further into your own activities -- him with his stack of new books and you with a film you played quietly on your laptop. Able to be near each other without having to be wrapped up and begging with your bodies for sorely missed attention, it finally, really, felt like home again.

“It’s so pretty out,” you murmured, nose pressed to the windowpane to see as much of the light-lined streets as you could. It got dark earlier and earlier these days, and yet later than it had even a few days ago. “I love Christmas in New York. I wish--” You caught yourself ahead of finishing the sentence, thinking better.

You wished it was a normal year -- for many reasons -- so you two could go out and see the city. So you could show him your favorite places, so you could make memories together like you had with him last year. It wasn’t anything life altering or new, but it was different when you were with someone you loved. You wanted him to know you -- all of you, even the unknowable parts.

“Y’know,” he said next to your ear, hand on the back of your neck as he slunk up behind you, “it’s getting pretty late.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him in the reflection of the glass. “Do you want to go to bed?”

Too early for sleep. Was he asking for sex?

Harry hummed and shook his head. “How ‘bout you get your coat on?” he murmured. “Let’s have that Boxing Day walk we didn’t get last year.”

“Now?”

“When else?” he said. “Haven’t been out yet, and it’s late. Streets’ll be empty. We can go wherever, do whatever, see whatever.”

“You’re serious?”

Nodding, he pulled you by the arm and you stumbled with him, still processing it even as you pulled beanies on with masks and (winter) gloves.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

He shrugged, calling the elevator. “Dunno,” he said. “Figured you’d lead the way. Show me your favorite bits. Seem t’remember summat about Bryant Park last year.”

There were sobering realities at the street level, too. Gates were down on storefronts that hadn’t been pulled up since March, awnings above them tattered from months of neglect and ‘For Rent’ signs flapping against them in the wind. The usual post-holiday influx of tourists was thinned, with hardly a white sneaker in sight, and everything was just a little quieter than it should be and would be in a usual year.

But there were lights. Broadway’s may have dimmed for the time being, but endless, endless displays of lights, brighter without the ambient light pouring from storefronts diminishing their power, offered beacons of hope -- literal lighthouses in a storm of a year -- and led you uptown like a trail of breadcrumbs.

You pulled him this way and that way, weaving through side streets to look at any display that looked bright enough from a distance, fingers locked tightly with his in a way they never were outside of the house. As bittersweet as it was no one was out, it afforded you a level of privacy you never had, anywhere. Not even Holmes Chapel. You couldn’t remember a time where you’d ever held his hand for this long at one time, if you were honest, and while you didn’t need it, you enjoyed the option.

In between zigs and zags, he mumbled stories to you about this time, and another time, and a time after that, pointing at buildings, venues, restaurants, and hotels, and you listened half in awe and half in earnest. It was a whole other life he’d lived without you before, and you’d only been aware of the surface of it. Nobody knew what he was telling you except the people he’d lived it with, and you didn’t think you’d ever get over or be able to thank him for trusting you to be someone he chose to share it with.

“I love Sixth,” you said, sighing as you walked past giant red Christmas ornaments three times the size of you both, the reflection of the string lights wrapped around tree branches bouncing off their shiny surfaces. Radio City’s electric red script beamed at you both from a distance, and traffic lights winked and waved in the wind up and down the avenue. “They do a lot with it.”

“It’s pretty,” he said, squeezing your hand. “Tree’s this way, isn’t it?” he asked.

You raised your eyebrows. “Yeah,” you said.

He jerked his head and you blinked.

“You want to?” you asked.

“Just a bit,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“There’s people!” you warned him, because even from here you could see the trickle of people with the same thought. “And I saw online they have a schedule--”

“We don’t have to get close,” he said, pulling you firmly. “S’big enough we don’t need to, just wanna take a peek.”

He was so certain, but you were less so, because all you needed was someone to see him to break the serene bubble you’d blown around yourselves. Despite that, you shuffled with him until the tree was visible, a bright, glowing ball of multi-colored lights stretching towards the sky. “Wow,” you whispered under your breath.

“S’nice,” he said and you nodded your agreement. It was nice -- despite the sad press it had gotten, the tree had turned out very nice at the end of it all, tall and impossibly beating all odds. What a metaphor for the year.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, squeezing him around the middle.

“Come here,” Harry said next to your ear.

“Hmm?” Reluctantly tearing your eyes from the tree, you gasped when he pulled your mask down first and then his own in two swift tugs, revealing a cheeky grin with a face cradled by the fabric. “What are you doing?” you asked, eyes darting around.

“Getting a kiss by the tree with my girlfriend,” he said. “Now, come here,” he repeated. This time, you obliged and allowed him to steal one, two, three kisses, each one of them smashed against your lips with a palpable sort of eagerness that made you think he would drink you if he could. This felt… normal. Normal, safe, and free.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt like that.

When you broke and burrowed against his neck, he covered the back of your head and wrapped his other arm around your back, cocooning you in the shell of the most protective embrace he could give. Just a man -- any man, a regular man -- holding the person he loved, and, after his decision to stay with you through Christmas and New Years, he arguably loved you most.

Through the thick knit of your beanie, you felt him kissing your head, and you nuzzled into his scarf. “Thank you,” you said, face safely out of sight. “For coming here.”

“Not mad a’me for it?” he mumbled and you shook your head. “‘Kay, good.”

Shivering, you huddled closer and he tightened his arms, shielding you from the brisk wind.

“People will see,” you said, but despite that you held him closer.

“Who cares?”

He did, despite his quiet rasp. He did, and you knew why he did, but right then, you could pretend that it didn’t matter at all.

***

It was simultaneously the longest and shortest week of your life.

The longest, because time didn’t exist, much like it hadn’t for most of the year. Days, afternoons, evenings, and nights blended together, blurred by a happy holiday haze onset by too much of everything good -- sleep, sustenance, and spirits. The weird, if nice, part of all the extra time was having the chance to do things you’d enjoyed over the course of the year all over again. Nine times out of ten, when the two of you were together, it was rushed even on the long layovers. You’d watch one series or a film the whole way through, and next time you’d have to be on to the next one you’d agreed to hold off on until the other was there, but after having spent most of the year under the same roof, the typical race to the next one was paused. Instead, you settled in for old Christmas films and other ones you hadn’t seen since you first started properly dating, lending a timeless sort of quality to the week.

The shortest, because he’d only just gotten there. How had it been three weeks since he’d walked in the front door with a mask on and a warning? Three weeks, two of them masked, and now it was over and done. The whole year was over and done, with 2020 coming to a slow close after feeling simultaneously like it never would and like it was moving much, much too fast. Who would’ve known this would be how it would turn out after kicking it off in the back of his car with a paper plate full of snacks and the countdown on his phone? You’d made it through another year, together.

“Do you know what I just realized?” you asked as you unpacked the bag from El Diablito at the kitchen counter. In the background, the low hum of commentators on the TV remarking about how different this year was provided a steady buzz amidst familiar scenery of lights in different cities. Berlin had gone first, then London, and now, gradually, the new year on the east coast was gliding ever closer.

“What?” he asked over the noise of him unfurling the bag of tortilla chips.

“This was our first year together,” you said. “Full--” you drew an arc through the air-- “year, I mean. Saying it and all that.”

He didn’t say anything, but when you looked at him the corner of his mouth was lifted up slightly. “S’pose it is, yeah. Feels like longer.” He fished a chip out with his index and middle fingers before crunching into it noisily.

“Almost three years of everything else,” you murmured, unwrapping a taco to inspect it. “This one’s yours.”

“‘Everything else’?” he teased, snickering when you slid the taco across the counter to him. “Watch it, it’ll fall apart….”

“Shut up and eat,” you said and he barked a laugh, grin permanent and eyes sparkling as he unwrapped it to peek.

“In a minute,” he said, setting down his food, satisfied it looked right. “Come here,” he said.

“Why?” you asked, smiling slightly though you eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

He motioned with his hand. “C’mere a minute,” he repeated, voice light but eyes tight, and he swallowed hard. A cold wave washed down you from head to toe. You didn’t know why you were suddenly so nervous, but the nerves themselves spiked your anxiety and made your scalp prickly and your palms sweaty, and they got worse when he grabbed one of your hands -- your left hand -- to hold between his. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about summat.”

Oh, God.

“Harry,” you said, but he shook his head.

“Lemme do this.”

Five seconds. Five seconds was all it took to imagine the words coming out of his mouth, quietly, with soft, trusting eyes waiting patiently, hopefully for an answer. Five seconds was all it took for you to imagine mucking it all up with a twisted tongue, not because you weren’t sure what to say, but how to say it. No, no, no -- you didn’t want to hurt him, not even temporarily, not even by accident.

Clearing his throat, he squeezed your hand. “I dunno how to do this,” he said, and for the first time ever, you were pretty sure he laughed without his eyes. You made a noise in your throat and curled your fingertips into his palm. “I love you,” he continued, Adam’s apple bobbing, lips trying and failing to form a smile. He was terrified, but determined, and you held his hand tighter while pressing your opposite one into his cheek.

I love you, too. You couldn’t say it, but you felt them swelling in your chest, growing your heart not two, not even three, but six times over.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, “M’going to spend the rest of my life with you,” with a thoughtful quality in his rasp. “I think, if-- if that’s somethin’ you….”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t, you were trying, but it was like sucking in helium.

“So, m’kind of wondering if--”

“Harry--”

“I’m not,” he shook his head. “I’m not asking you anything right now, because we’re not ready.” He rubbed the back of your hand assuringly. “We’re not ready, you have… and I’m….” He exhaled sharply, dropping his head, and your hand moved from his cheek to his hair and you rubbed the back of his neck. “I just want to know,” he said, breathing heavily, with his voice muffled into his chest, talking very fast, barreling through and tripping over words, “if I’m totally off base here. Cause m’not gonna now when there’s so much shit happening, but like… I don’t want to put my foot in my mouth when-- if I do, so if I could just get an idea of what you think, because we had a talk once but now every time you cut me off at the knees and--”

He sputtered, stopping short, and you pressed your face into his short hair.

“I want it,” you said, sounding braver than you felt admitting wants out loud. “I do. I will.”

His shoulders fell with his slow, deep breaths, and you rubbed your fingertips into his scalp gently.

“I will,” you say. “Promise,” you added, voice cracking. “You’re not off base.”

Neither of you said anything for a while. You couldn’t -- you quite literally, physically couldn’t -- and he was gulping for air as quietly as he could.

“Okay,” he said into his chest finally, sounding inexplicably embarrassed. “S’good to know.”

Silly, silly man. Did he really think… did he doubt…? “I love you,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said. “I know y’do.”

“No, you don’t.” You kissed his head. “I love you, I-- you’ll never know.”

Harry took a deep breath before straightening up, head high and curls falling over his forehead above the weariest, most agonized eyes you’d ever seen. His cheeks were bright red, and he might as well have just run a marathon for how spent and miserable he looked.

“I promise,” you repeated. “I promise, honey.”

He nodded slightly, mouth still set in a thin, grim line, and, instinctively, you stepped in to kiss him, because no. No, that wouldn’t do. Stiff and unmoving at first under your lips, gradually he warmed and softened, releasing your hand to grab your hips and you moaned softly, hands running across his shoulders over his hoodie. You promised -- when it was right, when you both could, if he asked and it was what you both wanted? There was only one answer you’d ever give.

The stool scraped against the floor when he stood, but he never broke the kiss, and you squeaked when you stumbled back against the counter. You opened your mouth wider when he coaxed you to, dizzy behind your closed eyes, and you let your hands wander freely, pulling him into you as the intensity behind the kiss escalated from comfort to need.

Two weeks. Two weeks -- three -- of pent up energy. Of hardly being able to touch each other, of being close but not close enough.

“Come here,” he demanded in a mumble, the firm hold he had on your jaw to hold you in place as he kissed you the way he wanted leaving you breathless. Rarely did he ever do that; usually, he guided you into what you both wanted to build it until the bubble of tension popped. There was something thrilling about being told though -- something that reminded you of when you were new, three months instead of almost three years in. Something that was like when time was limited and you had to be efficient to learn each other and what would feel good and do good for the other and yourselves, and telling was sometimes all you had.

Harry broke away with a wounded little noise and you blinked, dazed. “M’just….” He grabbed two tacos with one hand and threw them back into the paper bag. “M’moving these.” Tacos, nachos, and burritos all went back in, topped off with the chips, and he shoved them aside with some impatience. You laughed breathily and lifted yourself up onto the counter with his help, but it faded when he stepped between your legs and cupped your cheek and jaw and you caught a glimpse of the blown pupils and flushed cheeks that gave him a wild, primal look before your own eyes shut.

Each and every tender sponging of his lips across your jaw and down your neck made you ache, and it was all you could do to stay upright and not collapse back, limp from how weak you were. His needy, mesmerized groans made your belly tighten, and when he tugged the hem of your shirt you nodded.

Shirt, sweatshirt, bra, and undershirt were the first to go, and the straps had no sooner fallen down your shoulders than you let out a wordless, guttural shout from deep in your chest when Harry latched on and sucked your nipple with greedy enthusiasm, moving with you when you squirmed, his stubble scraping the soft skin of your breast.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, eyes watering and elbow nearly buckling underneath you in your effort to hold yourself up. “Yes, please,” you said when he pulled the strings on your sweats.

“That’s my girl,” he said, releasing with a pop and latching on again. “That’s my girl… gonna make it better for you.” He stood tall again when he pulled by the waistline, and you wriggled until they were at your knees and you could kick them off the rest of the way with your underwear as he dropped his own to his ankles.

With nothing left between you, you shivered, shrinking into him when he stepped closer and drew his hands around your body in a circuit. Legs first, stomach, back, breasts, shoulders, arms, and repeat, each squeeze and dig of his hands and fingers just a little restrained and not as zealous as his groans and heavy breathing made him out to be -- like he was trying to be good, or patient, or….

“It’s ok,” you murmured between kisses. “You don’t have to wait.” They’d done the waiting -- more than enough of it. You just wanted him now.

“Sure?” Harry rasped and you nodded, eyes rolling up when he slipped his fingers between you both and they slipped up and down your folds. “Sure,” he confirmed under his breath. “Open a little more for me, love-- there we are, thank you.”

You folded your arms around his neck and over his back and locked your ankles loosely just under his ass, heart racing in your chest.

“Breathe in--” Harry murmured and you squeezed your eyes shut when he fit his head against your entrance. It slid and you laughed, kissing his jaw when he kissed your brow through his grin. “Deep breath for me.”

Every time. He did that almost every time with you, first asking for a deep breath and then, invariably, pulling a long exhale from you when he thrust into your warm, wet cunt. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered in awe, holding still. You could feel the tremors pulling each fiber in his muscles, and when he throbbed inside you, you bit your lip. “Holy shit, you’ve got me good,” he groaned.

You laughed once. “Yeah.” Yeah, something like that. Wincing, you rolled your hips forward and gasped softly from the stretch before tightening your arms and pressing your face against his hot skin. You nuzzled in between your own slow, lingering kisses, taking deep, grounding breaths. He was soft, and smooth, but firm, and hard, and he smelled amazing. Clean -- all soap and cologne with some detergent that smelled even more from the warmth of his skin.

“Oh, God,” you whispered. “Oh, God, I--” You sucked in a harsh breath, abdomen tightening as you pulsed around him, feeling wetter, and you moved your face higher, nose pressed into the base of his sheared hair as you moaned quietly. “Oh my God, I love you.” Pitchy, bordering on hysteria, but you’d be hard pressed to remember a time you felt it as much as you meant it like you did right then. “I love you, I love-- I-- you feel--” Good. Better than good. No one had ever fit like he had -- too much, but just enough, physically, mentally, emotionally.

“I love….” Harry gulped. “Shit, ok, m’gonna….” He made to pull his shoulders back, but you shook your head.

“No, no, stay,” you begged, wrapping your arms and legs tighter. “Stay, please,” you murmured.

“I can’t-- ok,” he panted. “Lemme….” He gripped your ass and pulled you closer and your back arched as you opened your thighs just a little more. “There we go,” he grunted, hips snapping forward as he finally moved. “That’s… fuck, that’s better now.”

You could hear the effort you could feel between your legs -- each sharp pull of breath between his teeth, each muted grunt between his driving thrusts, and the pants he let out when he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath. “M’ok,” he said every time between labored gulps for air. “M’good, I just need to--” and he grit his teeth before he began again, and again, you gasped and whimpered, shrinking closer to him.

You didn’t want to be anywhere else, with anyone else, now or ever. You didn’t want to be this close to anyone else again ever. This was never supposed to happen. He was never supposed to meet you, know you, fall in love with you, nor you with him, but now he had, and you were, and you couldn’t imagine it any other way. You couldn’t imagine a world in which he didn’t come home to you, for you, and where you weren’t there. Not waiting -- never waiting on a man, any man, but ready for him when he returned and ready to move forward together.

He was yours. He was yours, and you were his, and the mere thought pulled something behind your belly button, making you groan.

“What?” he asked, kissing the side of your head. “What, darling, what?”

“I’m gonna cum,” you whispered and then whimpered, tightening your hold around his neck and in his hair. “Harry--” you choked, shuddering with your deep breaths.

“I know.” He grunted, thrusting with slightly more power. “Fuck! Tight little--”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t stop, I’m close, I’m so-- I just need--” Faster and faster you rolled your hips against his, crying out against him when he wedged his thumb between you both to catch your clit, a stream of mumbled, “I’m gonna cum, you’re making me cum,” confessions hidden in his neck. Deep breaths. Long, slow, and deep, with your toes curling behind him until you were barely breathing in your efforts to concentrate, because you were right there. And then, you did cum, hard, convulsing and sucking in harshly as you trembled your way through whimpers of his name, immediately and thoroughly exhausted.

Both his arms locked around you, then, all but crushing you to his torso in his efforts to hold you up, and he thrust hard, fast, deep, getting the right rhythm and stroke he needed. Barely able to keep your eyes open, your mouth moved soundlessly around the demand -- request -- to cum. Cum, Harry, cum, baby, please. Wordlessly, he sputtered through a sharp exhale, and it was the only indication before you felt the hot, wet release accompanying his groans.

“Fuck,” he choked, one of his hands landing hard on the counter to prop both of you up. You laughed, eyes rolling up, and you held on tightly through his turn to shake.

“Happy New Year,” you said, still feeling a little punch-drunk from your orgasm.

He nodded. “H-Happy--” he gulped. “Happy New Year, darling.” His shoulders slumped. “Reckon this was the problem,” he said. “Should’ve fuckin’ rung the year in right last time, y’know?”

“Right,” you breathed even as you shook your head, not quite caught up with what he was saying.

“M’only sayin’,” he said. “We had sex the one time last Christmas. Should’ve had… a bit more,” he said indeterminately.

“We haven’t had sex since you’ve been home.”

Sighing heavily, he kissed your shoulder. “S’pose we’d better start,” he slurred. “S’not the new year yet.”

#harry x reader #reader insert fanfiction #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry imagine #harry styles blurb #harry blurb #harry styles one shot #harry one shot #christmas #blurred lines #blurred lines: adc #blurred lines: a different christmas #a different christmas #permanentcross #original writing

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