#and it almost always ends up sounding like a pissing contest

[yepthatsacowalright]

"I still sometimes say that's the genre I'm interested in: monster movie, but only if it's costumes and miniatures. I don't want CG monsters, I don't care." "Old school kaiju." "Yeah, only if I get to be the kaiju."

[yunalinwrites]

saved by the bell (chapter 2) | fushiguro toji x reader

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available on wattpad

summary: fushiguro toji never makes first moves--until he happens to meet the teacher of the son he hasn't seen in years.

strangers -> fwb -> lovers

takes place in 2006 around the star plasma vessel/hidden inventory/premature death arc; megumi is a first grader

about reader: female, around 30 or older, teacher, has a soft spot for megumi, speaks kind of formally, has daddy issues + abandonment issues

warnings: eventual smut, cursing, alcohol, smoking, daddy issues, abandonment issues, mention of child abuse/trauma, toji is initially kind of an ass, spoilers for the season 2 arc mentioned above

"Don't get how a puny thing like him can burn through a gallon in a week," he'd complained, watching the infant chug his bottle eagerly in his lap. "Damn FamilyMart workers are starting to know my name."

His friend turned back to face him, looking inside from the balcony as he took a drag from his cigarette and adjusted his tie.

"If you want him to look anything like you by the time you sell him off, you better get used to it," his friend advised. "Probably the cheapest source of protein out there."

Finally, the little boy lifted his mouth from the bottle, but only to let out sharp wails. At this, the man's friend put down his cigarette and came back inside.

"Not like they'll give me any extra money for it," the man grumbled, handing his son awkwardly to his friend. "He'll be strong enough. And fuck if I help the Zenin clan more than I need to."

Patting the baby's back gently, his friend made a suggestion: "You could always keep him. Learn how to raise him yourself. Spite 'em that way."

The man didn't appear to be listening, already having shifted his attention to the glitchy TV he'd gotten off the street and sinking into his cracked leather couch. Sighing, his friend laid down the now quiet baby beside him and headed towards the balcony to continue where he left off, his suggestion met only with the sound of footsteps as he was followed out.

"They'll make sure he's strong," the man guaranteed, taking a cigarette from his friend's pack. Once he'd successfully flicked the lighter at the end, he continued: "Probably gonna breastfeed him till age fuckin' eight."

And though he was met with no contest from his friend, he went on, with a breath of nicotine concluding, "'Just not something I'm made to provide."

***

Tossing the cap behind himself, he took a long swig straight from the jug.

He slammed the refrigerator door shut and leaned back against the counter, but--thanks to the lack of distance between everything in his cramped unit--this move forced him to meet the reflection of himself in the glass of the balcony door.

His friend seemed to have been right all those years ago. The incorporation of milk into his diet gave the man a body that he was, for the most part, proud of--mountainous biceps, chiseled abs, bulging pecs; the works. The only thing that irked him about his appearance, though, was his face--that scar, that fucking scar.

He vaguely remembered hearing somewhere else that protein was good for building tissue, which was a claim sufficiently evidenced by his body--from the neck down, that is. So it was both confusing and disappointing when he'd wake up in the middle of the night to take a piss and that nasty mark of his past would be the first thing he saw in his dirty mirror. Still, not really knowing what else to do about it, he took another sip and tried focusing his attention through the glass door rather than on it. In doing this, his eyes found refuge on the polka-dot umbrella he'd left out to dry.

It had been a little over a week since that night at the bar. It was still quite rainy here and there, so he found himself still using the item almost every night. It's not nearly as romantic as it sounds, though--at least not for you. He had mostly been using it to escort other women home.

To be fair, he had some self awareness. He felt worse every time he saw your name and number whenever he opened it for someone other than himself. But what was he supposed to do, return it? You hadn't been back at that bar since. Not that he was really checking he just figured if he was going to go out to do his nightly ritual, he might as well do it at that same joint. You know, in case you wanted your umbrella back.

And before you ask, no, he couldn't call you. He almost never, ever called first; it went against his morals, if you can even refer to them as that.

Again, he had some self-awareness. He knew he was kind of a piece of shit, so much so that even through the gray clouds and even among the 8-billion-some-odd people on His earth, he supposed God recognized him as such. So, just like how God decided whether or not the boats he bet on would get him out of this apartment, he assumed God also decided which women ended up in his web, and which would come back for a second night. By this logic, so long as he didn't make too many overt first moves, all broken hearts could simply be attributed to and excused by fate. It was a sort of heavenly restriction, if you will; he would sacrifice his initiative for the ability to keep being an absolute fucking asshole.

His sacrifices also included curiosity, he tried reminding himself; if he was meant to know something, then he would just know it already--so there was no point in wondering about you or, by association, his... that little boy.

Yes, there was no point in wondering how he managed to look that much like him, or where he got the balls to just follow curses around whenever he pleased, or why his name was Fushiguro, and not Zenin

Or, for that matter... fuck, what was his first name?

He headed towards the couch and took a seat, jug still in hand.

Shit. I don't even remember what it started with...

Forcing out a low laugh at this realization, he fished for the TV remote in between the cracked cushions.

Whatever.

He flicked through the channels with occasional sips from his drink, letting clips of people talking, singing, and laughing play no longer than a second before he cut them off with the press of a button. He kept spamming it, tapping and tapping, faster and faster, sounds merging together until:

Wasn't it an M...?

Placing the milk jug down on the dusty coffee table, he stared at the characters on the remote's number pad, his attention focused on a singular key in particular.

Fuck.

Putting the remote down beside him, he rubbed his eyes in distress, trying to massage the thought out of his head.

Goddammit...

He cursed His name, but as he used his arms to push himself up off his imprinted spot on the couch, hoped that God would forgive him just this once.

Hastily, he headed towards the balcony door and shoved the stubborn thing open. Snatching the umbrella with one hand, he punched in your number with the other, a firmness in his thumb. As soon as the phone rang with his outgoing call, though, whatever resolution that was just occupying his body had completely vanished. By the second ring, he was tapping impatiently on the rusty railing. By the third, he was trying to steady himself against it, which only resulted in a concerning creak. By the fourth, he'd headed back inside out of fear that he'd drop his outdated device, something that he couldn't afford. The fifth ring had his thumb just millimeters shy of the red button on his keypad, getting dangerously close due to his trembling, but then:

"Hello, this is Miss L/N speaking."

He exhaled after what felt like an eternity of holding his breath. As his lungs regained their rhythm, he felt his shoulders melt back down into relaxation, and soon, a smirk found itself creeping onto his lips. "Jesus--you really do talk like a princess."

"Um... I'm sorry, could I ask who this is?"

Still smirking, he took another deep breath and spoke up: "Think you left your glass slipper with me at the bar the other night," he started, absentmindedly studying the item. "But you made my job a lot easier by putting your number on it, Miss L/N Y/N."

There was a short pause, but then she realized: "O-oh! It's you--Oh my God, um... Hello..."

He chuckled lightly at her stuttered response. "It's me."

"So," he began again, "What are you doing tonight?"

For a while, nothing came through the speaker. He bit his cheek.

When she finally did speak, her tone was lowered: "I can't stay out late. It's a school night."

He placed the umbrella on the coffee table and took a seat on the couch, putting his free arm over the back.

"Won't take that long to return an umbrella," he pointed out. "Didn't realize you had something else in mind."

"N-no, that's fine, you can just--"

"I'm just pulling your leg," he interrupted. "How about now--what're you up to right now?"

That came out a little more eager than he meant for it to be. In an attempt to fill the awkward silence, he grabbed the milk jug from the coffee table and resumed his drink, gulping as he held the microphone away from his mouth.

"I'm out running errands."

"Where?"

Slamming his drink down--again, a little too eagerly--he reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

"Um..."

The hesitation was discouraging at first, but as her microphone betrayed her, it would seem that the aforementioned God was on his side today. In the background, he heard the familiar chime that indicated someone had come through the automatic door.

"Which FamilyMart is that?"

This time, there was surprisingly little hesitation: "...the one by the station."

And with that, he finished off the last few ounces left in the container and tossed the empty jug on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Don't move," he instructed, grabbing the umbrella with one hand and pulling the phone from his ear with the other. Bringing his thumb back to that red button, this time with returned unwavering confidence, he finished, "See you there, princess."

***

The door chimed welcomingly as it automatically slid open, causing you to whip your head around in anticipation. To both your disappointment and relief, it was just a gaggle of teens looking for some after school snacks.

As you turned your head back to your shopping, your eyes caught on to something right next to the entrance: a bin of umbrellas, for only a couple hundred yen each. You sighed as you took your eyes off the salt in your wound. Your mother had taught you well enough to know how bad this was: a stranger knowing your name, number, and current location. So, really, the too-late sight of an alternative was just unnecessary on God's part.

But then again, as much as you didn't love the pattern she'd chosen, it would've been cruel to replace a gift from your mother. She also always said herself to pick public spaces for first dates and, given that the local high school usually wrapped up clubs around this time, more than enough people were coming in by the second. Just now, for example, a young couple walked in holding hands in their uniforms.

And this wasn't even anywhere near a first date anyway; he was just coming to give you your umbrella, that's all. But, also... Even if he were to stick around for, say, a cordial conversation about the weather, and, hypothetically, he did so long enough that it would only be polite to ask for his name... Well, you always did preach both manners and curiosity to your students.

Deciding that you'd overthought enough, you tried to direct that curiosity to the crackers, chips, and cookies in front of you. You scanned over the rainbow of packaging, searching for something that looked both appealing and healthy. Nothing in particular jumped out at you until you looked to the top shelf, focused on a specific bag. At first, you couldn't tell why you recognized it, especially considering you couldn't see all of it due to its height, but then you realized: Megumi's brought that one to lunch before...

The shelf was well over your head, but it seemed like the only employee around--the cashier--had gone to the bathroom, so you reached your arm up as best as you could. The bag brushed your fingers, which only pushed it farther back, so you had to employ the help of your tippy toes. You could feel it just within reach of your fingertips, as the crease in your flats dug into your feet.

C'mon, just a little closer...

"Need a hand?"

Suddenly, a muscular arm emerged from behind you, reaching over you and grabbing the bag with ease.

Planting your heels back down on the floor, you spun around and smoothed out your pencil skirt, only to look up and find him--him and his scarred face--startlingly close to you.

"Thanks..." you obliged, trying to look away as you gently took the bag of sweet potato chips from his hand.

Even after you had placed the product in your basket, he didn't back up, so it was almost hard to see his entire body. But, you were still able to recognize he was wearing the same thing as when you saw him for the very first time: a black short-sleeve shirt and gray sweatpants.

As you had learned to make note of in your students, wearing repeated outfits that didn't fit the season or didn't fit the wearer was typically an indicator of a low-income background. In this case, it wasn't so much that the clothes were ill-fitting... it was just that the waistband of his pants were hanging loosely, dangerously low on hips, and his shirt was.... Tight. Very tight. And thin, which was interesting considering the chilly breeze that came through the door with every customer. Along with that, you were feeling the air from the heavy exhales of his nose.

"My eyes are up here, Miss."

You didn't realize how long you'd been watching his chest rise and fall rather quickly.

"Sorry," you corrected shyly. "You didn't rush to come here, did you?"

He shrugged. "Said you couldn't stay out late. Wouldn't wanna keep you from your royal duties."

"Oh, I see... Well, I didn't mean to hurry you. You could've at least put on a coat."

He looked down to where his compression shirt hugged the grooves of his abs. "Didn't realize there was a dress code, Miss," he teased. "Am I being indecent?'

"I-It's not that," you stuttered. "It's still cold out, you know."

"Cold? It's spring."

"Yes, but you could still get sick. Especially if it rains. You know the saying, 'In like a lion, out like a lamb'?"

"With all due respect, Miss, I'm not fucking stupid."

As soon as the profanity left his mouth, he winced at his own words. He was hoping to keep up his gentleman facade a little longer, but he supposed couldn't hide his true nature forever. Taking off the wrist strap of your umbrella, he began preparing to never see you again.

But then you spoke, surprisingly calmly: "I never said you were. But you never know. People aren't born knowing everything, are they?"

He froze in his place, thinking about your words--about how they didn't hold even a hint of anger or hurt in them. He couldn't tell if that made him feel more or less guilty.

Hearing his silence and seeing the solemn expression on his face, you felt the need to apologize for your preaching: "Sorry... I guess I'm still in teacher-mode. I swear, it's what being in this uniform does to me."

Suddenly, he smiled, and his eyes were almost soft as they looked down at you and your dainty button-up. "It's alright," he rasped. His pupils definitely darkened, though, as they drifted lower, down to your form-fitting pencil skirt and your pantyhose-clad thighs. "Yeah, no, it's... it's fine."

Feeling you remove the umbrella from his hands, he snapped out of his gaze on your body as you spoke again: "Thank you for coming all this way to return it. I wasn't really expecting you to."

Cockily, he put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, well, I just happened to run out of milk, so you can thank God for that. I mean, I'm a busy man, you know? Part of why I rushed here."

You laughed. "Physical therapy, was it?"

He paused for a second, almost as if he forgot what he did for work, but resumed the banter soon enough. "Right, yeah. Got appointments left and right. Seriously, I mean, you should consider yourself lucky."

"Well, I appreciate you squeezing me in."

"I'll let it slide just this once, princess, but you'll have to pay a fee next time."

Your stomach fluttered at the prospect of seeing him again, but you still tried to hold your guard up around the near-stranger. "Next time...?" you questioned.

"Yeah. Next time you need physical therapy."

You laughed nervously. "I don't think I... understand..."

"C'mon, Miss. You're smarter than that."

You blushed, putting together that he probably wasn't talking about yoga balls.

"I'm flattered, but... we've only just met, haven't we?" you argued, though unsure if it was to him or yourself.

He shrugged again. "Don't usually meet my clients before I meet with 'em."

You were given an opportunity to turn away when you heard the door chime again. A young man and woman had come in to shamelessly ask for where the condoms were, though they weren't holding hands. And despite it being only around 5 p.m., they were obviously somewhat inebriated, which brought up a good point--you two had met before, and you'd done so at a bar, where it was common for such shallow appointments to be made. In context, it was a little less weird when you thought of it as him picking up where he left off, underneath that bar awning.

Still, you looked down instead of back at him, imagining how he probably did this often. "I don't see why you can't just find another one, then."

He sighed through his nose and shoved his hands in his pockets. For a second, you thought you'd said something wrong--he looked uneasy, dreadful almost. But just as quick, he combed his hair back and painted a charming smile across his face.

"Yeah, I guess so," he pretended to consider. "But I noticed something about you." He crossed his arms, showing off his veiny forearms.

"When you were walkin' away from me that night, you had this... sway in your hips." He looked you up and down, squinting his hooded gray eyes.

"Could sense an underlying condition, beneath that little dress of yours." His tongue peeked out of his pale lips, teasing the scar at the corner.

"Just sayin', in my professional opinion, something oughta be done about that."

You let out a shaky breath, staring up at him, eyes wide and cheeks pink. He certainly did have some expert words to say. Meanwhile, your teeth had a deathly grip on your bottom lip, so you couldn't come up with even a single consonant to respond with. Figuring that you weren't going to respond any time soon, he began to back off.

"I should probably get going," he told you, "but don't be a stranger, yeah? Ain't got a business card or anything but my number should be in your Recents."

Even as he walked away, you couldn't say anything, and the only movement made by you came from your lip managing to escape your painful bite. All you could find in yourself to do was watch, mouth agape, as he made his way to the fridges at the end of the aisle, not even realizing you didn't yet have a name for his contact.

As he grabbed the cold handle of the refrigerator door, he could see his now frowning reflection in the glass.

He was probably going to beat himself up later over all the creepy and corny things he'd let himself utter to you, but right now, he didn't think about that; he was just glad the conversation was over. Making a number of first moves and doing so in a FamilyMart snack aisle before it was even dark out--he couldn't even focus on why he'd come here in the first place. Whatever he was trying to do-which he himself wasn't even exactly sure of-it was stupid. He felt like a fish out of water, and all he wanted to do was jump out of his skin and drown himself in the current, never daring to swim against divine intervention again.

But as if he didn't regret coming here enough, he recognized another familiar face as he moved toward the registers.

"Ah, Fushiguro!" the elderly woman would always greet. "Just milk again, Fushiguro? That's good. Lots of protein. Helps build tissue. Huh? What's that, Fushiguro? You want a pack of Marlboros? Oh, you're just like my son, Fushiguro..."

He tsked. He always hated how that old hag managed to fit his name in at the end of every other sentence, loud enough for her half-deaf ears--along with the entire store--to hear. And of course, just his luck, she lived another day to work this specific shift.

He put the milk jug back as quickly as he could and searched for the most inconspicuous route to the exit. Of course, that just happened to be through the aisle you were still in. With little time to think, he swallowed his pride. Making his way over and brushing past you, he mumbled something about having forgotten his wallet as he briskly made his way to the door.

"Wait!" you called. Head darting between the milk fridge and the back of his figure, you moved quickly after him.

Frantically tossing bills at the cashier on your way out, you bolted out of the store, this time darting your head left and right as you searched desperately among the sea of other dark-haired pedestrians. You were considering giving up as you began to get dizzy, but then you saw him--the only tall, muscular figure outfitted in a T-shirt in this weather. You continued to run after him and, thankfully--since you opted for flats over heels today--you were able to catch up with him before the pedestrian light turned red again. He was already halfway through the crossing, but he stopped in the middle of the road, eyes widened in shock as you were bent over, leaning on your knee as you panted and held the jug of milk up towards him.

Realizing that you'd bought it for him, he took it from your hand and awkwardly obliged: "...Thanks."

You were able to stand up straight now, but your breathing was still somewhat labored as you spoke: "At least... let me know... your name..."

He hesitated for a moment, as if he didn't even know what his own name was.

"You know mine," you reminded him, impatiently putting a hand on your hip. "It's only fair."

His face was grave, but his eyes were narrow as they jumped everywhere around you: at the passing taxis and vans, at the salarymen flocking from their building, at the park fenced in. It seemed he found his name somewhere, but it wasn't as comically artificial as you might think: "It's Zenin. Zenin Toji."

"Zenin?" you confirmed.

"Yeah," he replied, swallowing away the dryness in his throat. "But what do you say we skip the formalities? Just call me Toji."

"Oh, um. Okay, then. Toji," you repeated, testing it out on your tongue.

A loud honk brought the two of you back to the reality of where you were, prompting you to finish crossing the street. Now back on the curb, you turned to him again.

"Um, Toji," you spoke, still getting used to the syllables.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"I, um... I want to make it clear I'm not looking to do anything tonight," you enforced, projecting as much as you could muster. "But I have one more thing to take care of, if you'd like to come along."

You had your eyes focused on the tips of your flats, so if he was in disapproval-which you assumed from his silence-he didn't need to do much with his expression to hide it. But eventually, you heard his voice, relenting with an exhale that could've been interpreted as both disappointed and relieved: "Sure."

And so, silently, he followed behind you as you traversed the city, inferring it was a path you traveled often as you didn't stop your pace once to look at a map or even the street signs.

It wasn't far from where you'd started; a few corners later, the two of you were in a residential area that he didn't recognize, although the shady alleys between dingy apartment buildings weren't much different from where he lived. He knew teaching didn't pay much, but he was still surprised that you brought him here.

"Just wait here a moment," you told him, and he did as you knocked on the nearby door with the small bag of groceries in your other hand. He waited patiently and, watching you do the same in front of the grimy door, he considered the possibility that you two weren't so different after all.

But then the door opened, and you said something, and you were only a couple feet away so he heard, but it was as if all of a sudden there were miles between you two.

"Hi!" you'd chirped. "Is Megumi home?"

Everything else faded into muffles. He watched, paralyzed, as you handed over your groceries to a young brown-haired girl who looked vaguely--uncomfortably--familiar, but he didn't process a single thing either of you said. All he could hear was that M-word ringing throughout his head.

Meanwhile, you continued to converse in front of the drab doorway, telling the girl that you had to get going because you had some business to attend to, unconsciously pointing your thumb in the direction of where you had left Toji. You bid farewell to her with a smile and turned to where you were just pointing but, immediately, your smile dropped, as did your eyes to the corner on the pavement where he'd just stood-as if you'd find him there, hidden among the weeds sprouting from the cracks in the sidewalk. But, no-it would seem that the man named Toji was already long gone.

***

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[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Today LOCATION: Short and Stout, Owen’s PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Owen @apaininyourneck SUMMARY: Owen and Conor settle the debate on who can outdrink the other. It doesn't go... as badly as one would have expected? CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol abuse, suggestive content

A part of him had been surprised that the grumpy florist had accepted the invite, challenge, whatever it was - for drinks. Owen had definitely annoyed people into never speaking to him again, which was rarely a problem. If they couldn’t handle him at a fraction of his worst, what was the point in even trying to keep them around? Not that there was ever much effort put into keeping anyone around, people came and went as they pleased and there were always plenty of others to take their place. It seemed that this Conor was up for the challenge though. 

For the first time in… well, possibly forever, Owen did not order a drink as he waited for his foul mouthed companion to arrive. They had a very scientific test to perform as it pertained to alcohol tolerance and Owen hated to lose more than he hated sipping on a damn soda. Finally though, the messy hair of head appeared in the crowd. Waving him over, shit eating grin already in place, Owen twirled the straw in his glass as Conor took a seat. “Aww, our first real date. I don’t know about you but I think we should definitely say fuck it to the three date rule.”

—

“One second in, and you’re already a fucking prick,” with a scowl, the faun took off his cardigan. It wasn’t even that chilly out there, he was just confident that they wouldn’t be coming out of this bar until it was already late at night. If you asked him, they should have settled this issue in his backyard, with one bottle of vodka, one of whisky, and call it a damn fucking day, but he wasn’t entirely sure about letting that guy into his private space yet, and the bar seemed like a neutral ground. 

“You always take your dates on drinking contests?” Not that he was an expert. Conor’s dating life ended the day his legs turned into these hairy hooved limbs, more or less and the few romantic experiences he had all had involved some level of drinking, because he was too anxious for flirting sober, and too terrified to approach anyone while going through a self conscious crisis regarding his true appearance. Perhaps Owen had a point. “You could have bought me new flowers for the occasion,” he commented, with his usual dryness. Raising his hand toward the waiter, he motioned the guy to order for them both. “Losers first,” he quipped. 

—

Owen gave a nonchalant shrug, the perfect picture of innocence, taking in his companion’s outfit. Apparently he didn’t just dress like a young grandfather at work, this was his entire wardrobe. Owen wasn’t sure he’d spent time with someone wearing a cardigan since the last time he’d gone to a family event with all of his great uncles. It was almost adorable, the amount of cussing and anger wrapped up in soft materials and flower tattoos. 

“Only when they claim they can outdrink me,” he answered honestly since this was far from his first drinking challenge. Aside from protecting his pride, they were also good for getting whoever he was with ridiculously drunk and Owen figured that was the best way to get the florist to drop his guard. Even though he had already referred to himself as a “date” in this scenario. 

“Hey, if I recall the previous flowers are thriving. But I’m sure I can come up with some other way to mark the occasion.” With a wink, he turned to the waiter, ordering them some IPAs to start off. They could have gone straight to the strong stuff but as long as Conor didn’t get too annoyed and left early, they had the whole evening to get absolutely pissed. “So why flowers? Family business or something?” Owen asked once the waiter had gone, figuring that asking about the man’s hobby was bound to loosen him up at least a little bit. 

—

Conor sighed, and flatly replied : “You could just ask people out.” That sounded like a lot less hassle, but coming from someone who didn’t introduce himself until he had the chance to dramatically reveal to Conor that the true gift was friendship all along, hasslefree mustn’t have been a priority. Owen seemed pro hassle, yes. Conor didn’t get it. 

“Of course they are, I know what I’m doing,” there was this jaded air again. Leaning onto his hand, he watched the other order the most bitter beer on tap. It was probably a matter of taste : he smiled against his curled fingers, his eyes rolling at the sight of that wink. “Why flowers?” He wasn’t sure why precisely he had a passion for them. He always had liked manual labor, and if he hadn’t picked that field, he’d have been a hairdresser, a cabinetmaker, a painter, a potter… As long as he got to use his hands. He could have been a baker or a cook, but he didn’t really need to eat normal food, and most of the time, he simply forgot to feed himself normally. “We had a garden when I was a kid. I come from the working class, everyone worked with their hands, you know?” His grandfather worked on fishing boats, his grandmother was a seamstress. As for his mother, she spent most of her life working in a beauty salon, as a hairdresser. She would probably have had something to say about her son’s hair now. He generally kept it up in a bun these days. He figured that if his glamour slipped, the thicker the hair, the easier to conceal his horns. “What about you? You never told me what you do for a living.” He hadn’t shared a lot. Owen was a whole mystery so far.

—

Grinning wide and leaning back in his chair, Owen shook his head. “Way less fun.” What made the other man tick was still a mystery. Here he sat, seemingly annoyed by everything the slayer said and did, yet he had agreed to this date and didn’t seem close to leaving. Whether it was some form of masochism or if Conor literally always just looked like someone had shit in his cereal, Owen couldn’t yet tell. Either way, he wasn’t bored yet and the florist was nice to look at - already, Owen could imagine how the unruly hair would feel between his fingers. Was sure that he could turn that sour mood if given the chance. All in good time. God, patience was the worst fucking virtue of them all. 

Conor could smile though, even if every smile seemed more involuntary than for any purpose of letting other people know how he felt. It had been the right call to get the man talking about himself - people rarely hated that - as Owen saw his date ponder and explain, almost seeming to forget how annoyed he was with this whole ordeal. Relating to the part about working with your hands was easy. Going some academic route had never been an option for Owen, his path chosen for him before he was even born. He’d never given much thought to what he might be doing for work if he hadn’t just picked jobs that paid decently enough, only to fund his real purpose. Now was definitely not the time to ponder it, even if Conor was turning the question on him. 

“You mean besides being incredibly charming and beating people at drinking contests?” he quipped back, drinks arriving at the table as if summoned by the mention of their silly bet. “Speaking of, we never decided on what the winner gets.” Grabbing the cold glass for a very welcome first sip, Owen watched his companion over the rim of the glass. He’d dodged the question about his job, not because Conor couldn’t know but because him not knowing would be agitating and Owen definitely enjoyed seeing the man squirm. 

“Since I picked the first round, you get to pick your reward in the unlikely scenario you outdrink me.”

__

“...” He opened his mouth, as if to say something. Whatever confidence animated Owen, Conor had never been blessed with it, for a good reason. He was always clumsy, always shorter than his friends. He didn’t see much of an appeal in the way he looked now, stuck somewhere between a farm animal and a pasty Irishman. “It sure isn’t the kind of occupation everyone can pride themselves with,” a pause, “although I feel like you’re lying on your resume right now,” the flow of words, served with one of his many deadpan moments, wasn’t interrupted for a long while : “You didn’t answer my question, asshat.” 

He might not have had an eye for details, he couldn’t have possibly missed that. It wasn’t, by any means, a good dodge. Lying rarely was. 

Bringing the glass to his lips, Conor found himself wondering what the other could have done for a living. He didn’t seem like the type who would be happy with an office job. A lot of people worked at the mine, but there were also people working for the city. He could see him working maintenance, or as a mechanic perhaps. Wherever it was he worked, it allowed him to spend money on stupid things, like flowers for a man he apparently didn’t like all that much. “Do we really need a prize for the winner? Isn’t it enough to humiliate you?” He took a sip before he gave the other a look, at last. Owen might have been a lot more confident with himself, Conor was wondering if perhaps that couldn’t be his downfall. 

“I don’t know man. I’d settle with your admission that you drink like a primary school pupil,” that seemed like enough. He wondered if the other would settle for this as well. 

—--

“Oh, come on, darling. I never lie,” Owen cooed back, having another drink and making sure his glass always contained less than Conor’s. No way was he letting the other temper the speed in which they drank. This small talk wasn’t excruciating but being sober while they chatted was. “Perceptive. I work at The Wormhole, pretty shit place but pays decently and doesn’t care if you drink on the job as long as you can still switch the kegs out. And I do shifts at Fable Blades. Weapon store. Both practical and antiques.” 

Green eyes watched carefully as Conor considered their wager, smug grin widening at the florist’s optimism. A conclusion was finally reached and the slayer scoffed, slumping back in his seat. A perfect picture of petulance. “Seriously? Not that you’re going to win but you could have at least gone for something a bit more interesting.” More of his beer vanished, Conor kept in suspense as Owen pondered his own idea for a prize. The glass was finally placed back on the table and he smirked, leaning in. 

“I was going to suggest you let me take you home if I win, but in the spirit of friendship I’ll go easy on you.” Long legs moved under the table, knee finding Conor’s with ease. “So I’ll settle for a kiss.” Then just like that, before objections could be made or legs jerked away, Owen was settled back in his seat and waving over the bartender. “Tequila. Something nice. Let’s say… four a piece to start us off.”

—-

The pet name elicited yet another frown from Conor. He hadn't been called a darling since he last saw his grand mother. However charming Owen thought he was, he briefly took the traits of a wrinkly short Irish lady in Conor's thoughts.

"The Wormhole. Sounds like a spot for the elite," never mind for the stomach ache. He'd always keep his wits on. Finishing his drink about a minute or two after Owen, Conor lifted his hand at the bartender, replacing the IPA's bitterness with a bottle of sour beer. "So you drink and sell weapons. That's not one bit concerning," he didn't mean to sound like a kill buzz, and so he gave the other a rare smile.

Blue met green for a moment. Of course the other would be disappointed but Conor was learning to be more careful with his words. You never knew when you would bind someone to a standard they couldn't upkeep. "What can I say? I like simple things." He did. Owen didn't look like the picture of sophistication either, but he could have had him fooled the whole time, right? Perhaps he judged him too fast.

"Take me home?" That was awfully nice. Conor supposed that if they were drunk enough, it was the safest thing to do. "That's…" the other's knees grazing against his made him pause. He looked him in the eyes again, but it was what followed that gave his cheeks their tint. He didn't want to go home to make sure he was safe, did he? "What? Why?" His eyebrows furrowed and the faun leaned back, brushing it off as the other ordered them a new round of drinks. "Sure, tequila's alright, I guess." He shook his head. Why the fuck did he want to kiss him? He looked at him again : "Owen that's not a good idea. I'm not… yeah no."

—

Chuckling, Owen was filled with accomplishment at the sight of yet another smile. And only one drink down. As long as Conor wasn’t an angry drunk, this was boding well. “I mean, when you put it like that…”

God, for someone who could have given Owen’s very colorful grandfather a run for his money when it came to cursing, Conor really was innocent. It wasn’t always a vibe the slayer was in the mood for but on occasion, it was definitely fun to hint and tease and be rewarded with the shade of red that was now covering his date’s face. Always more of a challenge, too, rather than the people that could match his flirting or gave him shit for it. Not that he didn’t enjoy those as well. 

“What do you mean why? Trust me, I wouldn’t be hanging out with you if you were hard to look at.” An almost compliment but it was true. Owen didn’t really have a type, per say, but rather, a knack for picking out the qualities he liked. In this instance; the tattooed arms and strong hands, the scruffy hair, the sharp jaw that seemed to hold years of pent up tension. Not to mention the attitude, though that seemed hidden underneath a fuck ton of hesitancy now. 

He reached across the table for Conor’s drink, stealing a sip as the other tried to talk Owen out of the idea. Something that was notoriously hard to do. “What’s the problem? I thought you were confident about winning.” With a shrug, he returned the glass, staring at the other with challenge shining in his eyes. 

___

"Like facts? Weapons and drinks aren't the best combo. Those are facts." Conor ran a hand against his face. Yeah, okay. Chit chat was nice and all but he came here to win, not to be intimidated by the other's bullshit. People lied, even if he couldn't.

"What do I fucking mean why?" His pasty complexion didn't do him any favor, not when it was coupled with hair only a shade or two darker, but that wasn't what troubled Conor. He knew what he actually looked like. His human facade looked alright, but what hid beneath was monstrous. An hybrid, a chimera, built with parts from a caprine animal. 

Owen didn't want someone like that. Conor would have rather been alone than with someone who would scream upon seeing him. 

"Fuck off, you know what I fucking mean, you sack of shit." It was easier, being defensive, or even offensive. He knew how to push people away. 

"I am confident about that. I'll fucking win, but whatever it is you want from me, I can't do that." He could. Owen was rather attractive and he didn't seem like the type to get spooked by much, but this, this had to be beyond that line. "Just fucking forget it, alright. I didn't came here to be your bloody date, I came here to kick your ass," finishing off what was left of his glass, Conor eyed the bartender who was entirely apathetic to the mess starting to unfold here. He liked those sorts of bartenders, the ones who knew what they worked with : idiots.

—

So this was an interesting turn of events. Owen could have sworn that he had pegged Conor correctly as someone who might be down for some fooling around, with the right bit of motivation. There was no doubt in the slayer’s mind that the other felt some form of attraction but apparently, where that attraction would lead had been overestimated. Fine, at least he would win this bet, prize or not. “Alright. Let’s see you try it, short stuff,” Owen goaded, giving the hesitant bartender a nod to bring over the damn shots already. 

As it turned out, three shots a piece were a rather soft start for the two drinking companions. Owen ordered more of the same, followed by an order from Conor that the slayer drank without much questioning as to what it was and at some point, the words ‘just surprise us’ had left Owen’s mouth. He’d lost count of the drinks, not that he made it a habit of counting, but his focus was still mostly on whether or not he was keeping up with the florist. 

“So I know you’re here to prove a point but like… why the fuck are you here, though?” Owen blurted out, slouched back in his chair, the hand holding his newest drink gesturing towards Conor and sloshing some liquid onto the table in the process. “Fan helvete…” Glazed eyes turned back to Conor, brain halting a moment to remember what he’d been saying. “You’re obviously annoyed by me and apparently not trying to fuck me, so what? Just to prove you can drink more? Which you’re failing at, by the way.” A daring comment made for someone who was currently slurring his words, accent slipping out and coordination of his limbs long gone. 

—

"Why the fuck am I here, huh?" Conor rubbed at his face, pressing into the skin harder, if only to become aware of his senses again. That failed. Instead of that, the faun guffawed, leaning forward to get a hand on his drink again. "I told ya. I wanna prove your lanky ass wrong," he figured they'd probably not get along and it would be two birds with one stone, but Owen was really nowhere near as bad as he presumed. He was not precisely terrible to look at. Conor just liked to make his own life terribly complicated.

He wiped his chin with his hand. It wasn't good news for him, this sloppiness. It wasn't good news that he hadn't noticed or cared to notice that the other wasn't doing much better. 

His hand sticky with alcohol and sugar, the faun grimaced. "You ain't that annoying," he conceded. A bit pushy, sure. Conor, at least, didn't really struggle as much with confidence as he normally would. And so he leaned forward, his weight resting against the edge of the table, to give the other a proper look. "Is your smile. You smile annoying." If that even made any sense. His tongue felt a bit heavier in his month, Bostonian accentuations stronger. He wouldn't have been surprised if they told him the next morning that all his gibberish had been Irish all along. "I don't think ya wanna do that. Me, I think you're alright," but the moment people saw what he was like was usually when they tried to bail. Conor now knew why making them promise not to tell seemed to suffice, but that didn't make things a lot easier.

—

The unexpected compliment, or the closest to a compliment he could have expected from Conor, brought a very lopsided grin to Owen’s face. “Aha! Jag visste det,” he gloated, words incomprehensible to the florist but the tone of his voice most likely very easy to understand. Then Conor was leaning in, seemingly making an effort to just look at the slayer, who of course mimicked the movement, never one to shy away from an invasion of personal space. 

“At least I do smile,” he retorted, hand moving up with surprising precision, plucking loose a lock of curly hair that had at some point gotten stuck on the other’s cheek. “Shame, too. Got a nice smile.” Knuckles brushed against skin as Owen drew back his hand and finished off his drink. The point of this evening had gotten mildly lost along the way, drowned out by casual conversation and more than a few insults tossed back and forth and somehow, he wasn’t having a terrible time. 

“And no one tells me what I do and don’t want,” Owen argued, interrupted by the bartender appearing at their table. Or maybe he’d been standing there for a while, waiting to get attention. Who was to say? 

“Time to move, boys. Last call was twenty minutes ago. I suggest you go sober up.” The bartender left immediately, not leaving any room for objections and Owen glanced at the clock. Had it really been that long? Probably, considering they were way past losing count of their drinks. With an annoyed scoff, he grabbed his jacket, long since discarded and leaving him in just the dark T-shirt. “Sober up,” Owen muttered, getting to his feet and, of course, stumbling. “I am perfectly sober,” he announced loudly, flipping off the very annoyed bartender before offering his hand to Conor. “C’mon. Apartment’s not far off and there’s enough booze there to settle this.”

___

“Oh fuck off,”it was hard to state just how disinhibited the alcohol had made the faun. Conor found some comfort in the numbing of his many, too many, too chaotic thoughts. It was quieter in his head now, and he found he didn’t hate being around Owen right now. He hadn’t drunk this much in a while, and he wondered if he’d still like Owen the same when he woke up with a serious hangover. Thank fucking God he didn’t work tomorrow. 

He shook his head. “I do smile. You’re just not good at making it happen,” he retorted. Mostly because he always wondered if the taller man was serious or joking. He didn’t seem to take many things seriously. Conor, who took things very seriously, was confused about that, even if it mattered a little bit less now. He just wished they’d left their glasses on the table, to count out how many drinks they each had downed tonight. 

The bartender, who had been cleaning up after them the whole evening, urged them to leave and sober up. 

He didn’t discuss it at all. Poor guy just wanted to head the fuck back home. He left a tip on the table and picked up his cardigan from the back of his chair. It was too warm now, but they’d be outside soon, right? It was late at night, it was bound to be cold. “Well shit,” he fell into a fit of laughter as he caught his balance against the table. “I’m fine,” nope. Still, he took the other’s hand. “You sure you don’t wanna try mine? I have a very impressive tea collection,” beside the point? Yes. He doubted he’d get the kettle to work in his current state anyhow. Conor sighed. “We start counting at your place?” That made the most sense right now. 

He had been right to put his cardigan back on. It was chilly out here. But Owen had been correct when he said his place wasn’t that far. Things always seemed further away when you had no idea where they were, but it really hadn’t been so bad. Conor was just pleased to get himself a seat again. 

There wasn’t much in Owen’s apartment, he noticed. The walls, the shelves… It was as though the other had just moved in. Perhaps he didn’t like clutter. The faun didn’t precisely like clutter either, but he liked collecting dried flower bouquets, botanical illustrations and music sheets. He had a system for the latter. It wasn’t a good system, but he could tell exactly where each of them were stored, or so he said, and that was all that counted. 

—--

Thank the fucking lords, they hadn’t ended up at Conor’s place for some ‘impressive’ tea. Not to mention it would save Owen the trouble of getting home later since the other man was still insistent that they seemed to have reached the limit for physical contact allowed. Whatever, at least then it would be Conor’s problem getting home. The short walk back had been somewhat sobering but not enough to keep the pair from mostly stumbling up the stairs to the apartment. 

Once inside, Owen quickly discarded the jacket to the floor, vaguely gesturing towards the couch before Conor wobbled his way to the floor. Two glasses and a bottle of… something, the label was a bit hard to read right at this very moment, were brought over before the slayer slumped next to Conor. “Right,” he sighed, pouring amber liquid into the two glasses and a little bit on the table. “Ready to surrender yet?” 

It was a bit hard to keep his gaze steady on the other man’s eyes but a distant part of his brain recognized that Conor’s eyes definitely looked bleary, too. And, maybe not entirely by accident, he was leaning in a bit close, enough to catch the faint smell of flowers and dirt hiding under the scent of alcohol. 

__

"Oh no," he shook his head, but though it didn't improve his state of dizziness, it managed to trigger his laughter once again. His cheek warm against his hand, Conor reached out for the glass, spilling some of its content on his fingers as he did. The faun was not really the most patient, and his abrupt movements caused clumsiness even in a sober state. He would have liked being more delicate than that but as far as he could recall, he'd always been this way, abrupt, with perpetually busy hands. "You are not getting away with this," he'd regret it, he knew that, but that didn't keep him from finishing his glass in one swig. 

"Dúirt mé -" He cut himself off. "You're fucking stubborn," nestled against the cushions, Conor held his empty glass against his sternum. He tried to keep his gaze on Owen. It seemed impossible, more than usual. He picked up on details. Blurry details. Faint scars. Green eyes. Speckles of hazel. Why was he so close? Why was Conor? He scoffed. He couldn't kiss him. Owen hadn't won, had he? He wanted to, didn't he ? With a sigh, he pressed his forehead against Owen's, as gently as his faun condition and his drunken state could. 

—

A very drunken chuckle escaped Owen when the other downed the whole glass - a waste of what the slayer assumed was pretty decent alcohol - and then he followed suit. It didn’t burn anymore, going down with ease. Seemingly not the only one slipping back into native tongue, Conor started an insult before finishing it in a comprehensible language, but it was weak considering how creative the florist could get. If there was ever a sign that the other man was drunk…

It took a moment to register, the sticky warmth of a forehead pressing against his own, warm and booze laced breaths mixing together. That was as much of an invitation as Owen needed, hands sliding into hair with practiced movements despite the considerable inebriation, mouth meeting the other’s. The familiarity of a drunken kiss delayed the realization by a moment - he had finally gotten to dig his fingers into that mess of a hair, only to find something that didn’t quite belong. 

Horns. Something that should have made him startle, jump back and demand questions but for one, Owen had a pretty good idea of what he was dealing with. Secondly, he was drunk off his fucking ass. So despite fingers running over goddamn horns (again? Seriously?), the legs were still human and he could work with that. There had only been the briefest of pauses as his booze soaked brain worked through this all before the kiss simply deepened. 

__

“You didn’t fucking win.” Conor’s hands curled tight around the back of his neck. To his blurry mind, anything he’d say now would make the other run away. He didn’t want him to run away. But he didn’t want him thinking he won. Those sticky sugar coated lips, those were good for sarcasm, and smirks. Conor remembered wanting to slap him for it. For both those things. 

But the irritating fucker was charming, and he was too drunk to pretend he didn’t see it. “And I still think you’re an asshole,” he scoffed, inching closer to kiss him back. 

His face felt warm. The urgency with which the other dug into his hair, the proximity, the scent of his breath, taste of his lips, his tongue. He felt warm. That wasn’t a bad feeling. 

Owen’s fingers going up, following the curve of his horns. Heh. That was to be expected. But then, the bartender barely interrupted himself and it was Conor who nearly lost his balance as he tore himself away. “This is usually when folks scream and make a bloo-blah scene.” Don’t expect literature from him, not now. “I mean, we know you’ve got shit tastes,” he scoffed, lazily pressing his palm against the other’s chest, slipping it against his side. “So do I.” 

—-

It could have gone either way - a full blown tantrum was to be expected since Conor had explicitly been against kissing. Or he’d assumed that Owen didn’t want to but apparently, the same couldn’t be said for the florist, who returned the kiss with just as much vigor and a few mumbled insults. So what if this was another faun? Not like it would be the first time and it was pretty obvious that Conor was not using any of his weird magic. Doubtful that he would be inducing euphoria in anyone considering the constant grumpy state. 

And then Conor was pulling away, pushing against his chest and dissolving what could have been a very nice end to their drunken evening. Owen’s head cocked to the side, trying to piece together what was the problem. He was… supposed to freak out about the horns? Maybe that was the regular human thing to do now that he gave it some thought. “Please, you’re not the first faun I’ve met,” he explained, words surprisingly soft in his drunken state, pupils blown and focused. Eager hands still trailed where they could reach, over thighs and exposed neck. 

“Not the first I’ve fucked, either.” Not very eloquent but that would be expecting too much considering the room was still spinning a bit. “Don’t worry about it.”

—-

“Well excuse me,” surprised by his own offense, Conor did something he didn’t do very often then. He laughed. It began with a scoff, before tumbling into full laughter. Rubbing at his face, he fell back onto the couch. “Sorry,” with another snort, he finally looked up with wide, unguarded eyes at what he assumed would be a profoundly confused northman. “Don’t worry about it,” he mocked the other’s words, with what he assumed to be a terrible imitation of him. He was bad at those, he knew that. “Have you fucking seen me?” Worry might as well have been his middle name. Would have been nice to worry for a second. And he found that right now, he didn’t fucking care what would come next. 

Laying down was nice. It did him good, grounded him.  He reached down for the hands on his thighs, bodies colliding while he urged Owen to join him there. Collided was the word. There wasn’t a lot of softness to those gestures of his. Conor was clumsy, he always moved with urgency, even now, as he clenched his fingers in his hair or forced his lips apart to pick up where they’d left off. 

—-

For someone who had made a point to brag about their impressive alcohol tolerance, Conor was wasted. Not that Owen minded the drunken laughter - it boded better than anger or the other abruptly leaving. Despite the giggling, the hint of self hatred that had been laced throughout the evening came back full force. Owen wasn’t perfectly connecting the dots and even if he had been, far be it from him to try and inspire self love in someone else. What he could do, however, and was fairly good at in his own opinion, was making sure that Conor knew just how much he did see him. 

The clumsy invitation to continue was welcome, eager and drunken hands goading Owen on. Not that the slayer’s movements were any more delicate, hands tugging at fabric and hair, mouth leaving marks across skin and over tattoos. Until the sound of Conor’s breath deepening caught his attention, the previously drunken grabbing turning into soft strokes until the other’s hands stilled. Owen pulled back, blinking blearily at the shirtless man on his couch who, yup, was asleep. Or passed out, more accurately.

With a very frustrated sigh, Owen slumped back on the couch, glaring at the peacefully sleeping faun. What a fucking cruel twist. Grumbling under his breath, he at least had the decency to throw a spare blanket to the other man before finally succumbing to the draw of boozy sleep himself, on top of the bed covers with boots still on his feet. 

[golbrocklovely]

You’d figure if he really had the answer to great editing that they would be winning editing and cinematography awards but they’re not. They’re always nominated for simply being a duo. They have single camera usage with low quality sound because you can never hear when they type “listen”, weird unfinished cuts, grainy imagery at times, no drone footage, reused stock footage, loud score music, over the top jump scares, rushed scenes that seem misplaced. Nowhere in that will he get nominates for any award at any film festival. And for someone who claims to love editing because he has many times on snap, xplrclub, twitter, he sure struggles with it a lot almost as if he DOESNT know what hes doing. I like their content but his insistence in micromanaging aggravates me and reminds me of Shmelton Shmastee.

If he wants it to be an apprenticeship like you said, make that into a xplrclub contest win, get an exclusive one on one class on editing with Sam Golbach. Doing this to already professionals is such a slap in the face. And we thought the notes he showed on his snap story last time were bad but 20pgs!!! The apprentice caption worried me because usually apprenticeships aren’t paid or paid after a certain amount of hours. They’ve never said how much it pays, if its remote, if they provide benefits, if this is entry level or advanced yet he’s already dictating their work? Other creators do list everything out there, i’ve seen postings for some streamers and even youtubers on industry websites.

He better not try to sale this as another money grab because i see people in the fandom always convincing them to film and sale everything they touch and i can very easily see his ego get inflated by this.

something that i have always noticed, especially when snc are in a time crunch, is that's when they try to pull out all the stops and do something new with their editing. and it now makes so much more sense to me when i realize that all of the weird edits usually boil down to sam and his…. ideas lol

that's not to say that colby is some fantastic editor. god knows he has his fuck ups too.

either way, i think the thing that pisses me off most about all of this is just that both of their parts are crucial to the editing process, but sam is the one that bitches about it the most and makes it seem as if he is doing all of it at once. like his part is complicated, i have no doubt it is, but clearly if he is constantly running into the issue that a) he can't train someone to do what he does or b) it is taking so long to find an editor…. maybe the issue is him, and not the crazy genius work he is doing lol

and hilariously that you mention mr. L10 bc me and @xplrvibes were saying the same thing sksksk

and while i do keep saying that at this point they should just hire a fan to edit their content, i'm only really saying that out of convenience and not bc i think it would be the best idea out there. turning it into a contest might end up badly, and also using a fan could actually become a shit show bc you would have to make sure they are trustworthy enough to not leak anything or freak out at the mere amount of interactions they would have to have with snc. also god knows this fandom would throw some form of a hissy fit about a fan winning a chance to be their editor…. it would just be messy.

however, if there was a "fan" out there that had at least some background knowledge of after effects, then that might be their best bet. it would make more sense to hire someone that knows the program but isn't really an editor since clearly sam doesn't want someone that has their own style of editing and will just copy what he does.

and they probably hide all of the details away just so they can weed out the fans that probably applied for the sake of wanting to talk to snc or whatever weird bs. realistically, it would probably be remote, possibly entry level or a bit above (depending on how much prior experience they are looking for) and little to no benefits. maybe i'm wrong tho, so don't take my word for it lol

as for his 20 pages, i would pay a solid dollar to read whatever shit he wrote out. but highkey i don't think anyone in the fandom will ever see those 20 pages unless snc plan to hire them. but please, sage samuel, tell me of the ways to edit your finest spooky videos. i must know how you do it lmaooo

[deathproofpony]

Adult Fluff TV

>be Uncle Eddie Patterfamilia. >yes THAT Uncle Eddie. You've seen my work. Spectacular. >for the uptight pussies in the crowd, you used to act and direct in those "barely legal" videos >your speciality was assfucking 18 year old girls while making them suck giant lollipops >then you jam the lolli in their snatch and... >well, you get the idea >then you got Hepatitis. no one would work with you. can't blame them, but it still sucks >but that was last year. a few months ago you were contacted by some producer for The Hub >you hadn't heard of the guy, but you were in totally different industries. >seems he knew you, though, and liked your work. he was offering a job >a GOOD job. director for two shows just for fluffy ponies. guy had a whole channel of them already >it was making money, too. a LOT of it. you'd be a fool to refuse. >the first was called "Plot" - all it consisted of was shots of fluffy pony mares showing their cooches >that was it. nothing fancy. just hop down to the adoption agency, pick up a few strays and dress them up a little >then video tape them from the backside, for the most part >easy peasy Japanesey. >at first you started going to great lengths to get them to show the goods. >shaving, duct tape, string, beatings, anal insertion, more beatings... >then the producer guy explained that you didn't always have to show all the goods >in fact, sometimes the insinuation was part of the eroticism for these things >you can dig that... sort of like when you would stare at underwear models in catalogs when you were a kid >so you took it down a notch... let them show what they wanted to show >although you learned a few tricks, too. sometimes bring a good-looking stallion into the room >sometimes that alone would get those bitches raising their tails >sometimes you'd let them start the mating process. inevitably the same thing would happen >a few... special... fellows even offered to bring their own mares down to be on the show >fuck it. that's five bucks less per head you'd have to pay from the adoption fees. >not to mention not having to take care of them. >you even managed to get a couple of guest stars. >your highest rated show so far featured "Missy Elly May" from the "Beverly Fluffbillies" >although you had mostly stopped using bogus methods to show their plot, you made sure Missy Elly May got fully exposed >shit, that was easy enough. >when the little prima donna bitch wouldn't show the goods, you just pulled her tail up and pointed her at the nearest camera. >her owner was pissed but Fluff TV ended up selling ten times as many Missy Elly May Fluffckers (tm) than they were before >having gotten "Plot" almost on autopilot you concentrated on the real jewel in your crown: "Special Hugs" >it was exactly what it sounded like. record fluffies fucking. >again, you were shocked how many owners willingly brought in their own pets to be on camera >if these people had kids they'd have them in those fucked-up pre-pubescent beauty contests >this show was a bit more difficult and certainly more controversial >the gimmick was that you had to shoot the sex scenes so they always looked consentual... on both sides >once in a while you'd get a really randy female that would attack males so they would be mounted >that ended up with a couple of bites or kicks in their balls. must have hurt like a motherfucker >there were always females that didn't want it. well, fortunately they're still classified as animals so a little force could be used >I mean... you don't hold down Monica Bellucci and yell at her to take that cock and then beat her ass with a paddle when she cries >that would be pretty fucking awesome, but it still doesn't happen >so these little cunts would get smacked, anally penetrated, whipped, screamed at, punched, tied up, tied down, gagged, whatever it took >thank god for dubbed audio tracks > >Season 1:Episode 23:Segment:2 "Orangeade and General" >"Action!" "wahhhhhhhhhh! dun wan speshal huggies fwom bad fwuffy! meanie fwuffy bite owangeade eaw!" >"George, give General a couple of whacks with the Sorry Stick for biting." >"Yes, sir." >"nuu! nuu sowwy stick! genewal sowwy!" >"Shut up." >*whack whack whack* >"WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" >"Get him back on top of her. Good. Action. Camera two, get in position." >"pwease stawp! hewp! hewp! bad fwuffy giff bad feewlies! dun wan..." >"She's crying again." >"Stick the hot pepper up her ass." >"Are you..." >"Do not second guess me, boy. You jam that pepper in there and keep your mouth shut." >"Yes, sir." >"wahhhhhhhhhhh! hawt! hawt! hawt in poopie pwace!" >"You get that, audio?" >"Got it, sir." >"enf enf enf" >"pwease staaaaaaaaaaawp!" >"duct tape her mouth." >"Got it." >"mmph! mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmph!" >"Audio?" >"yeah, good... good levels. I can work with this." >"All right, let shithead finish, get the money shot and throw these two idiots down the trash chute." >"enf enf enf... wauuuuuuuuuugh!" >"Nice money shot. Good work, camera one." >"Thanks, boss." >"Sir, she's still too distraught... I need a couple of close-ups of her enjoying it." >"Bring some spaghetti in here." >the mare's eyes light up at the mention of spaghetti. >"Cameras one and two, get closeups of her face." >the spaghetti is placed in front of the mare. immediately her mood changes and she looks happy >"Let her eat a little..." >the mare eats some, smiling... >"Cut. Get her the fuck outta here." >"nuuu! wan mo spagettis! nuuuuuu!" >the production assistant casually tosses her down a trash chute. >"wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." >"What's that like a five story drop?" >"Six." >"Good. Okay, bring in the ponies for segment three." >Season 1:Episode 23:Segment:3 "Ghost and Laquanda" >"This like some sorta interracial thing? You got a white fluffy and a black fluffy there." >"I guess so, yeah." >"We might have to edit this segment out when it plays in the South." >"I can't believe there's still bigotry out there. Makes you sad for humanity." >"It sure does, George. Sure does. *sigh* ACTION! Take that fucking cock, bitch!" >thank god you didn't have to go into snuff films.

[novaauster]

chapter 3

Andrew does not have the patience to stand in line and tell everybody good job. He’s off the mat almost before the final timer sounds, swiping his knives, car keys, and bag out of his cubby, locking himself in one of the shower stalls of a changing room. He’s not unsettled. He just has to think. 

Doing jiu-jitsu while being generally touch-averse is like putting a saucepan of milk on the stove in order to make hot chocolate: mostly fine, but if he ignores it too long it boils over and then everything’s fucked. He has to remind himself that he likes the sport, that he signed up to be here, and that he could leave at any time. It takes focus. Kevin obviously decided to teach a cardio class because he’s insufferable like that, but also because the simple drills allowed Andrew to keep an eye on himself and Neil.

Neil Hatford is not a Raven here to fuck with Kevin. Andrew has deduced that much for a couple reasons, the first one being his terrible base. It’s just fucking awful. He’ll fall over at anything, and he’s not faking it, because a Raven might think to mess up their balance during takedowns, but they wouldn’t fall off of the mat during the simplest single-leg x drill there is. They risk concussions more than they should, but they wouldn’t do it like that. A Raven wouldn’t think to not recognize Kevin, or to recognize him but not believe it, or to mispronounce Royce Gracie’s name. 

Whatever’s going on with Neil, at least he’s creative.

Andrew unties his belt and pulls off his gi, the thick cotton fabric heavy with his, Renee’s, and Neil’s sweat, which is disgusting. He peels off his rashguard and leggings next and steps into the shower. 

Kevin once showed Andrew how Ravens do drills, ostensibly to teach him how to recognize one. They always start on their non-dominant side, making it harder for themselves so that they can be sure they know the move inside and out before doing it in action. They also drill with full resistance. The logic is that if they can’t do it against a resisting opponent they can’t do it at all, but it ends up just being a pissing contest that only differs from an aggressive roll by its finite beginning and end points. Neil doesn’t do any of that.

Another reason is Neil’s wristlock. He didn’t do it incorrectly, exactly, but it’s not instinct the way it is for Ravens, who are always, always grabbing at wristlocks, usually as threats rather than proper submissions. It’s how Riko broke Kevin’s hand. 

There’s also the Nicky Hemmick Litmus Test, which Andrew is glad to have invented. Under the rare circumstances that a Raven is both not homophobic and willing to embarrass themself by pretending they can’t tie a belt right, they would at least be offended by Nicky’s Mexican Ground Karate merch. Andrew hasn’t bothered to learn much about the B Team but he knows that they’re not allied with the Ravens.

Andrew finishes up his shower and dresses in his normal clothes again, slipping his knives back under his armbands where they belong. For his first few classes here, he’d worn the armbands, trusting the fabric sheaths to keep the knives from cutting into him too much. From that, he got tiny, silvery scars going vertically on top of the deeper, horizontal ones he’d cut on purpose. Usually he can’t stand to look at it. Sometimes he thinks it looks like birch bark. 

‘You’re like a tree trunk,’ says Neil in Andrew’s memory. Fucking hell. It’s not that hard to stay upright in the face of the worst double-leg he’s ever seen in his life. 

Distinctly annoyed, Andrew folds his gi up and leaves the changing room. 

He runs into Neil on his way out. “Where the hell are you going?” he says.

“Where the hell are you going?” Neil returns. 

“To find you.”

“Why are you finding me?”

“Because I’m driving you home.”

“I thought Renee said you were walking me home.”

“I’m driving.”

“And do you take orders from Renee?”

“Do I look like I take orders from Renee?” Andrew rolls his eyes. He can’t believe that Neil is his problem now. “Parking lot’s out back. Follow me.”

“Avoiding one kidnapper just for another,” Neil mutters like he thinks Andrew can’t hear him. “Fuck my life.”

Well, Neil might be a nuisance but at least he’s funny. Andrew gets his car keys out once they’re in the parking lot, a familiar slab of cracked concrete with kudzu growing out the edges, and unlocks his car. “Meet the Maserati.”

“That’s a Honda Civic spraypainted black,” says Captain Obvious. 

It’s not Andrew’s fault Tilda’s life insurance didn’t leave enough for both Aaron’s med school and a sports car. “It’s a Honda Civic spraypainted black named Maserati.” 

“Oh, I get it.” Neil pats the passenger-side door like it’s a dog’s head. “Hey, Maserati, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Smartass.” Andrew gets in the driver’s seat and hands Neil his phone, Google Maps pulled up. “Your address.” He has to be back at the gym in-- he checks the dashboard clock-- thirty-seven minutes to teach the kids’ class while Wymack teaches a private lesson and Kevin either handles paperwork or plays Candy Crush on his phone like a loser, but that should be enough time considering that Neil walked here from wherever he lived.

“I’m not giving you my address,” Neil says, like Andrew just asked him for his social security number and his mother’s maiden name. 

“Pull it up on your phone, then.”

“I have a flip phone.”

“What are you, a drug dealer?”

“If I was a drug dealer I’d buy my own car,” Neil says, which is fair. “I’ll just tell you the directions.”

Andrew sighs and pulls out of the parking space. The backup camera is broken, so he has to put a hand on the passenger seat and turn around to see behind him. Neil shrinks away. “Put your seatbelt on.”

“Why?” Neil says, like that’s a normal thing to question.

“I’ll crash the car if you don’t, killing you instantly.”

“Oh, okay.” Neil takes that at face value and proceeds to sit in complete silence, albeit with his seatbelt on, giving occasional directions.

Andrew’s phone automatically connects to the bluetooth and starts playing his music. 

“You’re the one with the awful MTV music playlist,” Neil realizes.

“You calling my playlist awful?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay,” Andrew says in a perfect imitation of Neil.

“That’s creepy,” says Neil. “Don’t do that. Turn left here.”

Andrew whips the left turn a little harder than he has to. “Are you on edge because you’re bad at jiu-jitsu or is this just your personality?”

“I’m not bad at jiu-jitsu.”

“Top secret,” Andrew says. “You’re bad at jiu-jitsu. I’m bad at jiu-jitsu. Kevin Day is bad at jiu-jitsu. Nobody is good at it.”

“Great pep talk, I feel so much better.”

“I could make up a better one, but I’d be lying.” Andrew is a man of his word.

“Think you’re funny?”

“I am funny.”

Neil sulks for about a minute, then says “You can drop me off right here.”

Andrew looks in the rearview mirror to make sure no cars are around, and then slams on the brakes just to be an asshole. He parks at the curb of what is very obviously an abandoned office building. “On a scale of ‘millionaire slumming it to prove a point’ to ‘pitiful queer child kicked out of their house by cruel and unloving Baptists’, how homeless are you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Not an answer.”

“Somewhere in between.”

Andrew is going to demand more detail, but then he and Neil see two women in business-casual and concealed weaponry making a beeline towards them. Neil shoulders his backpack and reaches for the door handle. Andrew switches the childlocks on.

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand you’re safer in the Maserati than out of it.”

The women reach them. Andrew rolls down the window and one, clearly the leader of the two, steps forward. “Hatford.”

“Ma’am,” Neil says, tone flinty. 

“Your uncle is looking for you.” She has a crisp, posh British accent, which Neil matches when he replies.

“My uncle can wait ten more months, as per our agreement.”

“A post-it note left in his study does not constitute a binding contract.”

“Tough. I said I would not join the business, he said people do not tend to be able to survive a year alone, here I am, spending a year outside the business. Is that not a contract?”

“And which matters to you more, the solitude or the survival?” 

Neil shrugs. “Be great if someone let me decide that for myself, for once.”

The woman leans forward. “And who is this?” Andrew keeps his hand on the window controls and his foot above the gas pedal. 

“Uber driver,” Neil lies flatly.

“We would know if you had a phone.”

“Taxi.”

“It’s a Honda Civic spray-painted black.”

Everybody loves to remind Andrew of this fact.

“My friend John.”

“John Who?”

Neil hesitates. “Doe.”

Andrew grits his teeth. 

The woman smiles. “Like a dead body. Creative.”

“I will run you over with my car,” Andrew says, and he is not joking.

Neil tries the door handle again. It is still locked. “Proof of life,” he offers. “Monthly.”

“Daily.”

“Biweekly.”

“Is that twice a week or once every alternating week?”

“Weekly.”

“Weekly except in the event of a safety concern.”

“A safety concern?”

“Natural disasters, heat waves, cold fronts, the aftermath of the American 2024 election, so on and so forth. We will contact you.” 

“Fine,” Neil says. “Deal.”

The woman nods sharply and leaves with her backup in tow. 

“Will you let me out now?”

Andrew switches the childlocks off. “What kind of man is your uncle?”

“One who doesn’t like jiu-jitsu.” Neil is already walking up to the abandoned building. Andrew lays on the horn until Neil stops and looks back at him. “I’ll come back, okay? I’ll go back to class. Fucking sick of your questions, though.”

That’s acceptable. Andrew rolls up the window and thinks ‘ Wow, Neil Hatford is a total freakshow. Good thing I’m the normal one here.’

chapter 1 of Trial Class the aftg bjj au fic under the cut

Tags: Alternate Universe-- Jiu-Jitsu, Trans Neil Josten, because if your bjj gym does not have transmasc rep you’re doing something wrong, Autistic Kevin Day, because if your bjj gym does not have autistic rep you’re Really doing something wrong,  Crack Treated Seriously, i did not intend to write so much bullshit about bjj but here i am

In the end notes I have my notes on each characters’ belt rankings, my reasoning for why they would be at that level, and their main skills if you find that stuff interesting. 

Neil ducks into an unmarked door of a cinderblock building, his heart pounding. He knows he was being followed. He doesn't know by who, or how many people, or under whose orders, and he doesn't want to find out.

He's greeted by a rickety staircase that announces his arrival step by step. Creak. Creak. Feeling like a kid in an antique Baltimore home. Bad music leaks up through the floor from the basement, not too loud but instantly recognizable as the kind of stuff they played on MTV a decade ago.

At the bottom of the staircase is a dude about his age in a plain blue martial arts gi, and maybe Neil should pay attention to his scowl, or his brown belt, or his height-- but instead he zeroes in on the face tattoo. A chess piece, the queen.

"No one signed up for a trial class today," the guy says flatly.

"That's fucking disrespectful," Neil says.

The guy blinks, then crosses his arms across his chest. "What is?"

Neil steps down a few more stairs to show he's not intimidated by this poser. "Getting Kevin Day's tattoo. He didn't get it to look tough."

"I am Kevin Day."

Sure, he looks a little like Kevin Day. He has the eyes, and the jawline, and the wrist brace, but he can't be Kevin Day. He can't be the man whose tournament footage Neil has tracked down over the course of years and scrupulously watched until he memorized every single move. "Oh yeah? And what's Kevin Day doing in a shithole like this?"

"Training," says Kevin Day.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Neil locks down his expression, tries his level best not to start begging for mercy, and gets close enough to shake Day's hand. It’s the fastest, most perfunctory handshake he has ever experienced, and Neil notices that they're at eye level while Neil is still standing on the final stair. "I'm here to sign up for my trial class."

“Alright, uh, gym rules.” Kevin gestures towards the framed list, up on the wall beside the famous portrait of Hélio Gracie, all stern with his red belt blending into the red flag background: Jiu-Jitsu Da Guanabara, the first federation of jiu-jitsu schools. There’s also a display of belts in order: white, blue, purple, brown, black. Only five levels. Neil has always found it beautifully simple. “Number one, shoes off when on the mat, shoes on when off the mat.”

Somebody has scratched out Rule Number One and scrawled “Dogs out” in its place, but Kevin is ignoring it so Neil figures it doesn’t mean anything. 

“Number two, proper attire. That means belts tied all the time, even in no-gi, for safety. That also means wear your gi for a gi class, Nicky!” Kevin abruptly shouts the end of that sentence towards the people already on the bright orange mats.

Orange is a weird color for mats. They tend to be gray, or in the Ravens’ case, black, but the explanation for the design choice is tacked up above the rule list: The Foxhole Gym, it reads in Canva font, and underneath adds Gracie Palmetto.

A young man on the mats dutifully wearing his blue belt, albeit overtop nothing but a tight rashguard and obscenely small fighting shorts, replies “You’ll never take me alive!”

“You’re lucky we have a trial class or I’d force you into the orange gi.”

“Oh the horror! You wouldn’t do that to me!”

Kevin turns back to Neil. “Stay away from Nicky. He’s trouble. Rule three, respect the tap. Tap when you’re done, let go when they’re done-- but you won't be tapping anyone out.” He goes behind the front desk and retrieves a clipboard and pen, as well as a folded gi. “Rule four, sign the waiver.”

It’s The Orange Gi, which Nicky had been so horrified by. Neil takes the whole stack and tells himself that it isn’t that bad, it even smells like laundry detergent, but it really is garishly neon. 

“That’s the only spare we have,” Kevin says. “Beggars, choosers. If you come back get your own and get a Gracie patch on it, rule five. Six, sign in before class and don’t be late. Seven, personal hygiene, don’t be disgusting. Eight, no jewelry, no glasses, no unbound long hair, hearing aids on a case-by-case basis. For safety. Nine, get a white stripe before standing up while rolling and a red stripe to roll at all. The rest is self explanatory.”

There are four more rules on the list. Neil reads them. “I’ll just get changed, then.”

“Changing rooms’ to the left.” They are two open doorways to the left, neither of which are labeled.

Neil hesitates.

“Just pick one, they both have stalls.” For a second Neil’s sure that Kevin Day just clocked him, but then he continues “I’m ninety percent certain that Nicky removed the signage on a dare from Allison but they will not confirm, deny, or tell me why. They say I have to learn what a ‘transgender’ is. Do you know?”

“Uh,” Neil says.

“I will not google it. I have learned that the internet is not my friend.”

“Dictionary?”

“You think it is in a dictionary? Half the words these assholes use are not defined in it.” Rule twelve, Neil remembers. No foul language. “What is rizz, I ask and find no answer. What is skibidi. They have no respect.”

“Pretty sure it’s in any dictionary printed in the last twenty years,” Neil says.

“If you say so. Regardless, if I find proof of whoever pulled this outlandish prank they will be fighting a Ten-Round Tuesday with me and I will be grinding shoulder pressure into their face the entire time and finally grant mercy in the form of a d’arce choke. Mark my words!”

“Yes Coach,” Nicky yells back. 

Wow, Keil thinks. Kevin Day is a total freakshow. Good thing I’m the normal one here. Out loud, he says “Why ten rounds with you? Why not, for example, that guy?” He points at the scariest guy in the room.

Now, if Neil has experience in anything, it’s in determining who is the scariest person in the room. It isn’t the strongest one, because all of them look like college-age athletes who are strong as hell. It isn’t the biggest guy (blue belt, two stripe, spiked hair) or the highest ranked (Kevin, and then a purple belt, one stripe, pink gi). It’s all in the eyes. It’s a blond blue belt, approximately 160 pounds, 5’0, black gi and long black rashguard covering as much skin as possible. 

Kevin looks where Neil is pointing. “Oh, Andrew? No. I am trying to punish them, not injure them for life.”

“I see.”

“Class starts five minutes. Get changed.”

Neil picks a changing room at random, glad to find it empty. In a locked stall he switches out his binder for the sports bra in his backpack, suspecting that he’ll need the extra lung capacity, and changes out his white t-shirt for the closest thing he has to a rashguard, a black polyester shirt that’s slightly too small. It reads Charlotte Día De Los Muertos 5K, and it may be stolen, but considering that he had both run five kilometers through a graveyard and almost become one of the muertos via stab wound, he feels he has the right to it.

He pulls the gi pants on over his running shorts, tying the drawstring tight high on his waist because otherwise he’d be stepping on excess fabric. The sleeves flop halfway over his palms.

Nothing for it. Today is a good day. Not only has he escaped the people following him without having to call up his uncle, at least for now, he’s also getting a class with Kevin Fucking Day. And maybe Kevin Fucking Day is a little bit… off, but he’s still, Neil’s sure, a genius. 

Neil leaves the changing room with his blank, borrowed white belt tied as best he can. He sets his backpack in the cubbies, which creak under the weight, in view of the mats so he’ll always have an eye on it. In the cubby beside him are knives. 

“Your belt is tied wrong. Ask somebody to help you with it,” Kevin says, taking Neil’s signed waiver. “Neil Hatford,” he reads of the paper. “Oh. I never asked your name.”

“I never offered it.” Neil’s used to skirting around that part of conversations. He’d run out of names if he gave them up so easily. 

“Well. Introductions. Everybody who comes to lunchtime class is already on the mats. Closest to us are Allison and Dan. Allison is in mount.”

Allison, purple belt, pink gi. Neil vaguely recognizes her, he thinks, from skimming past internet discourse. People like to accuse her and her Youtube channel of teaching bullshit self-defense, but she never claimed to be a self-defense teacher. She teaches pure jiu-jitsu and never claimed to be a full coach, it’s not her responsibility to tell people how to dodge a punch. “Allison Reynolds?”

“Then you should know of Dan Wilds,” Kevin says as Allison pins Dan’s arm down on the mat, steps her knee over it, and maneuvers the other arm into mounted triangle position, leaning down over it to close the choke until Dan taps. They switch positions and run through it again.

“I don’t,” Neil admits.

“You will.” Kevin does not elaborate. “You are aware of Nicky. Bantamweight beside him is Aaron. The two mountains are Matt and Seth. Seth is the white belt but do not make the mistake of thinking he is on your level.”

Neil raises his eyebrows. Never meet your heroes, he thinks, and decides on saying “And what level is that?”

Kevin looks him up and down. “Novice, featherweight-- or bantamweight if you cut a few pounds-- and, unless you made a very particular visit to the pharmacist, women’s.” He says it like reciting a grocery list.

“Fuck you.”

“You asked. Which part of that was offensive?”

“Fuck. You.” Neil prepares to repeat himself in Portuguese and Japanese, but doesn’t get the chance. 

“And then those two vale tudo maniacs are Renee and Andrew.” At first Neil translates the term directly-- free for all-- and then colloquially-- no-holds-barred-- but he did read Rickson Gracie’s autobiography. Vale Tudo is a precursor to MMA, with no points, no timer, and yes, no holds barred, but it went well out of fashion by the 90’s. Kevin’s just using it as an expression. “Renee’s in-- well, she had an uchi-mata-- and there he goes--”

Renee’s back hits the mat with a gruesome smack, but she inverts into k-guard to bring Andrew down with her. Andrew disentangles himself from her legs in a scramble and then hauls her into side control, but doesn’t stay there, instead reaching deep into her lapel for a choke.

Renee uses the shift in balance to slip the choke though, getting her knee wedged in between them and wrestling up, holding a whizzer hook over Andrew’s arm like it’s the lever to the nuclear codes and letting it up would cause World War Three. He can’t take her back. He tries to tap her knee and force her over sideways but her base is too wide, he can’t reach. And normally one would underhook her far-side thigh and roll underneath, but he can’t even reach that far. 

So he shoves his hand under her near-side thigh instead and rolls. “I didn’t know you could do that,” Neil comments. 

The tournaments Neil has watched have fighters with, more or less, the same build, just at different weights. Jiu-jitsu is all about using leverage to cancel out what might be greater strength, but he’s never never seen anything focusing on accommodations for fighters that are short and fat like Andrew. 

Kevin’s watching the fight with his hands on his hips like an old man loitering at a construction site. “He likes to improvise,” the brown belt says. That confirms what Neil thought: Andrew made up that modification on the fly. “They’ll do this all day if I don’t stop them.”

“I could watch this all day,” Neil agrees.

“What?”

“What?”

Kevin calls Andrew’s name. The roll ends, abnormally quick for two people that were previously clinging to each other’s necks and clothing for dear life, and the two slap hands amicably. All of the lethal striking-snake energy seems to drain out of Andrew’s body. He walks glacially slow to the edge of the mat, shaking out each leg once before stepping into a pair of black flipflops. When he gets to Kevin’s side, he pulls a strand of Renee’s rainbow hair out of his mouth and flicks it onto the floor. 

“Are those knives,” Neil says to neither of them in particular and starts examining the knives in the adjacent cubby. They’re all fairly small, flat-handled, easily concealable but not cheaply made or rarely used. They look sharp. 

“They sure are,” says Andrew. Up close Neil notices that his rashguard extends up his neck and down his hands, held in place by holes at the thumbs almost like a medical brace. 

“Andrew,” says Kevin, very obviously wanting to change the topic. “Are you going to take him?”

“I can take him,” Andrew confirms cheerily. 

“For drills,” Kevin says. 

“I can take him for drills too, Coach.”

“I’m not your coach.”

“Who is?” Neil asks. “Whose gym is this?”

“He’s out for lunch right now, but David Wymack,” Kevin says, the way most people say Abraham Lincoln or Tetsuji Moriyama. Despite this obvious reverence from the Queen, Neil has never heard of him. 

“Stats?” he asks. “Lineage?”

“Who’s rude now,” Andrew says. “But if you were nice would you be any use?”

“It’s fine,” Kevin says. “Eight wins MMA, two TKO, five submission, one decision. One draw. One loss, by decision: DQ on injury by foul. You want height and weight class too?”

“What do proportions matter when I’m asking about qualifications?”

“Right answer,” says Andrew.

“Lineage Royce Gracie,” Kevin continues like he hadn’t heard Andrew. 

Well, Neil can’t argue with that. “Is that how you pronounce it? Hoyce?”

“Royce,” Kevin repeats. “Yes. You do a lot of reading.” And not much else, is the implication. A not entirely true implication, it’s just that Neil tends to fight for his life the way his mother taught him: with a gun. Uncle Stuart made sure he could make do with hand-to-hand, but that didn’t exactly mean paying for his gym subscription.

Neil lets it slide.

Kevin checks his watch, then starts removing it because of the No Jewelry rule. “Class.”

“What kind of class,” Andrew says.

Kevin thinks about it. “Cardio Class.”

The people on the mats apparently hear, because some grumbling rises up about how it isn’t even Saturday.

It can’t be that bad, Neil thinks as he toes off his sneakers and socks and steps onto the mats. At least it’s not Día De Los Muertos.

“Group punishment is against the Geneva Suggestion,” Andrew says.

“Geneva… suggestion?” Neil isn’t sure he heard that right.

Kevin ignores Neil. “You have to stop accusing me of war crimes on the internet and then telling me I have to work on my public image. It’s unprofessional.”

“Now, who said I was professional?”

“You work here. You teach the kids’ class.”

“I don’t accuse them of being war criminals.”

“I should fire you.”

Andrew shrugs. They walk over to the mats. “Your belt is tied wrong,” he says. 

“My belt is fine.”

“Nicky.” Nicky, blue belt, Trouble, looks up from his side splits. “His belt is tied wrong.”

“Is it my birthday,” Nicky says, smoothly pulling himself upright and prancing over. Up close, Neil sees that rashguard is emblazoned with the words Mexican Ground Karate over a sunset logo. He tugs Neil’s belt loose and attempts to tie it standing face-to-face with him, but it falls apart. “Shit, it’s backwards. I forget how…” He moves behind Neil and, looking over his shoulder, ties a sturdier knot with muscle memory. “That’s it.”

Neil nods but doesn’t thank him as he returns to his corner. 

The awful MTV music pauses, and Kevin sits in the center of the mat so everyone’s attention falls on him. “Circle up,” he says redundantly. “Announcements. The next person to leave their weed in the cubbies where the kids’ class can see it is signed up to Ten-Round Tuesday with me personally. Toro Cup is coming up. Get your tickets to see Renee and Dan fight. Gym’s closed next Monday for Coach’s birthday, show up to Abby’s house if you want to see him. And this is Neil, here for his free trial.”

“Hi, Neil,” the class drones.

“Hi.”

“Final announcement: it is Cardio Day. Everyone on your backs, leg circles.”

A couple people slap the mat as they fall backwards to circle their feet in the air. They then move their legs up and down, side to side, and bicycle style, and Neil is careful not to accidentally kick Andrew beside him. Once Neil’s abs start really burning, Kevin calls for everyone to bridge, first with both legs and then with one leg in the air. They then sit up and shift their knees pointing to one side and then the other, windshield wiper style, and stretch their backs by twisting behind them while they’re at it. 

“On your knees. Neck circles. Chin to chest. Chin to shoulder. Ear to shoulder. Hands to the mat, wrist circles. Fire hydrants-- I am once again asking why hip circles are called fire hydrants.”

Neil looks around and ends up meeting Andrew’s intense stare. ‘Nobody tell him,’ Andrew mouths. 

Neil nods.

“Reach through at your waist and twist overhead. Three reps then do the other side. Cat-cow. Alternating lunges. Feet together, elbows down, knees apart, hips to the mat. At least I understand why this is called the frog stretch.”

Neil is then subjected to the knowledge that everybody in the room, including Seth the mountain, has the hip flexibility of a professional gymnast. None of them even look strained. 

“Feet apart, hips back,” Kevin continues, which deepens the stretch and makes Neil feel distinctly like he’s about to dislocate both of his entire legs. “Hold it ten seconds. Stretch out anything else you need.”

Most people do back-stretching yoga pose or start touching their toes, but Andrew just starfishes back on the mat.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Neil says quietly to him.

“That was the pre-warmup.”

Oh, well. 

“Everybody up,” says Kevin, jogging to the edge of the mat. “Start running.”

Neil tracks the attitudes of the athletes, a range from Matt giving Dan a hand up with a ‘this might as well happen’ grin to Nicky lamenting “You can’t do this to me!” to Andrew staring at the ceiling like a character in the Office breaking the fourth wall. Neil has already done a lap around the mat, following close behind Kevin, before Andrew even gets to his feet.

Now, there is running, which Neil likes, and then there is whatever this is. Whatever this is, Neil learns very quickly, is different because he is barefoot, making him pay much more attention to where he steps even though he knows in theory that it’s safe. He’s also constantly turning to his right, running in circles, and the space is big enough for a much larger class than the ten people here but he still can’t get a good straight-ahead line going. It puts strain on his ankles. 

Neil laps Andrew for a second time. Andrew is doing a shuffling sort of run, so slow that the only thing separating it from walking is the springing motion. 

“High knees,” Kevin says. 

Fucking hell. Neil switches to high knees, forcing him to pay even more attention to where he’s stepping and where he has to turn, and just when he gets the hang of it, Kevin switches to butt kicks, which are even harder to balance with. 

“Drop and give me twenty push-ups,” Kevin orders. 

You’re joking, Neil thinks, dropping and doing push-ups as fast as he can to keep up before Kevin’s up and running again, and three laps later they’re doing jumping jacks. 

Neil has never before in his life felt like he is about to die while doing jumping jacks, and he has also never felt like eight other people want to kill him while doing jumping jacks. He adds that to the list. 

Then they’re facing inwards, sort of skipping sideways, then doing it facing outwards, and then alternating two inwards-skips and two outwards-skips which gets really complicated on the turns because he has to keep the rhythm steady while turning his entire body and also navigating the mat’s corners. He almost trips over his feet. 

“Line up on the edge of the mat,” Kevin says, finally coming to a stop. 

Neil hopes that’s a good thing, following Andrew to one of the lines beside the two punching bags, but that’s too much to wish for. They do forward rolls from standing twice down the mat, then backwards rolls twice down, then Keven demonstrates the basic and beloathed movement drill called shrimping in which he curls up on his side like a shrimp and pushes himself backwards with one foot, pivoting on his shoulder. “Twice down,” Kevin says again, “And if I see you getting up in the middle of the mat and walking back early I’ll make you shrimp backwards too.”

Neil figures that, after seeing Kevin’s example and making sure that Andrew goes ahead of him, the relatively simple movement will make sense. But once he’s actually laying on the mat, he feels like a beached fish, just sort of squirming around. He’s also motion-sick from the somersaults. He’s only made about two feet of distance when Andrew is walking back from his first round.

“Am I doing this right,” Neil says as Andrew is passing him.

“No,” Andrew says, and keeps walking.

“What am I doing wrong,” Neil calls after him.

“Get on your side.” Andrew slaps the mat as he falls down in front of the punching bags-- nobody ever seems to sit like a normal person, they all just tip backwards to get to the ground-- and in record time has reached Neil. 

“I am on my side.”

“No you’re not.”

“I think I would know if I was laying on my side or not.”

“Wrong.” Andrew sits up. “Your shoulders,” he says, and then grabs Neil’s shoulders, first pushing them flat down to the mat. “Your back. Your side.” He hauls Neil’s right shoulder up and pushes his left shoulder down until he is, admittedly, on his side. 

“Fine,” Neil grumbles. When he tries to shrimp again, he finds that he does actually cover more ground, as dumb as it looks. “I’ve never seen anyone shrimp in tournament footage,” he says.

“Yes the fuck you have?” Kevin, overhearing, walks over. “You might have an encyclopedic knowledge of what you think are jiu-jitsu moves, but there is a difference between moves and technique. The former are what you see. The latter is why they work, how one creates space so that they work. You remember Andrew and Renee’s roll? Had Renee not shrimped out to get to dogfight she would have been stuck in smash-half until she managed to catch a giggler or Andrew had advanced. Speaking of which, Andrew, good work forcing the whizzer on her end in order to sweep, it was a good reconfiguration of the sequence.”

Neil speaks five languages, but wonders if the fact that he could understand every word Kevin just said means he should count jiu-jitsu as a sixth. 

“Tournament footage,” Andrew mutters derisively. Neil suspects that the only time Andrew and Kevin really get along is when they’re bitching about someone else. “You’re worse than a junkie. You’re a fanboy.”

“And you’re taking too long,” Kevin adds. “Just line up after you reach the end of the mat.”

Neil grits his teeth and shrimps two more times, then looks behind himself to see how much ground he has left to cover. Andrew’s reached the end already and is walking back.

“That’s fine,” Kevin says. “Just stand up.”

Neil abandons the endeavor and stands up. Once he’s back in line, Kevin calls Matt up for his next movement-drill demonstration: Kevin sits on his knees, Mat lays on his back and puts his legs around Kevin’s waist, and then Kevin pulls Matt upright by his lapels and stands up, carrying him for three steps before setting him down. “Just once across this time, pair up. If you’re with an idiot like Nicky and don’t have lapels to grab onto, just get a collartie and make him hold a seatbelt.”

Allison, Dan, Renee, and Aaron suddenly become the most popular people in the room. Neil is closest in size to Aaron, but that doesn’t matter much because Andrew is already kneeling on the mat.

Neil tries to flop backwards onto the mat like he’s seen everyone do, but he mistimes the breakfall and ends up going oof. 

“Stop playing around and pull guard,” Andrew says, so Neil does, putting his legs around Andrew’s waist and pretending it’s not weird at all when he has to pull himself even further into Andrew’s lap in order to cross his ankles and lock into closed guard. Andrew pulls the lapels of Neil’s gi top open, grabs a deep grip in them, then just stands up.

It’s a test of strength for anyone in Andrew’s position, Neil’s sure, considering that they basically have to squat the weight of an entire other person, but he thinks it’s even more a test of balance. There’s no more considering whether it’s weird or not, instinct kicks in and Neil just starts clinging to Andrew’s back. 

“You’re not going to fall,” Andrew says.

“No, I know,” Neil lies. 

After taking the assigned three steps, Andrew sinks back down to his knees in a smooth motion that has to be harder than it feels. Not once does Neil sense any kind of lurching loss of balance. With a steady inhale, Andrew pulls Neil back up and stands again.

After three reps of that, they reach the edge of the mat, second place with only Kevin and Nicky beating them. “Legs down,” Andrew says, and Neil opens his guard just in time for Andrew to drop him.

“Dude,” Neil says, stumbling. 

“Well that’s one way to learn how to breakfall,” Nicky comments. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Sure.”

Then it’s Neil’s turn. 

It is unimaginably difficult. Even with Andrew’s arms over his shoulders so he doesn’t have to bother so much with the lapel grips, Neil can’t figure out which leg to start standing up with. As soon as he gets to one knee he’s falling to the side of the other one. 

“Do it slower,” Andrew says.

“I am going slowly. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Neil snaps and steps up again, only to wobble and fall again.

“Wrong, that’s not slow.” Andrew is able to close his guard without getting as close as Neil had, since Neil’s so thin, but he pulls himself closer anyway and almost sits up, getting their centers of gravity as in-line as possible. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the secret to Cardio Day is to pace yourself, not to take what Kevin says literally.”

“We’re supposed to do what he says,” Neil argues. “He’s the coach.”

“No he isn’t, remember? Even if he was, it’s your training, not his. Try again.”

Neil, going what feels like comically slow, holds Andrew close and tries to stand up again. He gets to his feet this time and stops, muscles coiled like springs. 

“Exactly. Three steps.”

Neil takes one step forward. Then another. Then he lifts his foot off the mat and-- falls. Andrew opens his guard just in time to breakfall and catches the rest of Neil’s momentum so he doesn’t catch all the force in his wrists. 

Neil swears under his breath and tries again. It’s a little easier, and he gets to the three steps, but doesn’t kneel back down gracefully, just falls a little more predictably this time. 

Kevin comes over now that everybody else has, of course, reached the end of the mats and lined up again. “Just do it one more time.” 

Fucking fine. One foot up, pull Andrew to that side, other foot up, pull Andrew to the center, stand up, ignore the burning muscles of his thighs, take one lumbering step, than another, than a third, then “Legs down” and he drops Andrew exactly like he’d done to Neil.

“You’re supposed to kneel back down, not drop him,” Kevin says.

“I know.”

“Already everybody, off the mats, get some water, come back for drills,” Kevin says to the group at large. A couple of them brought water bottles, but the majority flock over to the water fountains. Neil is last in line because he’s the only one who has to sit down and put on his sneakers instead of just stepping into flipflops, and he gets the shorter water fountain that was almost certainly built so that the kids’ class can reach. 

It’s fine. Today is a good day.

Even the so-called drills, the class part of the class, aren’t straightforward. Kevin just tells everyone to “Drill whatever takedown entries you know, but don’t finish them. Two minutes and switch.” Everyone claps once, synchronized, before they pair up and start their takedowns. Kevin starts walking around and correcting people. 

Andrew stares at Neil. “Uh,” Neil says. “You go first.”

Andrew nods and then he’s all motion and Neil finally gets to feel the so-called vale tudo maniac he’d been with Renee. He grabs a collar tie, forcing Neil’s head down, and hooks his fingers in the outside of Neil’s sleeve, pulls him one way and then the other, forcing him to step forward, and then skids forward, hauling Neil’s leg up in his arms. “Single-leg,” he explains.

“I know what a single-leg is.”

“Then step back next time.” Andrew fights for grips again and gets them, pulls the same pull-sideways trick, but this time when he reaches for Neil’s leg, Neil forces weight back onto it and steps back. 

Andrew trips him. 

“Breakfall,” he says while Neil is still in the air, and Neil slaps the mat out of spite.

What’s worse is that the breakfall works. 

“I said takedown entries,” Kevin snipes at them, because he always comes over at the worst times.

“Not my fault he doesn’t have base,” Andrew says.

“Neil, get better base,” Kevin says. “Andrew, stop tripping him if he’s just going to fall. You’re not learning anything.”

Andrew hits single-legs for the next minute. Neil tries to step back, sprawl, to break his grips, even to pull guard one embarrassing time, but nothing works. Without warning, Andrew then hits a double-leg, but only once, and then when he stands back up he gets nothing but a sleeve grip, pulls Neil’s arm up in a slight arc, and twists somehow so that Neil’s body is stretched across his shoulders. He can tell that if Andrew ducked and pulled further on his arm Neil would go flipping headfirst onto the ground. 

“Fireman’s carry,” Andrew says. 

Of course Neil has heard of a fireman’s carry takedown, but it’s not common in the Raven strategy, and it feels so different than it looks. “Show me again.”

Andrew does the fireman’s carry two more times, Neil running commentary. “So, it’s same-side arm, up, and then step to the side-- no, away-- and then you kneel? Or do you kneel before you step? And then what type of grip you use for the leg? Which leg?”

Before Neil gets his questions answered, the timer goes off and it’s time to switch. 

Alright, Neil tells himself. You just got a masterclass in what you’re supposed to do. First, get grips.

Step One is foiled time and time again by Andrew, who somehow manages to twist and yank his arms out of every single grip Neil gets on them. He only gets close enough for a collar tie once, his palm on the back of Andrew's neck, and Andrew ducks and pushes his elbow up, breaking that grip too. Neil’s fairly certain that he could spend the next week just grip-fighting and not get anywhere against the wrestler. 

“Andrew, stop being a dick,” Kevin calls over to them. “He’s not getting anywhere.”

Now that someone else said it, Neil has to disagree. 

Andrew finally lets Neil grab his sleeve, and must be expecting Neil to pull him into a fireman’s carry because he had asked so many questions about that takedown, which means that Neil of course has to shove Andrew’s arm out of the way and shoot a double-leg. 

“Really,” Andrew says, not only not falling over but also wrapping his arm around Neil’s neck in the precursor to a guillotine. 

“Shit.” Neil stands back up. “You’re like a tree trunk. I didn’t sign up for this just to get marionnetted around, you know.”

“Never would have guessed. Hit the fireman’s.”

Neil does shoot the fireman’s carry this time, keeping his singular grip close, and gets a sense for the feeling just before finishing the takedown, where Andrew’s body is all balanced on the fulcrum of his shoulders. He could just lean forward and send Andrew to the ground. 

“Why did you sign up?” Andrew asks faux-innocently, which is when Neil realizes that he messed up. 

He fights for grips again to stall for time. “You said it yourself, I’m a fanboy,” he tries. 

“Wrong. You didn’t even believe he was Kevin Day.”

“I just like jiu-jitsu.”

“Nicky took down the signs. You didn't know this was a gym any more than Kevin knows you’re a runaway.”

“So it was Nicky.” It’s a clumsy attempt at deflection, Neil reeling from the confidence in Andrew’s deduction, because he’s wrong but he also isn’t. Neil didn’t strictly run away, not from his Uncle, not this time. But he is, in identity, a runaway and nothing else. “I was wondering. Why are you grilling me anyway,” he says, which is what he thinks a normal person would say. Everything’s an interrogation to him.

“Because you’re lying.” The ten-second warning on the timer beeps, and when Neil shoots his next double-leg Andrew simply refuses to fall.

“Okay, Jesus, fine, I came in because some creeps were following me.” This is Neil’s last resort besides just plain bolting. It’s a good lie because it’s true, allowing him to follow it with “I don’t know why.”

The timer goes off, but not much changes considering that everyone has paused in their training to eavesdrop.

“Well why didn’t you say so?” Andrew says, his tone a pitch-perfect imitation of Nicky’s ‘Is it my birthday?’. “That’s against Rule Fourteen.”

“You guys have an anti-stalking clause codified into your gym rules?” Neil doesn’t remember seeing such a rule, but considering the freaks around here he isn’t surprised.

“Rule Fourteen is Be Respectful, don’t you remember. Not very respectful to chase rabbits all the way to foxholes, is it?”

Allison raises her hand. Andrew beams at her, but she’s undeterred. “I fucking hate stalkers. Permission for Seth and I to hunt them down.”

“Denied,” Kevin says. 

That is… a weird exchange. Not only is it weird that strangers want to get involved in Neil’s business, it’s weird that the self-proclaimed non-self-defense trainer would be the first to say so. But paired with Seth, whatever combat weakness she might have would be canceled out. She’d turn from obvious bait and a liability to the secret weapon in the mountain’s shadow, it would be an excellent teamup. There’s just no reason for it.

Dan raises her hand. “We’re not asking.”

“Denied.”

“Go yourself then. Pussy,” Seth says, effortlessly breaking Rules Twelve and Fourteen.

“Denied,” says Andrew.

“I’m not fucking scared of you,” Seth starts, which is an interesting position for him to take considering that he absolutely should be. His loss.

Kevin picks up the remote to the timer from where it’s been sitting on the tops of the mats taped onto the walls. He turns the volume up and makes it beep earsplittingly loud. “Drill your takedowns to finish, any submission. Two minutes each.”

Nobody moves. The timer starts ticking down. 

“How about you walk him home, Andrew,” Renee suggests sweetly. Neil revises his mental calculations to put her down as the largest threat in the room, based off ‘Rather the devil you know’ logic. “Since you seem concerned.”

“Base,” Andrew says as warning before he slams into Neil, takes him down, and hauls him into an armbar before he can start to fight. Neil taps, he lets go. 

“That’s very thoughtful,” Renee says as if Andrew had agreed with her, and then proceeds to take Aaron down the same way. 

The two minutes pass in silence that would be tense if not for the overwhelming presence of Andrew hitting his full wrestling takedowns over and over again. He goes for armbars mostly, but hits a knee bar in a scramble and a kimora when he pins Neil on his side. He does not rush to get up between each rep the way Renee does, allowing Neil some time to catch his breath, but he does not slow down either, the two minutes passing in perfect increments of stand up, fall, tap, stand up again. 

They switch and Neil learns that he has been doing collarties incorrectly and he should be keeping his elbow in and constantly putting weight on the back of Andrew’s neck. “Otherwise I just have your arm,” Andrew explains, taking Neil’s arm and ducking underneath to get his hands around Neil’s waist in the precursor to a mat return.

“Noted.”

Neil manages to land one somewhat passable double-leg to armbar combo before the timer screeches again. 

Kevin turns the timer’s volume down, looking faintly embarrassed now that he’s not interrupting anyone. “Circle up,” he says. “Nicky, can I borrow you for single-leg x?”

Nicky walks to the center of the mat and Kevin falls back and slaps the mat, maneuvering himself so that Nicky is standing over him with his feet standing beside Kevin’s waist. Kevin grabs Nicky’s ankles and launches the lower half of his body up, his knee clamping down on the inside of Nicky’s thigh and his other heel wrapping around to the outside. “Five reps, alternating sides, and sweep on the fifth,” he says, then demonstrates the sequence again, four more times, and on the fifth time bridges his hips at a 45-degree angle so that Nicky falls. “One minute and switch.”

Neil’s seen that move before. It should be fine. The timer beeps and everyone does their synchronized clap.

Once he’s actually laying on the mat with Andrew standing over him, he gets second thoughts. He’s meant to bring his knee up to hold onto the inside of Andrew’s thigh, which is obvious, that’s just what single-leg x is, but-- “This feels dangerous,” he comments.

“If you knee me in the balls I will return the favor.”

Neil tilts his head. “Bit difficult.” 

“I’d find a way.”

He does not end up kneeing Andrew in the balls, which makes the whole thing an overwhelming success, even though it takes him six tries to actually pull off the sweep at the end. Andrew’s sense of balance is just supernatural. 

The timer goes off and they switch. Neil already feels off-balance as Andrew gets into position, holding his ankles, and when Andrew’s knee catches him, he can’t stop himself from falling backwards. Here we go again, he thinks.

Andrew surges forward after him, eyes widening, and he’s not sure what the problem is until he hits the ground with Andrew’s hands cradling Neil’s head. “Oh shit,” he says, looking down to see that his head and shoulders are hanging off the edge of the mat. He would’ve cracked his skull open on the hard concrete. “Thanks.”

Andrew pulls his hands away, looking annoyed. “Don’t fall.”

Neil does fall again, and again, but in a different direction so Andrew doesn’t have to rescue him again. He’s not sure which one of them is more frustrated by it by the time Kevin tells them to circle up again.

They drill knee-cuts, which Neil does actually understand. It’s just one hand on the hip and one hand on the knee, push the knee to the mat, staple it down with his leg, underhook, and go to side control. There are intricacies he’s not getting, he’s sure, but it’s fine. Then they do a more movement-focused drill in which he switches from armbar from guard to armbarring the other arm, swinging 180 degrees around with just the pendulum momentum from one leg. 

“Do you know how to do a wristlock from here,” Andrew asks while Neil is holding onto both of his arms and calculating how much momentum he can get without accidentally kicking Andrew in the head. 

“Of course,” Neil says. He tries to do the pendulum motion, but runs out of momentum while still facing Andrew, so he just scoots the rest of the way until he has his leg clamped over Andrew’s head in proper guard-armbar position. “Do you want me to?”

“Show me how you would.”

Neil does so, methodically replicating the steps he remembers from watching a Raven instructional video. It doesn’t feel quite right, but Andrew taps anyway, and they continue the drill without further interruption. 

Just when Neil thinks he’s going to have to slow down or even, horrifyingly, ask to take a break-- the pendulum motion requires a ton of ab strength, as did single-leg x-- the timer goes off. “That’s class for today, line up on the edge of the mat,” Kevin says. 

Andrew rapidly disentagles himself from Neil’s guard and goes to stand beside Renee and Nicky, the other low-ranking blue belts. Neil goes to the end of the line, beside Seth. 

“Good work today. Announcements just in case you forgot: Do not leave your devil’s lettuce in the cubbies, Renee and Dan are fighting Toro, Wymack’s birthday is next Monday, and Neil, Trial Class, is not allowed to roll. Let’s bow out.”

Everybody bows, then Kevin goes to the front of the line and starts shaking hands, the line doubling over on itself to follow him so Neil gets told “Good work” by Kevin Day, Allison Reynolds, Dan Wilds, Matt, Aaron, Renee, a very cheery Nicky, and a reluctant Seth, in that order. It’s so disorienting that he only notices what’s wrong when everybody has gone to the water fountains.

Andrew is gone.

Belt rankings, reasoning, main skills:

Wymack- black (coach. Main skills: Patience.)

Kevin- brown (trained since birth. Main skills: he’s just better than you.)

Allison- purple (access to a gym since freshman year high school. Main skills: leg entanglements.)

Dan- Blue, 3 stripe (dedicated training. Main skills: Creative use of weight and pressure while incorporating moves from class into strategic rolling.)

Matt- Blue, 2 stripe (built different. Main skills: strength without skimping on technique)

Aaron- Blue, 2 stripe (wrestling experience. Main skills: a lot stronger than he looks.)

Renee- Blue, 2 stripe (access to a gym since being adopted by Stephanie. Main skills: does not believe in no-win scenarios)

Andrew- Blue, 0 stripe (does not roll with anyone but Kevin, Aaron, Nicky, and Renee. Main skills: balance, standup, grip-breaking, and space management. You cannot knock him over and you especially cannot pin him down.)

Nicky- Blue, 0 stripe (does not follow the rules. Main skills: wrestling and flexibility.)

Seth- White, 4 stripe (has trouble translating moves from drills into strategy during rolling, does not follow the rules. Main skills: built like a truck.)

Neil- White, 0 stripe (no experience, pure vibes. Main skills: encyclopedic knowledge of lore.)

Also, Neil talks about the Gracie family like he really admires them, because he fucking loves jiu-jitsu, but in real life they’re not exactly role models. They can be trusted to be damn good at jiu-jitsu but not, for example, to respect women. However, at least they’re not the Moriyamas. 

Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you liked it!

[raindrvq]

silly ride the cyclone headcanons oooooooo

ricky and penny had a nightcore phase

they both like to dance to caramelldansen n sing the lyrics incorrectly 🫶

ricky, penny, and constance all love vocaloid

penny likes showing constance fun sounding songs and then half way through showing her the very concerning lyrics

noel quotes the "go piss girl" meme every single time someone has to go pee

both penny and mischa will bump into things and just ignore it. sometimes they'll realize they're abt to bump into something but wont try n avoid it. they'll just slam their head opening a cabinet and are barely phased and whoever is nearby is just like "...are you okay??"

ricky and penny like to cosplay together and sometimes they get the whole choir to join

going back to scene kid ricky i think she and mischa would like 3OH!3, and mayb also noel, DONTTRUSTME kinda him core

ocean is hardcore judging them whenever they play it

penny is the type of gal to just randomly, try n bite ppl, affectionately ofc

now mischa is the type guy who's love language is announcing whenever he has to go to the bathroom, like the choir will be having a normal convo then 'hold on guys i gotta go take a shit' 'ew mischa thats gross' 'idc'

ricky makes all of the choir matching bracelets

noel has a coffee addiction n goes to starbucks way too much bc ofc he does

very boring n stereotypical ik but his go to would be an iced coffee. needs to energy and claims it helps him deal w ocean

penny will get a flavored tea or lemonade, mayb even a mix if shes feeling fun

constance always loves to try new or seasonal drinks, likes frappuccinos

feel like ocean would enjoy a nice iced tea

ricky gets hot chocolate when its colder, and strawberry acai refreshers when its warmer

mischa claims he likes coffee and he tries to but he just does not like the taste. however sometimes if noel's coffee has more milk/creamer than he likes and u can't really taste the coffee he'll give it to mischa. but normally mischa likes to get refreshers and always gets them blended bc drinks are almost always better blended. also he'll drink them all year round hes over here with a frozen drink in the middle of winter

penny will randomly in the middle of a conversation stare at someone which usually ends up in a staring contest and everyone else slowly starts to notice and abandon whatever they were talking about to see who will win (its always penny she's a master of the blank stare)

[mint-yooxgi]

What powers did you add to demon ateez?

Ellie, I am so glad you asked!!!! Thank you for letting me indulge in my daydreams!!!!!!

Okay, so, some of them are a little basic but....

I’m thinking one of them, maybe two, can control animals at will, maybe Seonghwa and Yeosang, just because I think it fits their characters. Also, I think it would be funny to tease them about being a Disney princess with how Seonghwa’s a tailor and can manipulate animals to do his bidding. (Gisele from Enchanted, anyone? Snow White probably fits him better lmaoo). I just have this image in my mind of you learning about it and thinking it’s actually really cool and like, wanting to walk alongside like, tigers, and lions, and just any and every type of large predatory cat (jaguar, panther, cheetah, etc) and since the guys would do anything for you (and the two of them, especially, of course because this is something they can do for you), they do exactly that for you, and the image of you stalking down the hallway (or outside, I was originally thinking a grand throne room in my mind when I thought of this) flanked by the large predatory cats nearly sends them all to their knees because you look like a Queen. Not just any queen though, their Queen.

Two of them can shift into different animals at will, including ‘mythical’ creatures (they’re not very mythical to them, if they’re being honest), and it’d probably be Wooyoung and Jongho just because I think it fits their personality really well. I can just imagine them all conjuring a room full of bunnies, or cats, or something, and there ending up being two more of them than at the start because someone has decided to shift into the same creature at some point only to end up in your lap or on your chest nuzzling into your neck or purring up a storm because you’re finally giving them attention, and your hands are all over them!!! Jongho is definitely more of a nuzzler, while Wooyoung would most definitely take this opportunity to kiss (lick) you all over, the little cheeky shit.

Two more can manipulate the four basic elements, like earth, air, fire, and water - probably San and Mingi. They show off more often than not, especially if you’re lounging by the pool (more so San) since, you know, water. Plus, the way you get captivated by the intricate patterns and designs they can create by threading the water through the air makes a sense of pride fill their chest. Finally, he can do something for you that makes you happy (other than cooking, that is). Part of the reason why Mingi handles the drinks is because he can manipulate liquids, makes it more quick and efficient. The fire aspect also helps with San’s cooking, also part of the reason why Mingi almost burns the house down when he attempts to cook lmaoo. Also handy when your get cold cause he could heat you up using his body. Great for the two of them, horrid for you (and the other boys who could essentially do the same, just not as quickly or as efficiently).

Yunho and Hongjoong, I was thinking, can manipulate more intensive elements so they can essentially control the weather. Lighting, storms, lava, etc. I just have this idea that just came to me that maybe you love storms and falling asleep to the sound of rain, so on nights when you find it hard to sleep, one of them will conjure a rainstorm or something to help calm you down and soothe you to sleep. Over time, one of them, if not both, will create a lighting storm for you, and they all get to watch the wonder and amazement shine in your eyes as you observe the storm. Also, I think it would be really funny if both of them, and Mingi and San always had pissing contests about their powers, especially if you were involved.

I also have this headcanon that blood is like an aphrodisiac/alcohol to them, and every human’s blood tastes different based on the ‘quality’ of it, and the type. Hence why they rarely consume it. Besides, souls are more filling that way, and the last thing they want is to not be able to control themselves around you (even if they’ve already proven that that’s an extremely difficult thing to do, they don’t need to make it any harder on themselves). Oh, but the first time they ever get a taste of your blood... ohohohohoho ;)

[h0tchner]

Something More (Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader)

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: Written as a request for the loml, Abby! (@heliotropehotch!) "Could I have a hotch x reader request thats got a love confession- maybe a hurt comfort scene where the reader is maybe torn up about something like self deprecation or some cop makes an off-handed compliment and he cups her cheeks and wipes the tears away? Pretty please 🥺"

word count: 3.2k

includes: love confessions! hurt/comfort, protective!hotch, mutual pining!!!, kissing, a little teaser of sexytimes, work tension, BAU!reader, crying and other emotions, rude af deputies, fluff soooo much fluff

rating: 18+ (cursing, crude nicknames, suggestive sexual mentions, and brief explicit sexual content at the very end)

a/n: HELLO BESTIES! I hope you love this one! If you want a smutty part two, let me know. PLS (!!!!!) interact if you liked this fic; rb, comment, like and/or send me a request if you have ideas for future fics! i love y’all! - rivka💞

some pals tags: @arsonhotchner @laurensprentiss @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie

“It’s time to give the profile,” Hotch announces.

Six words. One sentence. Zero hesitation.

“Go and gather everybody in the bullpen,” he directs Spencer, who nods and quietly exits the conference room to collect your team and the rest of the Sherrif’s department of this small, Wisconsin town.

You stand on the opposite side of the table from your boss, looking at him expectantly. Hotch meets your gaze. His tongue darts out from between his lips as he glares at you from beneath thick lashes. You wait for your instructions, but the instructions don’t come. Rather, you both stand there in a staring contest, unmoving.

You can’t help but feel bare under his scrutiny, but this feeling is nothing new. Every time Hotch looks at you, it feels as if every fibre of your being is on fire. It’s been this way since the very first day you started with the BAU, and, over time, the flame has only burned brighter.

You and Hotch have grown close over the two years you’ve been with the team: closer than he’s been with any of his other agents, even Rossi. It all started with one long night spent together in his office, sharing cold Chinese food, scribbling away at mountains of paperwork. It was then, sitting across the desk from him, laughing at his incredulous reaction when he dropped some Lo Mein on an After-Action Report, that you knew: you were in deep. From then on, your Chinese food office “dates” became a regular occurrence. And then, those regular occurrences transformed into other regular occurrences; to name a few: rides on the jet, side by side, sharing soft glances and tired smiles after hard cases… holding hands to comfort each other when emotionally vulnerable… and even bringing you your favourite coffee on mornings that you’ve needed an extra boost. All these little moments of kindness and care are what made you fall in love with him. You would cross the line from coworkers to more in a heartbeat if you knew for certain that he felt the same way about you. But you refuse to take a risk on losing what you currently have with Hotch for the chance at something more.

The way that Hotch looks at you now, tall and commanding, feels very much like something more… it’s incredibly intimate. He’s effectively stripped away all the layers of protection you’ve built up to do your job with one pointed glance. What you don’t know is that he too feeling the same way, and is toeing a line between being your boss, being your friend, and being your “something more.”

Hotch breathes out hard through his nose. You watch as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does. His jaw ticks. He shifts on his feet.

“I want you to sit this one out,” he says.

“Hotch?” You question, puzzled. Nothing about this day has prepared you for him to say that. You start racking your brain, trying to figure out why he would give you such a ridiculous order. Did you piss him off somehow? Did you play-flirt with Morgan too much in the car? Overlook an important lead? Did he not like the coffee you made him this morning?

Looking over at him, you swear he almost looks conflicted�� but it doesn’t last.

“This is not up for debate. Do you understand me? You’re sitting this one out.” He repeats, steadfast.

“I don’t understand, what did I do wrong?” You ask more defensively this time, wishing he would give you more information. Something, anything besides the “SSA Aaron Hotchner” routine he was pulling on you now.

“I never said you did anything wrong.” Hotch moves forward a step, finally breaking eye contact, opting to gather files and loose papers into his arms.

“So, then what it is?” You cross your arms, stepping forwards as well, challenging him with your posture.

He doesn’t respond, nor does he look at you. Instead, he lumps more files into his arms before rounding the table, moving swiftly toward the door.

You have never, ever disobeyed one of his orders because his orders have always made sense… until now.

“Hotch,” you say sternly, your stubborn feet moving to stand between him and the exit before your logical brain can stop you.

He’s practically up against you, cornering you between his solid body and the old wooden door. His height dominates your shorter frame, and the heat coming off his body is positively criminal. Your heart flutters in your chest as he stares you down, calculating his next move.

“Out of my way, Agent Y/L/N.” He breathes out, tensing his jaw.

“Fine,” you stutter, “just tell me why and then I’ll let you go.” Your confidence wavers as you’re a little taken aback by his official use of your title and last name.

You’re hurt, confused… and he knows this. No matter how hard you’re putting on your tough-girl FBI face, Hotch can see right through it. He knows this order is unjustified, but he has his own reasons: reasons that he can’t get into. Not now.

Hotch lets his eyes dart to the side, past your head, not daring to look you in the eyes. He wills himself to be gentle.

“I can’t tell you, but I need you to trust me. Sit this one out.” He verbalizes, looking at you a little softer now. His face relaxes a little more into the Hotchner you’ve come to know: the one who calls his son every night to read a bedtime story, the one who grins every time you beat him in chess.

You two stand there a moment longer, your heart racing from the heat of the quarrel and your current proximity to your Unit Chief.

Hotch opens his mouth to say something else, but a knock on the door behind you stops him in his tracks. You step aside and he whips open the door; a very apologetic Spencer stands behind it.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Spencer says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “but everyone is ready in the bullpen.”

“Thank you,” Hotch nods, stepping forward to leave, but you grab a hold of his arm.

“Hotch,” you begin, not entirely sure what you want to say.

“Later,” he answers, finishing the unspoken thought.

With that, he’s out the door and you’re left alone with only stale coffee and a bunch of disorganized files to keep you company.

You close the door behind them with a sigh, letting yourself rest against it again, closing your eyes for a moment in defeat. Three days on this case. Three days of hard work, interviews, and research just to get benched in the end zone. You wish that you didn’t love Hotch, because maybe if you didn’t, it would be easier to disobey him. Opening your eyes again, you scan the quiet room. Then, something in front of you catches your eye and you get an idea.

On the table rests one of the precinct’s phones. It is all too easy to use the conference feature to listen in on one of the other phone lines: specifically, one in the bullpen.

You grin and rush over to the device, feeling a little bit sheepish for not listening to Hotch, but you push the buttons anyway, and bring the receiver up to your ear.

At first, all you hear is the shuffling of papers and muffled voices. You take a seat, leaning back in your chair like the cat who caught the canary. Several more moments pass of bureaucratic white noise, but then, someone speaks.

“Where’s the slutty one?” A male voice whispers.

“Oh, Agent Y/N? Probably on her knees somewhere waiting for her boss to come back.” A second male voice snickers back, matching the volume of the first.

You gasp, the phone slipping out of your hand, landing on the table with a loud thunk.

Scrambling, you grab it again, your other hand coming to rest over your open mouth.

“Don’t know why he wouldn’t let us use her as bait. This whole case could’ve been wrapped up and done by now if we just stuck her in a skimpy dress and shoved her out on the street.” One of them muses.

“Obviously because he’s sleeping with her.” The other mutters. “Agent Hotchner looked like he was going to take your head off when you asked him about it. Thought he was going to deck you for suggesting disguising her as a hooker to lure this guy out.”

“Yeah, he did. She looks like the victims, though. Bet she’s a whore like them too.”

“Deputies, we’re starting.” You hear a third voice pipe up. This time it’s one you recognize: it’s Hotch. “This is your final warning. I don’t want to hear another word out of you for the rest of the day. Not only is this wildly inappropriate, but it is insulting and vile. If I hear either of you speak about, look at, or interact with Agent Y/N, I will make sure you are both charged with harassment and fired from this department. Is that clear?”

With that, your eyes nearly pop out of your head. The deputies mumble something back, but you can’t hear over the sound of papers rustling.

Stunned, you set the phone back in its holder and force air into your lungs.

Waves of thoughts come crashing down on you. You have so many questions and so many answers and it’s all just… too much.

Suddenly, you know that you need to be anywhere but here.

You stand, shoving the chair aside and burst out of the conference room, fuming. You power-walk down the hall, and past the bullpen, focused on getting yourself outside and into the fresh air. Understandably, you don’t look up as you pass the profile briefing, so you don’t see Hotch’s brow furrow at the sight of you. You also don’t see him hand his papers to JJ, excuse himself, and race to follow you out the front door.

Once you’re outside in the parking lot, you look up at the cloudy, grey sky, and the tears start to fall. You feel guilty and angry; part of you wants to run away and cry, but the other part of you wants to walk straight up to those men and kick them straight in the dick. They not only called you vile names, but they also called the victims – those poor, dead women – the same. You sniffle, thinking about how Hotch stepped in and protected you, stood up for you.

Hotch… the thought of him makes you cry a little harder.

You start to pace around, kicking gravel as you went.

Were you that obvious? Was your crush so rampant that two low-level deputies in the middle of nowheresville picked up that easily on how you really felt about your boss?

“Fuck you two,” you curse under your breath to nobody as you choke back sobs. You kick a large piece of gravel as hard and as far as you can, but it doesn’t help.

“Are you okay?” A voice prods from behind you, gently, hesitantly, as if not to spook you. It’s a curt baritone, laced with concern. It’s Hotch.

“Hotch,” you breathe, turning to face him, furiously wiping tears away from your eyes.

“What happened?” He frowns, stepping closer to you, a comforting hand reaching forward to take yours.

Any other day you would grasp it contently, letting him console you. Today? All you can hear are the deputy’s comments. Sleeping with her. Whore. On her knees. You’re embarrassed and ashamed, so, you involuntarily step back.

“It’s nothing,” you put your hands up, looking down at your feet.

“Y/N,” Hotch says, his heart pounding in his chest.

You look back up, locking on his beautiful, angular face. You see every feature clouded in a haze of sorrow and concern.

You know you must swallow your pain and try to get it out. He wasn’t about to let you off easy.

“You… they… I…” you begin, but never finish your sentence. Instead, you start to cry again.

Wordlessly, Hotch moves to cup your face in his hands. They’re large and slightly calloused, encasing your cheeks as his thumbs gently swipe away the tears. His soft eyes search your watery ones; despite your better instinct, you bring your hands up to rest on his chest. You feel his breathing hitch. One of his hands moves from your face to cover your smaller hand against his chest. The two of you stay there, just like that, for another handful of heartbeats. You focus on his hands and how warm and safe they make you feel. Soon enough, you stop crying and gather the courage to speak.

“I heard them.” You whisper, not trusting yourself to say another word. You know that Hotch knows exactly who “them” is, and exactly what it is that you’ve heard.

His brow creases and his hand grips yours tighter. He cleans another tear off your cheek, and then lets that hand down to ball in a fist at his side.

“I’m going to kill them.” Hotch states, furious and heartbroken.

“Me first.” You sniffle.

Your boss sighs, giving you a heartfelt look. Leave it to you to make a joke at a time like this.

“I told them this morning that if I ever heard them say another thing about you, I was going to have their badges. I should’ve kicked them off this case hours ago.” He huffs, closing his eyes, letting his other hand, the one that was covering yours, drop down to his side.

You know this look all too well. You know he’s blaming himself.

“It’s not your fault,” you offer, smoothing your hands over his chest to settle on his upper arms. “Hotch, look at me.”

He doesn’t at first, but eventually, he opens his eyes. His hands open and close at his sides, as if he’s fighting them to be still.

“I’m sorry.” He breathes out. “For everything. For handling this how I did.”

“I’m not.” You chime in, feeling braver, calmer now that you’re here with him. Your comment earns a quizzical glance and a slight head tilt from Hotch, urging you to go on. “You stood up for me. You honoured me. You respected me. You protected me. You –“

With a fierce momentum, your next sentence is swallowed by Hotch’s lips pressing into yours. His hands come up to rest on your hips, and then circle around your waist to pull you closer. He’s warm and soft and intense; you whimper into the kiss, moving your hands to rest on the back of his neck and card in his hair. The kiss is over far too soon for your liking, both of you needing to pull back and inhale.

Hotch looks at you with heavy eyes, hands gripping your hips. He smells like coffee and pine, with a hint of something spicier. Everything about him is overwhelming yet grounding.

“Finally,” you whisper, hands clasped around his neck. “It’s about damn time.”

“It is,” is all he musters, still dazed by the audacity of his own actions.

“Aaron?” You lick your lips, feeling his hands squeeze you tight at your use of his first name.

“Yeah?” He can’t help but start to smile, showing off his adorable dimples and crinkled lines around his eyes.

“I love you; do you know that?” You say in earnest.

Aaron giggles, giggles at your confession, and then attacks your lips again, making you yelp at the surprise. His lips detach from yours only to pepper kisses on your tear-stained cheeks, jaw, and forehead.

“I love you too,” he breathes out, giddier than you’ve ever seen him. He looks like a kid in a candy shop, and it makes your heart leap into your throat.

Just then, a car beeps on the road, startling you two. You’re suddenly reminded where you are, and why you’re here. The thought of having to go back inside makes you groan, and you bury your head into his chest for a moment. He hums into your hair, planting a kiss on the top of your head.

Reluctantly, you pull yourself off his chest to look up at him.

“Forget about them,” you say, “go finish giving the profile so we can close this case and get the hell out of this town so you can take me home and show me how much you love me.” You smile at him, pulling him in for another, lighter kiss.

He grins against your lips, meeting you for another smooch.

“Yes ma’am,” Hotch replies, giving you a kiss on the tip of your nose.

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

Three months later, you and Aaron are coming down from your highs, sweaty and blissed-out after an amazing lovemaking session. After the team wrapped up the case and made it back to Virginia in one piece, you and Hotch went out to dinner the next night. He took you to dine in at the Chinese restaurant that you both usually ordered from on those nights you both spent pining and yearning in his office. It was… perfect. He was perfect. Just as your friendship had blossomed, so did your relationship. One date led to another, one gesture turned into more, and you and Aaron settled into life as a couple with ease. You hadn’t brought up the incident with the deputies since it had happened the afternoon that Hotch had followed you out to the parking lot to wipe away your tears.

Now, as you lay in his arms, wrapped in his strong, loving, embrace, your mind wanders back to their words. However, you don’t feel animosity toward them, rather it makes you giggle.

“What’s so funny hot stuff?” Aaron cracks open an eye and smiles down at you. One arm is tucked underneath his head, and the other is tracing patterns on the bare skin of your shoulder.

“Oh, just that case we had in Wisconsin a few months back.” You nuzzle deeper into his chest with another laugh.

Hotch frowns, recalling the memory, thinking about the way those awful men spoke about you.

“How is that funny?” He asks, hesitantly.

“They called me a whore.” You say nonchalantly, peering innocently into his amber eyes. You bring your palm up to swipe across his cheek softly, feeling the light stubble of his jaw underneath your fingertips.

Both of his eyes are open now, and his hand motions cease their patterns on your skin. He’s confused, and the face he’s giving you is downright adorable. It makes you giggle again.

You detach yourself from his grasp and sit yourself up, carefully shimmying down the bed. Aaron’s eyes never leave you.

You nestle yourself between his legs and look up at him with a smirk.

“They were partially right.” You offer, studying the small changes in his face, watching as his eyes glaze over with lust for the second time that night.

“I am a whore.” You pout suggestively and flutter your eyelashes. “A whore for you, Hotch.”

He shakes his head at you in amusement and chuckles, but it quickly turns into a deep, throaty moan as you wrap your lips around the tip of him.

As you start to bob your head on his already hardening length, you think to yourself: as much as I hate to say it... someone should really give those two deputies a raise.

[loneworldgazer]

itching hands

pairings: bonten x chubby!reader

a/n: this was supposed be for december but i'm impatient🕴

warnings: suggestive, bonten

life with bonten series

• × • × • × • × • × • × • × • × • × • ו × • × • × • × • ×

these men will bark at you if you ever had the time to be insecure about yourself

hold on tight to your seat cause i'm sure these executives won't let you

especially these easter egg mfs, you never know what's in each of these peoples' minds

sanzu

he lets a lot of things slip from his mind and specially his comments about you

he ranges from thirsty to intense staring at any part of your body where if i say so, it's gonna be a lot more pg

eventhough he's weirdly obsessive of how you look, he means good! it's just that his lameo ass can't say or spell it out to you without sounding like a pervert

he enters your apartment in search of any of the haitani brothers to pick up their report on the last mission and maybe you so he could easily find the two since they always muted their phones when busy.

at first, he wanted to reward himself with a little something since he did a little running around here and there, why not look into your fridge? he slowly opened it because of instinct and almost fell on his knees when he saw sweet cakes topped with icing. he reached out to it as if it's begging for him to just eat it up and he drooled with how soft it looked but a grab to his wrist startled him when he looked at the person in alarm, a quirk of your eyebrows immediately lead him to explain what he's here for.

"uh searching for haitani- by the way can i eat that-" you wiped his drool that ran down his chin with a tissue hastily, in full exaggeration the bright pink haired man is an absolute sweet tooth. he finally let his eyes set on you and he looked comedic with his wide eyes when he looked down at your soft thighs in the comfy shorts you wore.

you ignored his staring and sighed, pointing to the label of the sweet cake which had rindou's name on it but you changed your mind due to said man pouting and took out the cake and peeled off the label, offering to sanzu who drooled again but he doesn't know what's his drooling for anymore (rindou can always order another cake anyways). you closed the fridge and stretched, moving into the living room to lay on the sofa.

he felt content with his dessert, all he needed was a place to sit and he just felt that the perfect place was between, between, man he couldn't help it but stare at plushiness of your thighs. he wanted to bite it.

"can i lay myself between your thighs?"

a silent staring contest was held maybe, if people were to walk in at the moment but with a smirk you patted yourself.

"go ahead darling"

after a while

"y/n did you ate my cake!?" rindou gruffly yelled out and he didn't know what did he just walked into, you brushing and massaging sanzu's head while he hums and kisses up your thighs with the empty plate near his feet and rindou massaged his temples to not drag the male between your thighs into a body bag.

but he failed so sorry sanzu.

ran walked in with an amused stare when sanzu haven't noticed them yet and y/n laughed to rindou who was starting to march up to sanzu to grab both his ankles.

ran lazily stumbled to the sofa with his legs spread while watching whatever the hell the two were doing when sanzu finally woke up from his fantasies, fly high sanzu🕊🕊

ran leaned in to whisper to you when you secretly recorded the fight, asking why you finally offered sanzu a place to lay when you didn't let him lay between when he asked you so many times. you looked over at him with your mischevious eyes and he knows damn well he needs to do more than just asking.

extra!!:

"WAAAHH Y/N THEY BULLIED ME !!" you don't if sanzu's faking his loud crying or not with tears begin to slip past his cheek when he pointed at the haitanis and rindou had no shame in admitting what he done when his older brother blinked in confusion.

you tried to hold in any chortles or laughter coming out because the pink boy had his worst when rindou bent his leg over his head while muttering how he should've killed sanzu from day one. you held out your arms and he immediately flopped you to the coach when he pushed and smothered into your scent.

the haitanis still don't why you adore that crazed man baby who likes killing people and making them confess their crimes, you said you found it really annoyingly cute that's why you had haru in your arms who nibbled on you like a baby.

just hope that the treatment with haru doesn't go on and on and you actually do something about it instead of kissing his tears away and cuddled with him.

kakucho

he feels disrespectful to how much staring he does to you on a daily basis

the way you walk, your hips popping and the curve of your hip dips makes him go crazy

he wonders if he could just hold onto your waist or just touch onto your hips, he might faint touching the roughness of your stretch marks as if he's been blessed by pure heaven

he's obsessed with how you present yourself to the others

if only he was a little more bolder, he could admire it closer if he just asked (?)

"have you taken an interest in y/n, kaku?" ran's eyes glanced at kakucho's hard staring at your crossed legs and he stopped, scoffing at ran's word but the older haitani had a plan up his sleeves.

y/n sat nearby kokonoi's table doing their own thing, looking like a sweet thing that had kakucho's glued on them that ran couldn't help pointing it out and it didn't help kakucho's poor heart when mikey suddenly interrupted the conversation.

"kakucho, please assist y/n on where's they want to go at the moment" it made kakucho perk up, startled by the sudden job of bodyguard and he looked back at ran who winked at him. no no no this isn't what he wanted, what was he planning?

it's annoying on how this puppy crush of his grew even more worse, your whole personality draws him towards you, making him feel like a kid again because of how nonchalant you are with him. he felt laidback being with you is like the calm after a storm with his work and shenanigans in bonten.

he watched from a distance when you looked over the things on your list, kakucho also gathered some of the things you wanted into a little basket and cancelling some out so you didn't have to get them anymore and you thanked him with your pretty smile.

he scanned the area around him and held himself back from punching when this one creepo think they're being sleak with how they kept eyeing you, kakucho either think he was a pick pocket or a flirt but he kept a good metres away from him to see what he was doing but he was ready to turn towards you if they got any closer.

you turned towards kakucho, waving your hand to come to you and he immediately went, feeling more pissed off towards the person creeping in on you slowly but he felt your rough palm on the skin of his wrist wrapping it around your waist. he unconsciously squeezed around you, pulling you close as he shot a nasty glare towards the person who backed off, seeing the intense look from the half blind which they didn't dare messing with.

you both walk away, heading towards the counter as you laughed behind the palm of you hand; still in position of kakucho tightly holding onto your waist where he panicked when he realized how hard he's latching onto you.

"hah~ you're so-"

still choking on your laughter, he akwardly shuffles to the side in embarassment and it added more fuel to the fire when he remembered how he held your waist and he excused himself before combusting in front of you and went away for a few seconds.

you have to say but you gotta thank ran for this plan, even if the creepo appeared out of nowhere, atleast you got to see how bonten nunber 3 reacts to his dream coming true~

kokonoi

he mostly admires you in silence and gets distracted if he ever talks to somebody

just his eyes trailing down every curve on your body and just daydreams about them (as in like cuddling pls)

the other executives would notice how his eyes are always on you in every meeting youre in and would tease him about it when you leave the room like ran would comment 'so thats where your head was this whole time hm?'

kokonoi love your pictures, he feels creepy stalking your pictures but he can't help but gush into the palm of his hand of your stunning you look, you make him faint whenever you had suprise pictures of you in dresses and he feel like his whole body is on fire.

ran taps the head of his pen to the temple of kokonoi's head and he slams his phone down and put on a poker face, it faltering when he clenched his teeth already knowing what's coming. ran sneered to how much of a simp he was and flicked the back of his head, pointing towards the door of his office; telling him any moment you're gonna come by and koko swats his hand away, knowing the haitani was just teasing him but his eyes nearly bulged out when you actually swung by.

all sleepy and dreamy like, his heart getting squeezed and the older haitani patting you towards koko who unexpectantly had you in your lap, your weight tapping him out of his daydreams as you hugged him tighter.

"my my, tired baby ain't ya?" he put on his proper poker face he got from the back of his desk, trying not to falter when you sleepily ranted on how work was terribly tiring and he patted your back shakily, not wanting to push you off due to extreme nervousness. he joked with you telling that he could just pay you easily if you work under him and you pushed his chest with your head bonk .

"ywou drhon just-mphm-hrmm" him heating up to how close with you works because he was the best heat warmer you could ask for, he felt bad for moving you to the coach but he just needed a comfortable position for you sleep in because you sitting on him? naaah, he's a puddle by the end of it.

the urge to take a picture was really strong so he took out his phone and angle his phone down to catch your drool slipping out of you and smiled feverishly to how dorky you looked.

koko felt like he could fuck up more of his feelings staring at your sleeping face, he rubbed his finger on your fat cheek you smooshed onto the coach and shifted a little in your sleep to adjust the blanket more closer to you. koko's touches were hesitant, didn't want to be a pervert when all he did was touch your soft cheek.

he wanted to just hold you close to his chest and have you against him but his prickling anxiety said otherwise, his awful thoughts and stubborness entertaining the shit out of him. you nearly give him a heart attack when one of your eyes open when he wanted to take his second picture and you latched onto his wrist. koko squawked and you couldn't help but burst out in guffaws to how panicked he looked when you caught him.

if anyone saw this scene, koko surely would die of embarassment and he'll dig his grave himself but unfortunely he will eventually when the blinking red of somebody's recording was capturing every moment of it.

haitani brothers

the duo who makes you nervous with their hard stares on you

these two are also pretty touchy so it's dangerous when they're handsy with one of your body parts

rindou are obsessed with your chubbiness, poking it just to see his finger bounce back; comedically

he loves being close with you because you're so squishy??? the type of guy who plays with your squishiness like you're a stress toy and holds himself back from biting

you're the greatest fridge or heat bag on the off days he haves, just wrapped up in blankets and you makes him sleep like a baby

as discussed earlier, ran wants to his head between your thighs; don't be suprised when one day he felt like he should get killed by them and you reject his acceptance towards death

he's a leg man and likes sleeping on your lap or kissing them or he just does anything with them (if you don't mind)

you just gotta remember these two are menaces right next to sanzu cause they'll bother you about it like forever if they can

after seeing the endless babying of sanzu, rindou turns to his brother who was lost in his thoughts and tapped his shoulder with the back of his hand. he lifted his eybrow, needing a response to how quiet he became and ran gave him a sly smile.

"you look at y/n like you wanna eat them up" ran shrugged, placing his elbow on rindou's shoulder as he slipped a comment on how he can eat y/n in other ways while rindou scrunched up in disgust. sanzu then emerged right next to rindou, telling them to give their report; damn well distracted when you started brushing and massaging his head a few moments ago.

rindou pointed towards the window, telling sanzu to fetch the files in his car while 'lightly' threatening him to buy another cake for him and the pink haired boy waved him off as if his threatening didn't give him flashbacks to how rindou almost squeezed his organs out of his ribcage when he looked at the empty plate.

when sanzu disappeared out of the house, rindou pulled you by the waist and onto his lap. squeezing your fat and kissing up your neck, he grazed a sweet spot but you swatted him telling him what's gotten into him. ran lay his head on your lap and looked like a satisfied brat when you look back at him then his brother all confused like.

rindou couldn't spare anymore time so he whispered in your ear, telling how much of a nuisance his older brother was and pleaded you to let him do what he wished to do. ran quirked his eyebrows, leaning up to kiss you while you teased him more by placing a finger on his lips.

"using your brother as a way to get me to do your thing instead of asking me in the nicest way? how cruel haitani, don't you know how torturous it is for your brother to put up with you?"

he smirks, knowing how much of a tease you were and feigned his sigh. rindou clamped his hands over this ears to not hear whatever the hell is this and tilted his head comfortably on your neck.

you shifted off rindou's lap, letting the man going after your sweet self place his head on your tummy as he happily shifts himself to a tiny nap to wait for sanzu to get back from whatever he got himself into because they could hear him shouting at the phone when he was unlocking the car door.

you looked over at rindou and placed a finger on your lips, smiling with your eyes closed when you don't want to disturb his sleeping brother in bliss.

ran just doesn't need to know rindou had his many turns sleeping with you this week compared to him~

mikey

he likes sleeping on you, his titled pillow he seeks for at the end of the day

he usually goes to you whenever he has a hard time sleeping and you try your best to advice him on how he should take care od his eyebags and weak body

he likes listening to your whispering before he goes to sleep so he asks you to talk more (command maybe)

"mikey..?"

"mph?"

"please i need to get up"

he uses your entire body as a pillow to swing his leg over ._. . from the very start, he makes you worried that you might've done or said something wrong to him but his thoughts were completely filled with how he can melt into you and be a handy pillow for him if he can't sleep easily.

to break the ice of what he thinks of you, you hummed quietly and awfully close to him on why he was staring at you but he completley dodges the question, rather he wants to show you why he's staring so he asks if he can touch you. he was uo close and personal on the first into with you but he didn't have bad intentions.. because afterwards you were legit cradling him.

sanzu was raising his eyebrows teasingly when their boss was sound asleep on your shoulder and you run your hands to his hair while glaring at sanzu to not make any noise. kakucho tried putting a straight face on but it's complelety leaving him when he heard his boss sleep talk.

he was babbling nonsense to you which you tried to reply to him but his mouth was jammed shut because there was some point where he got mad at you for not replying and sanzu was rolling on the floor and kakucho had to walk out to laugh with sanzu, dragging the pink hair out of the office. you cooed at him to relax instead of thrashing back and forth and he stopped, planting his face into your neck which makes you feel really tickled.

you're just grateful he's getting some sleep and you kissed him good night and a faint smile shows up on his face when you hugged him tight.

(and the other executives in the other room cracking up about mikey and you NSBJSBD)

akashi

he likes carrying you, stealing you away from the other executive when they're disturbing you

you can't feel insecure with this man because he was the dirtiest way with his words that he whispers to you that can turn any guy or girl red

he'll surely gouge out any prying eyes that mock or stare at you for too long

"why cat got your tongue?" your mouth agape when he was busy doing pushups on the mat and his back muscles flex even more when you came by, the smirk on his face didn't help making you flustered while you sat near him. panicking on the inside, he stopped for a water break and sat next to you.

you prayed to not shake so visibly becaue this hot ass man right now makes you lose all sense of human nature with how big he was, he placed his bottle down and shifted closer to you. bending down a little to arch his back to crack a little, he said he needed you on his back for his pushups. he can easily see the confusion you had on your face and he chuckled, getting up to begin and he usher you to start climbing on his back.

"cmonnn~ i'm strong, you're afraid i'll drop you?"

this man wanted a death wish but you think you'll die first because of how much of a tease he was, his back was kinda comfortable so you tugged on him like a koala, he called you needy and he says he's right you'll enjoy it. enjoy what exactly? too scared to ask this man because of the potential of a heart attack.

it becomes a daily thing to be honest, just having you on his back to flex off his strength that you were impressed that he didn't break and kept his composure. he held you close or carries you on his back cause he wants to, running away from the others who were fighting over you.he was a dangerous man because he could easily take your breath away with how secretive he is.

heck, i think he just did.

tag tag: @lucylicious , @turksueme , @haruchyio , @fyotituti , @coconois , @gyros-cum-sock , @ashrakat-lovesbaji , @dragon-chica

[djarinsbeskar]

Foul - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - To break one of boxing’s rules (i.e. hitting an opponent below the navel, ear or while they are down), which can ultimately lead to point deductions if they are repeated.

A/N: The results of my Boxer!AU poll told me that the majority were interested in a jealous/protective boxer so I hope I have delivered! As always, relaxed fit = unedited, no beta. We also have a sneaky introduction to Paz in the Boxer verse which is super exciting! His concept art has been completed by the insanely talented @ronnieiswriting when I said I saw a mix of Jason Momoa and Winston Duke as our heavy. PLEASE heed the warnings in this chapter. There is nothing explicit but the topics hinted at might be triggering.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! (unprotected sex), blood and violence, toxic masculinity and derogatory speech, hints at discussions of non-con, somewhat possessive behavior, spanking, dom!Din and everything that comes with it.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He might as well have been in hell. A colosseum of decaying humanity and dirt floors that erupted in a burst of dust like poisonous ash every time his next opponent fell. The hollow thump of pure muscle meeting the ground of the makeshift ring only drowned by the cheers of spectators. Masked, shadowed—unseen as they dropped hundreds – thousands sometimes – on which gladiator would remain standing in the end.

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won’t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren’t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

Taglist | Form

@geannad @ayamenimthiriel @sarahjkl82-blog @gracie7209 @pychedelic-star @nova646 @theflightytemptressadventure @wantingtobekorra @computeringturtle @slayerette26 @kesskirata @greatcircle79 @boxdyeblonde @fangirl-316 @niiight-dreamerrrr @tanzthompson @theamuz @gallowsjoker @helmet-comes-off @jesfreedark @amyk-37 @altarsw @feminist-violinist @spideysimpossiblegirl @lazybeeches @shameless-h  @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @mamacitapascal @the-ginger-hedge-witch @disgruntledspacedad @asta-lily @aesnawan @frannyzooey @gaiuswrites @beskarboobs @honestly-shite @sherala007 @cats-are-a-girls-bestfriend @missminkylove @pedros-mustache @headinthestarz @leannawithacapitala @sharkbait77 @radiowallet  @danidrabbles @magpie-to-the-morning @mandocrasis @juletheghoul @javierpinme @voteforpedro09 @theorganasolo @aprilqueen84 @Prostitute-robot-from-the-future @wanderlustmags @darnitdraco @castleamc @outlawedmando @lawfulgranola @jaime1110 @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @taticalsparkles @chasingdreamer @beautyagegoodnesssize @pintsizemama @recklessworry @tarolovesyoo @xgoldenjenny @prideandpascal @amneris21 @mylovelycomandante @ohhersheybars @heartsofbeskar

A few who might be interested! @thepoisonofgod @absurdthirst @highsviolets @astroboots​ 

[aforrestofstuff]

If Amai and Zombieman had a date, how do you think it'd go? What would they do? You're good at writing stuff btw 😳.

Hey thanks! Sorry this took forever to get to... I um, really suck at answering stuff.

I think it would be really passive-aggressive and almost competitive at times. Maybe Zombieman invites Amai over for dinner or something and they get into a weird contest over who can dice onions the fastest--that sort of thing. They're definitely the type of couple to always get on each other's nerves, but beneath all that shit is a bunch of endearment and in quiet moments, even sincerity. I don't know, I'm emo about them.

I know Amai would probably say no to being invited over on the first date. He'd insist on some fancy top-shelf type restaurant--you know, the kind with a dress code and shit. Zombieman will show up in a suit that smells like moth balls. They'd bicker about it. Zombieman won't take it personally, and his nonchalance would further piss Amai off.

Dinner is a disaster. Wine is spilled. They leave, but Zombieman hangs behind for a small moment to leave a bigger tip than the 15% Amai left. "Sorry, just forgot my phone."

Zombieman says he "knows a spot" and they go there, end up walking with handheld crepes to who knows where--just talking. About work. Life. Amai hasn't touched his crepe, not a fan of carbs. He thinks Zombieman looks good in the streetlights though, almost dreamlike; those ruby eyes are incredible. "You look hideous in that suit." He says instead, "Let me help you get fitted for a better one."

"Sounds good." Zombieman smiles with a bit of chocolate syrup on his lip. He reached up to wipe it away himself. Amai leans in, gets it with his mouth instead.

[inkandpen22]

Dazed and Confused ( S1: 3/?)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

Warnings: mild language and violence 

Word Count: 3.1k

Part Summary: At Tina’s party, Y/N wants to forget all of her problems. Things take a turn when Billy makes a move on her, angering Steve

Masterlist

Arriving at Tina’s after dropping Dustin at Mike’s, I am in much need of some good old spiked punch. I yank down my gray oversized sweatshirt some more so that it hangs low off my shoulder. As I cross the threshold into the house, the heat of the crowded living room slaps me in the face. Directly to my left, the kitchen AKA the alcohol hub. I slip between bodies and end up at the counter covered with semi-empty bottles and old plastic cups. Most importantly, a bowl of maroon punch sits in the corner. I grab a cup and make my way over. A boy stands in front of it but I reach around him and scoop up some of the mystery substance.

“What’s in this?” I hear a voice holler behind me.

I turn around to answer but freeze when I realize it’s Nancy. She stares at me equally stunned. My face falls, this is awkward. Seriously universe? I couldn’t have at least one drink before bumping into her?

Steve appears behind her looking slick as ever in his black sunglasses and matching blazer.

“Everclear is my guess,” I answer, acting civil.

She nods timidly, “thanks…”

I step out of her way so she can get some of her own. Steve’s head travels up and down slowly with a blank expression. I can’t see his eyes but I assume he’s studying my costume. A gray oversized sweatshirt that hangs off the shoulder, red heels, matching earrings, and some shorts, though they’re unnoticeable. I can feel him starring me down through those stupid Ray-Bans. Silently, I beg for him to not bring up our encounter in the parking lot. All I wish for tonight is to drown out reality and try to forget. He’s a human ticking time bomb. The tension between us could be cut with a knife.

“Are you finally going to tell me what you are?” Nancy jumps in, forcing me to break my staring contest with her boyfriend.

I open my mouth to answer but Steve beats him to it.

“Flashdance,” he answers for me. “It’s one of her favorites.”

He acts distant, unattached, distracted by the party but I see right through it. There’s something he’s not saying. He says things like this as if it’s common knowledge. A random person wouldn’t describe my eyes as Y/E/C but gray depending on the lighting. One minute, he calls my eyes beautiful and the next he’s starring me down like a disapproving parent. The hell Harrington?!

Nancy gushes, apparently she and I are okay all of a sudden, despite early today with the whole Barb thing. Plus, I think she’s already been drinking for awhile so buzzed Nancy is fun Nancy.

“That’s so cute! You look hot!” She pulls me into a hug.

Over her shoulder, I glimpse up at Steve as he lifts his glasses to rest of his head. His brown eyes threaten to expose my upset from earlier. I get that he’s pissed about my neglect for my feelings. He wants to talk about what was wrong but right now we’re at a party and parties aren’t meant for depressing conversations.

“Let’s go dance!” Nancy suggests, already tugging me into the living room.

Steve calls after her but she ignores him. He follows behind us through the crowd with a groan. In the center of the living room, Nancy stops and turns to me with a bright grin. She cheers as she tosses her head back.

“Woohoo!” She laughs.

This is what I wanted, normalcy. We’re surrounded by our friends, drinking, dancing, being stupid! We did this before everything so why can’t we do it now? Perhaps after tonight, everything will fall back into place.

_______________________________________

On my third game of flip-cup, I’m beyond buzzed. In fact, when I walk I float. I’m on cloud nine. Here, this carefree and lively state is exactly where I wanted to be. Naturally, I’m competitive and amazing at drinking games so I finish my third game with yet another win. I cheer as Tommy from algebra hands me a cup of who knows what as my reward.

“Hey there beautiful,” a husky voice greets from behind me.

I spin around and kind of become dizzy from the action but catch myself.

It’s Billy.

“Hey hottie,” I smirk.

He snickers and closes the space between us to whisper in my ear. “How about you and I go somewhere a little more private?”

That’s a nice thought. He is cute. His ass could have its own zip code. Plus, he has no shirt on under that leather jacket, hello washboard like abs. His California tanned skin glistens under a thin layer of sweat. Damn, he’s a human Ken doll.

He’s no Steve though. Wait… what? I don’t think of Steve like that. Why would I think that? Um, yeah, that’s a no! Then again, Steve is always there for me. Sometimes it can be annoying how he’s always there. It means he cares but I don’t want to dump all of my drama on him. Then, he gets upset when I don’t open up. I hate it when I hurt him. I love him so much that when he’s in pain so am I.

“Okay,” I blurt out without truly thinking.

“Cool,” I hear him whisper as he takes my hand and starts pulling me toward the stairs across the room.

Wait, what? What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t like Billy. He treats Steve like shit. If anything I should kick his pretty ass. Though if I tried he’d probably murder me.

I glance down at his hand engulfing mine. It’s all rough and twice the size of my own. If we make it upstairs, it’ll be just him and I. I’ll be defenseless. I may be drunk but I’m not oblivious. My intuition is still working and it’s screaming for me to pull my shit together.

“Hey Billy? I don’t think…” I press my heels into the floor, slowing him down just as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

Aggressively, he whips around and purposefully towers over me to act intimidating. “What? Now, you’re saying no? Are you messing me? Playing with me!” He accuses.

I shake my head dramatically, “no! No, that’s not what-”

“Oh, so you still want to do this,” he presses.

Too impatient for an answer, he continues up the stairs. The grip he has on me has shifted up to my wrist. I attempt to tug myself free but fear dislocating it, his strength is too great. I stumble up the stairs behind me and I startle to feel dizzy. I think it’s safe to say I’ve had too much.

“No,” I whine, “I don’t want to! Stop! Please! I don’t want to! No!”

“Hey!” A booming voice echoes from the bottom of the stairs.

Rapid footsteps approach from behind me and a rush of relief consumes me when Steve appears beside me. He places a protective hand on my back.

“What the hell is going here?” He directs at Billy, taking note of his fist wrapped around my wrist.

“Nothing that concerns you, Harrington. Y/N and I were just heading upstairs.” He jolts his hand forward, causing me to traveling with it.

Steve instantly pries Billy’s hand from my body. Then, shoves him in the back, flying him forward to land with his ass on the stairs. “Don’t you ever touch her again! You hear me?!” He sneers. His face turns this deep red as he pants angrily.

The two start bickering but I can’t keep up. I see three Steves and a couple Billys shouting in each other’s faces. I lean against the railing unsteadily and slide down to sit on the steps. My eyes suddenly feel very heavy.

“I’m going to go to bed now,” I announce to no one in particular.

I decide to get some rest and shut my eyes. It’s okay, Steve’s here. He’ll protect me.

I’m not sure how much time has past when I hear Tommy and some of the other basketball boys come to break up the fight.

“Come on Y/N,” I hear Steve whisper to me, “let’s get you home.”

Feeling as light as a feather, I’m picked up like a sleepy child off the ground. For a moment, I fall asleep again. I rest my head on his chest and ponder the rare opportunity to sleep without being afraid of being eaten by a monster.

“Y/N?” I hear someone repeatedly call my name. “Y/N, wake up!”

I ease open my eyes and at first my vision is blurry but then they eventually adjust. Steve glances down at me as he we cross the threshold hold to the front yard.

“You smell like sunshine and all things exquisite,” I mumble to myself, adjusting myself in his arms to curl closer to his warmth.

“Even when hammered you still manage to be a walking thesaurus,” he teases.

Opps, he heard me. Oh well, I wasn’t lying. He smells like vanilla, the ocean, sugar, spice, and everything nice.

Goosebumps course over my skin as a brisk October breeze hits me. I shiver slightly and Steve holds me closer.

“We’re almost to my car. I’ll turn on the heat high. You’re okay,” he promises calmly.

Playing the hero, Steve places me into the passenger seat gently and straps me in. I toss my head to the side and rest my eyes again. He shuts the door for me before jogging to the driver’s side. The car drowns out the sound of chaos coming from the party and creates a sense of security. Steve slides behind the wheel and for some reason I choose now to act reasonable.

“Have you been drinking? If so, you shouldn’t drive,” I state like a health textbook.

He chuckles, popping in the keys. “I’m sober. Promise.”

“That’s nice. Good to know,” I yawn.

The last thing I can remember of the ride home is Steve turning on the car.

______________________________________

I wake up silently as Steve pulls up in front of my house. He’s unaware of my stare as he finishes parking and turning off the car.

“Hazel,” I tell him, announcing my woken state.

He looks to me with scrunched eyebrows, all confused. It’s cute when he does that. He’s cute. Geez, what the heck am I saying? He’s dating my best friend! Steve is Steve and Katherine, we don’t mix, at least that way.

“What?” He questions, turning to face me.

“Your eyes… they’re hazel…” I repeat softly with a yawn. “But, it really depends on the lighting.”

He snickers, and astonished expression blesses his features. The subtle blush forming on his cheeks makes me smile to see him all bashful because of my comment. He has no idea how gorgeous we truly is, inside and out. He glances down at his lap, at his hands fidgeting with a button on his jacket, then back up at me with hooded eyes.

“See, right now!” I point out, “they’re a dark brown like a burnt caramel, basically black. When you’re really focused on a task or upset about something, they go dark. Then, when you’re really happy or excited, they turn to a light hazel… like seaglass. It’s how I can tell if something’s bothering you. You don’t even have to tell me half the time. All I have to do is look into your eyes and I know,” I state a matter-of-factly with a light snicker.

I shift you see him directly and tuck a few strands of my hair away from my face. He watches my every move patiently, eagerly, for me to say something more, anything. I can’t speak for him but my heart won’t stop racing. Is it possible to have stage fright in a conversation? I feel like a mannequin, on display. Nervously, I twirl my hair at the ends and find myself unable to meet his gaze anymore.

“Your pupils are rarely small,” I add quietly. “They’re usually really big and take up most of your eye giving off the illusion they’re black. One thing that never changes is…”  I make a circle with my finger in front of my eye to demonstrate, “is the gold rim around each of them.” I lower my hand into my lap and play with the end of my sweatshirt. “That’s my favorite part… ” I confess timidly.

I wouldn’t be saying these things if I were sober. I wish he would say something, anything. He must think I’m crazy. He finds me with Billy heading up stairs. I can only imagine what he must think of me now. Embarrassed beyond belief and sobering up, I excuse myself.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as I unbuckle myself. “See you Monday!”

Swiftly, I climb out of the car. As I walk toward my front door, I curse myself for acting so stupid! Geez, what was I thinking? ‘The gold rim around each of them, that’s my favorite part!’ What kind of mushy, guhsy, marshmallow fluff is that? Ew! If he never spoke to me again I would judge that as completely reasonable! He has a girlfriend! He’s taken! Completely off limits! Why did I spew out this creepy nonsense to him like a total idiot? I’m not some lovesick teenage girl! I’m going to go to my room, put in some Guns N’ Roses, and just scream into my pillow all weekend! It sounds like an excellent plan to me because I just ruined my friendship with Steve forever! Add Nancy to that list because once he fills her in on what I said I’ll lose both of them!

“Y/N!” He calls after me.

I ignore it as I march faster toward the door. He’s only going to call me crazy because I was acting crazy!

“Y/N, wait!” He repeats as I hear him shut the car door and run toward me.

“Goodnight, Steve!” I urge him away without turning around.

His footsteps speed up until they come to a halt directly behind me. I reach for the door handle, my freedom. Desperately, he grips my forearm and steps in front of me, blocking the front door.

“Look, could you just slow down for a sec?” He yells at me as he pants to catch his breath.

“No! I can’t slow down! I just want to go inside, get in my pajamas, and forget tonight ever happened! Alright? Now, excuse me,” I gesture for him to get out of the way.

Reluctantly, paired with an overly dramatic eye roll, he steps aside. Despite wanting his to leave, I thank him quietly for cracking open the front door slowly, making sure not to wake anyone.

“Nance and I broke up…” Steve drops on me.

My heart leaps and I stop dead in my tracks. Unsure of what to do or say, I remain still in the doorway and wait for him to say more.

“She never loved me,” he explains with a heartbroken tone. “At least… I don’t think she did…”

Shit. Please don’t tell me that, Harrington. It only makes me want you more. He’s always so close but too far out of reach. I care about him more than anything but he’ll never mine. I’m just the friend.

I spin on my heels and offer him a sympathetic smile, “would you like to come in?”

He nods, clearly miserable. I step aside, allowing him in. After shutting the door behind us, I warn him to be quiet so we don’t wake my parents. He nods slowly and slips his hand into mine. Never breaking eye contact with me, he leads the way through the moonlit house toward my room. His platonic touch is so blissful, I can only imagine what it feels like otherwise.

_________________________________

Steve and I sit on my bed in our usual positions with my record player going quietly. He lounges like a patient in therapy and me, acting as his therapist, criss-cross beside him. He explains everything. He describes how drunk Nancy got and how he followed her to the bathroom. It was there they got into a fight. She admitted feeling guilty for the loss of Barb. Then, she called all of it bullshit. Us acting like carefree teenagers, never telling Barb’s parents the truth, her love for Steve, all of it is bullshit. He asked Jonathan to take her home and that’s when he stumbled upon me and Billy.

Watching Steve relive it all and hearing the pain in his voice breaks my heart. How could Nance do this to him? I get that she’s going through something, we all are. I’m by no means normal. I’m hiding everything for Pete’s sake! I haven’t been myself for over a year. Steve was just now becoming truly happy again! He was putting on a brave face for Nancy for so long! Now, she crushed it. She crushed him.

I reach and place my hand over his as they rest intertwined on his stomach. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

“I really loved her. At least, I think I did. I don’t know anymore. I thought she loved me too.”

“I did too,” I tell him honestly.

He glances away from the ceiling down to me, “what can I do?”

I wish I knew the answer. I wish there was a way I could take away his pain. Yet, I have nothing. I shrug, “I’m not entirely sure. I think you should at least talk to her.

Tomorrow, of course, when she’s sobered up. Perhaps, she was just drunk and didn’t mean what she said. She wasn’t in the proper mindset.”

“So I shouldn’t take what she said to heart?”

“Well, there’s also the argument that drunk words are sober thoughts.”

“Does the same go for you?” He snickers.

I laugh, “sometimes.”

“So you don’t like the gold in my eyes? I thought it was your favorite part?” He smirks, turning to lay on his side and face me. My hand would’ve fallen off his hadn’t he flipped his over to catch it.

Ugh, he’s such a sneaky jerk! His cheeky smirk only grows with my silence. Warmth rushes to my cheeks as I bashfully hide my face.

“Yeah… about that…” I laugh nervously, “let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“Should I forget that you also said I smell like sunshine and everything exquisite?” He adds to the torment.

I groan, tossing my head back. This must count as torture. “Preferably, yes,” I request shortly.

We share a laugh at my annoyed reaction. He’s impossible! Even he should be mopping he still manages to tease me!

A comfortable silence fills the air and I stare down at the pillow in my lap as I play with the lettering on it.

________________________________

Masterlist

[no-droids]

Mercy, Sabotage, and Dead Space

(gif credit to @redwyyne-archive)

Part One of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.7K

Summary:

1. No sex.

2. No touching yourself.

3. No orgasms.

Warnings/Tags: DUBCON/NONCON elements, fuckboy Poe (OOC), Enemies to Lovers, degradation/humiliation, mentions of oral sex, SMUUUTTTTTTTT also I’m not sorry for what I did but you’re not allowed to read if you’re gonna get mad at me okay byeeee

***

This.

This shit, right here.

If the question was ever, “What’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever let Poe Dameron somehow talk you into doing?” then the answer is this stupid shit, right the fuck here.  This is like.  You remember that one game, Mercy?  The one where you’d dig your nails in and twist arms and just needlessly inflict pain on each other as children until one of you cried uncle because someone somewhere once decided to turn torture into a matter of pride?

You always thought those games were fucking ridiculous.  Who can hold their breath the longest, who can handle a lit deathstick against their flesh the longest, who can take the hardest punch—who cares?  It’s child’s play.  It’s self-inflicted agony for the sake of bragging rights and even as a youngling, you refused to fall for it.

But then you met… fucking Dameron.

You know those people that… they don’t just rub you the wrong way, but literally every single aspect about their personality is sandpaper against wet skin and your whole entire being feels chafed raw just by existing in their general vicinity for an extended period of time?

You’re… you’re not usually a competitive—much less aggressive person.  You never have been.  It’s just not part of your nature.  If you ever excel at anything in life, it isn’t because of some secret, deep-seated desire to win or be better than anyone else.  You just… do you.  You do whatever you do, and if it’s good, it’s good.  And if it’s bad, it’s good.  Because at the end of the day at least it’s still you, and you’re okay with that.

But this?

This shit?  Right here?

“This is fucking dumb,” you say, because you know it’s what you both must be thinking so you may as well just get it out in the open.  “This is the dumbest fucking thing, Dameron.  What are we doing?  Why are we doing this?”

The grumpy, orange-jumpsuited figure sitting behind you just sighs heavily and slumps even further down in his bucket seat, as if it isn’t the first time you’ve tried asking this incredibly valid question (it totally is), bringing a palm down to thunk the top of the guidance controls between his legs in a quiet irritation you’re almost certain has everything to do with the very topic you’re trying to bring up. 

“Because,” comes that infuriating drawl.  You can only see his face from this angle by looking at his reflection in the transparisteel barrier directly in front of you, but even just imagining the way his mouth moves while he rounds out the words makes your jaw clench.  “The coordinates we picked up were scrambled and this rendezvous could be going down at any one of thirty-six locat—?”

“No,” you interrupt him with a scowl, “not why I’ve been floating in dead space in this Maker-forsaken ship with you for eight fucking hours a day since… fuck, what’s today?  Thursday?  Friday?  Nope, can’t be Friday, Friday’s our off-day.  Thursday, then. …Thursday?”  You shake your head.  “Ugh, see?  Time doesn’t exist when I’m not allowed to cum, life is like one never-ending nightmare.”

“Oh.”  He takes a second to think about it in silence, the calloused tips of his fingers scratching the side of his face while he considers.  It wouldn’t usually be as loud as it is right now.  Maybe it’s the haunting quiet of space surrounding the ancient powered down hunk of metal you’re both stuck in, inadvertently isolating and amplifying the sound—or maybe it’s because your copilot’s jaw is currently covered in a thick, dark beard that you swear barely took his testosterone-overloaded ass a fucking week or two to grow, if that.  Regardless, the dark bristles crunch loudly under his short fingernails and it takes you about a grand total of five whole uninterrupted seconds of the scraping sound to realize you’re grinding your teeth along with it.  “Well,” he finally says, “that was your stupid idea.”

“Hmmmmmmmno,” you contest firmly, wiggling your elbow back to poke at his shin with your index finger once, twice, thrice, until he finally slaps your hand away in quiet irritation.  To the misfortune of you both—and likely the other hundred or so pilots concurrently taking rotating shifts in these tandem x-wings in a glorified mass stakeout, the cockpit of this ship is just way too fucking small.  Your arm is squeezed uncomfortably against machinery and electronics to get to him from this angle and a light slap isn’t going to stop you now that you’re here.  “You—” (poke) “—have a superiority complex and decided to turn it into a competition, not—” (poke) “—me.”

“Oh, I have a superiority complex, okay,” he scowls and nods in vehement, fake agreement, finally giving up and letting you poke at will, but the appeal is lost as soon as you realize he’s over it and your arm eases back into your lap.  You watch his reflection look out of the viewport and scan the empty void of space for the twentieth time in the past five minutes, clearly just as desperate to get back to base as you are.  “So what is it you call saying—wait, no no, not even saying, loudly declaring—‘Of course I can go longer without sex than “wham bam thank you ma’am” Dameron, you brainless fucks, it’s a simple fact!’”

“Alright—I don’t sound like that, fuck you very much,” you return, in reference to his shrieking, high-pitched impression of you surrounded by your fellow pilots in the rec room when you’ve had a bit too much to drink.   “Also, you don’t have to finger-quote literally every single syllable of my fucking sentence, Dameron.  First and last word, that’s all it takes.  And if it’s so superiority complex-ey of me to state simple facts, then what is it you call saying ‘betcha two weeks worth of pay you can’t, pretty baby’?”

“Uh, easy credits?”  He immediately asks, side-eyeing your reflection through the transparisteel.  “ Easy credits.  Just begging for it.  Two weeks of your slutty, sexy, easy fucking credits just begging to be taken and used— ”

“You need to get laid,” you cut in to tell him bluntly, scrunching your nose in what you hope looks like disgust.  As per protocol, the power to the x-wing was cut at the beginning of your shift—what feels like a fucking eternity ago—as a preventative maneuver in case the target falls out of hyperspace unexpectedly.  Avoiding the scanners of a fleet that may never actually show means it’s cold and dimly lit in here—just starlight in front of either you, but you’re hoping he can gauge the severity of your revulsion with your back to him.  “You just turned my money into a sex object.  It was vile.  I feel violated on its behalf.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who needs to get laid,” he tosses carelessly back at you, and you roll your eyes with as much sass as you can physically muster, so tired of all the dodging.  You know this hasn’t been easy for him either, he just has too much pride to admit it.  “Besides, you’ve gotta be past the withdrawal stage by now.  Is it really all that bad?”

“The fuck you mean, ‘Is it really all that bad’?”  You snap at him, shuffling around grumpily in your seat, hating the way the bulky weapons controls sit right between your thighs and prevent you from closing them.  Withdrawal stage, ha.   “Of course it’s all that bad.  It’s horrible.  It’s the fucking worst.  And more importantly, how are you not having any trouble with this?  Oh, wait—that’s right,” you answer yourself before he has a chance to.  “Because you cheated.”

“I did not cheat,” Dameron’s reflection immediately challenges with an accusatory finger pointed at you.  “I did not.  When the fuck did I cheat?  I swapped housing assignments with your shitty roommate and slept in the bunk below yours for a month and a half—all because you don’t believe in the honor system—just so you could tell me I fucking cheated?”

You scoff, feeling your annoyance spark even more.  He’s always been able to get under your skin, but the neglect you’ve been forcing your body to endure is just throwing gasoline on an already roaring fire.  “Okay, first of all?  Rude.  I am a fucking joy to have as a roomie, alright?  I put up with your snoring, your 2:00 AM dinners, you blasting your radio while I’m trying to sleep, I barely complain about your body odor—”

“My snoring is adorable, I get snacky at night, only sad people with fucked up lives hate music, I smell amazing,” Dameron casually lists off on his fingers, the self-confidence so easy and unshakeable that you swear he’s almost preening at the compliments he just gave himself by the time he’s finished rebutting everything you can think to throw at him.  And, while you’d never admit it, he does smell good.  He smells… unbelievably fucking good.  Always.  Something dark and woodsy, you can never quite put your finger on.  It pisses you off, so much that you’ve made a habit of pulling a face of disgust whenever the warm, rich scent noticeably reaches you, hoping it deflates his ego just a little bit.  No such luck so far.  

“Whatever.  The point is I’m a good fucking neighbor, alright, I’m neighborly as fuck,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.  “And don’t make it sound like I’m putting a chastity lock on your balls every night, because you can fuck anyone you want.  In fact, I strongly fucking encourage it—I just want to know about it when it happens.”

Dameron smirks and you groan, already knowing what’s coming.  “You wanna hear it?”

Yep, there it is.  “Second of all—”

“Feel the whole bunk rock with it?”  He goes on, completely ignoring you.  “Use the excuse that you’re trapped up top so you can just stay there the whole time and listen?  You know you can do a lot more than just—”

“Second of all,” you project over him, “you’re seriously telling me you haven’t had any wet dreams then, hm?  No snorgasms?  Hmmm?  No happy naps?  No captain midnights?  No mattress fracking?  Hmmmmmm???”

His voice very quickly sounds… shocked.  “How many fucking euphemisms—?”

“Wait wait, one more—” you quickly interrupt, too much momentum to stop now, “—sleepskeet.”

You watch in immense satisfaction as his expression seems to progress through all five stages of grief, before he exhales a long, unamused sigh and scratches his beard again.  You want to pluck each strand of it out of his face one by one.  “Anyways.  Wet dreams are totally different and don’t count.”

“It’s not different!”  You burst out, unable to help yourself, “it’s an orgasm, and rule number three is no orgas—”

“I know what the rules were, Gold-Ten,” he returns calmly, and it infuriates you, how he’s always able to make it seem like you’re the instigator who’s overreacting.  And he knows exactly what he’s doing by calling you by your flight designation, and it pisses you off even more because calling him Black-Leader in any other situation besides active warfare just feels like an unnecessary reminder of his skills.  Why he’s currently behind you manning the guidance controls and why you’re currently stuck in the front seat with the bulkier weapons systems.  “The question is if you’re seriously that bad enough of a sport to automatically disqualify me because of something that happens to any human with a dick indiscriminately when we blueball ourselves.”

“But that’s the entire fucking point, Dameron!”  You shrill, throwing your hands in the air in pure exasperation.  “There it is!  You need it more than I do, you just said it yourself!  Not to mention I said I can go longer without sex than you can— sex , not orgasms, but as it turns out I win at both.  Now can we please call this shit off so I can finally cum?  This isn’t fun anymore.”

“Nope,” he says immediately, popping the P with a bit too much hard emphasis to be genuinely amused.  He’s frustrated, too—his voice is too pleased, too fake to not be masking irritation underneath.  “Sorry.  But this was also your stupid idea, so.”

“You’re insufferable,” you grumble, anger flaring equal to his, just way more… verbal.  And descriptive.  “Wet dreams don’t count, fucking right.  Tell that to the oceans of Kamino I got going on down there, huh?  I move on this seat wrong and I’ll slide off it—”

A loud slam of a palm against the controls suddenly echoes throughout the small cockpit, causing you to jump slightly.  

“Don’t,” Dameron snarls, “... say shit like that to me.  Not right now.  Not right now, fuck .”

You go quiet for a moment, not expecting that much of an outburst at something you considered to be a throwaway remark, but then… oh.  Something occurs to you, something… sinister.  Oh, well, now there’s an idea.

Everything inside you immediately surges up and burns at the thought—the mere whisper of a way out of all of this, quickly, without giving in and letting him hold your surrender over you for Maker knows how long.  It’s so fucking simple, you don’t know why you didn’t think of it before.  You don’t have to wait him out at all; instead, you just need to… entice him into giving in first.

Neither of you say anything for a while, and you don’t know what he’s thinking (nothing, probably—a dry tumbleweed bouncing across an empty desert landscape, you imagine) but you take the dip in conversation to consider a plan.  You can’t go at it too outright, it’ll be too big of a turnaround and he’ll see it coming lightyears away.  A halfhearted joke about your pussy tossed out without thinking is what catalyzed the most substantial reaction from him you’ve seen, so… maybe you can keep steering the conversation towards the idea.

“How many wet dreams have you had?”  You suddenly ask, your heart beginning to pick up in your chest as soon as the words are out of your mouth.

“Excuse me?”  Dameron grunts from behind you, and you catch his reflection raising a thick eyebrow at you.

You take a deep breath and disguise it by stretching your back out just a little bit, lifting your shoulder blades and arching the sore muscles there, before settling back down in your normal crappy posture once more.  “Now many times did you cum in your sleep?  Had to at least been once for you to claim they don’t count.”

“Why does it matter?”  He asks, completely sidestepping the question for the second time.  “It was involuntary.”

You shrug.  “Just so I know how many freebies I can get tonight.”

“No,” Dameron instantly counters, his voice dead serious.  “Not fucking allowed.”

“Why not?”  You ask, and this time, there’s significantly less challenge than you’d typically deliver it with.  Instead, your voice is soft, questioning.  Not argumentative, but curious, and there’s just enough of your point left unsaid that it’ll seem like he conjured the rest of the image himself.

There’s silence while he considers his response to the perfectly executed bait.  You assume you’re both picturing the same thing, because it’s what you’ve pictured almost every single night spent in this celibate hellscape.  The cool darkness of your shared quarters, the standard-issue sheets that still feel crispy and rough on your skin no matter how many nights you’ve slept in them, with one of your hands pressed tight over your mouth and two of your fingers circle your clit.

“You only get to do it if I’m in the room,”  he poses instead, and you swallow thickly, feeling your body tighten with an unintentional drop of pure heat through your tummy at the thought.  Maker, it must be really bad if Poe fucking Dameron is getting to you like this.  The bane of your existence shouldn’t make your insides twist in on themselves—at least, not in a good way.

“Not like I’d have much choice,” you eventually respond, keeping it purposefully ambiguous.  “It’s your room, too.  Unfortunately.”

Stars, it’s been so long since you’ve done this, since you’ve walked the fine line between flirtation and seduction, wanting to turn on the charm slowly—gradually ease it up like a hyperdrive lever under your fingertips so that you’re at maximum by the time he realizes you’re even there.  You take a moment to glance at his reflection, watching Dameron look back at you curiously, a flash of interest in his eyes.

“By the way, how does that one girl feel about us doing this?”  You ask out of nowhere, suddenly remembering the existence of his pretty little number.  You’ve seen her under his arm around base at least a few times, which is more than you can say for the rest of them.  “Red-Six.  Tall brunette with the tattoos—I don’t bother learning names, they all come and go.”

“Nihla,” Dameron nods with a wistful sigh, tilting his head to rest against his shoulder.  “Or, wait… Neah.  No—it was… Nalal.  Yeah, Nalal, I think that’s right…”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.  “One of the greatest mysteries of the universe is how many people get in line for you, I’ll never fucking understand it.”

“They just want me for my cock,” he tells you without missing a single beat, sounding like he’s not joking in the slightest.  “It was starting to get obnoxious.  Glad I finally have an excuse to turn them down.”

“Unbelievable,” you repeat, stunned by how truly, mind-blowingly full of himself he is.  “You’re… fucking…”

You end up just staring at him and making a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, at a complete loss for words, and Dameron eventually shrugs and continues on after you fail to form a coherent thought in the allotted time frame he provides.

“Now I can just tell them I’m in a long-running bet with Gold-Ten over who can sexually deprive themselves the longest and weirdly enough, they don’t seem all that interested anymore,” he remarks, tilting his chin up and rubbing at his beard again, and for some reason… the sound of it bothers you somewhat less now, the way he phrased that resonating deeper inside you than it should.  Lower than it should.  You blink a few times, almost shocked by your body’s unprecedented response to his admission—Poe Dameron uses you as an excuse to turn down sex with pretty girls?  Happily?—and your mind goes blank for a second while he watches you through the transparisteel.  “It’s alright,” he eventually goes on, tilting his head.  “Sometimes a sabbatical is good.  I do really miss pussy, though.”

“Well,” you finally tell him, oddly not having much else to offer at the moment.  “I’m sorry?  And… you’re welcome.  I guess.”

Dameron shrugs once more and makes an apathetic sound without opening his mouth, and you drop your stare down to the machinery between your spread thighs after feeling like you were looking at each other for too long.  The position started uncomfortable and seven hours later, it’s still fucking uncomfortable.  At first the discomfort twinged at your hips and lower back, but now the sensation seems to be… centering itself a bit more, finding a spot right between your legs, especially when his words echo through your subconscious and make you naturally want to push your thighs together.  I do really miss pussy, though.

You try to snap out of it a bit, try to stop hyperfixating on the way your underwear has felt sticky and wet for fucking hours now, but it’s so fucking difficult to chill yourself out when your body already went into this whole situation with a month and a half long stumbling block.  He’s not really doing anything at all—he’s leant back in his chair and staring out the window into the black emptiness of space when you steal a look once more, but something about how his casual responses are affecting you makes it seem like he’s the one currently seducing you.

Maker, you have to focus.   You have to control yourself.  You’re starting to feel a little warm in your thick jumpsuit—a particular shade of orange that does not compliment your complexion but you normally rejoice in wearing regardless.  It’s baggy and uniform and hides most of your curves and most importantly, it keeps you toasty on missions like this.  Space is cold —especially this far out in the Cauper Void, and there’s no fucking reason this powered down hunk of floating metal should feel as muggy and stifling as it does in here.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you suddenly hear yourself say, spontaneously, no thought put into it whatsoever.  One last try, one last attempt to avoid it, a last-ditch go at flight before he gives you no choice and you’re left with this one remaining option.  “This isn’t a good idea.  It’s… not healthy.  I don’t want to do this anymore.”

This gets a small chuckle out of him.  “I know you don’t, pretty baby.”

“Then let’s just call the whole thing off,” you propose once again, trying to lighten your tone, make it a… a friendly thing.  It sounds so fake, even to your own ears—since when would you be desperate enough to let the dreaded petname slide?—but granted, you know what they say about time and measures and all that shit.  “We can call it a tie, just go back to the way things were befo—”

He cuts you off and pins you with his gaze through the reflection.  “You realize that you begging me to put an end to your suffering is—ridiculously hot, mostly—but also only an incentive to make me keep pushing until you finally give in?”

You groan and comb some of your hair off your forehead, not liking the way it’s getting just the slightest bit damp.  “Fine, we won’t call it off, but can we at least just stop—”  You immediately catch yourself, not wanting to unintentionally push this too far too quickly, but your hesitation is clear and compelling enough for him to prompt you.

“At least just stop what?”  Dameron asks, and though you don’t think it’s intentional or even noticeable from his perspective, something about the way his voice sounds… husky.  Low to the ground.

“Stop dragging it out,” you breathe, your heart pounding.  Why is your heart pounding so fucking fast?  This is a fucking sting op, a facade, so why are you getting so caught up in the lie you’ve spun for yourself?  “Finish it.  Sooner, rather than later.  Quit being masochists about it, just fucking put it to—”

Maker, your eyes instinctively snap to his at your poor choice of wording, having almost said bed on complete accident.  Genuinely, you didn’t mean to phrase it that way, but at the same time, the thought of it almost burns you alive.  Fuck.  Dameron, and you, in bed.  It could be mean.  It could be rough.  A fight for dominance more than anything.  He’s bigger than you and he could make it fucking hurt, especially after going without it for as long as you have, but something about how double-edged that type of relief would be isn’t really sinking in for you right now.  Like a person slowly dying of thirst that’s fantasizing about drowning.  Regardless, the idea of a night with him and the sudden assortment of vivid imagery it provides is enough to get you to shut up and take a deep breath, just wait with your mouth shut for whatever his response is.

Unfortunately, you don’t have to wait long at all.

“This is cute,” he suddenly tells you, and you jerk back and sputter a bunch of consonants stupidly like he smacked you.

“Fuck you?”  Are the first recognizable words that can be heard.  “I’m not—this isn’t fucking— cute?”

“It’s cute,” Dameron repeats, hiding a soft smile from you with a few of his fingers pressed to his lips.  “You,” he says as he points at your reflection, twirling his finger around in circles, “trying to be all sneaky about it, go about your little performance.  It’s like… watching a little kid just blatantly fuck up a magic trick but they’re naive enough to think it’s working.  Keep going, I’m enthralled.”

You hold still for just a second as ice suddenly sinks through your tummy and clears away any trace of warmth you may have once felt from before.  Of course.  Stupid.  Stupid, you shouldn’t have even tried something like that, you don’t know why you thought…

Horrifyingly, you go dead silent and the lack of an immediate response from you hangs awkwardly in the still air.  You’re usually so quick with him, so fiery, letting the things he throws at you just glide right off you, but for some insane reason, you’re actually fucking… embarrassed?  A little bit?

You should say something, but your whole body is just frustratingly blank, almost buzzing in mortification, and it gets worse and worse the longer you stay quiet.  You don’t usually put yourself in a position to be compromised, and you certainly didn’t think the place he decided to jab this time had particularly thin skin.

You… you’d forgotten what it’s like to have someone laugh at you when you’re genuinely trying your best to flirt.

Well, it’s too late to say anything now, you think.  Now it’s just uncomfortable in here—true discomfort, not the typical angry silences.  You’re used to that, you’re used to huffing and crossing your arms and ticking your jaw through the breaks in conversation, refusing to say a word because you’re beyond pissed off.  This is different.  This quiet sits different in the air, this emotion hits different in your chest, somewhere vulnerable.  A crack in your armor he found without even necessarily intending to, but at this point, the stupid way you can’t seem to hide the wound from him is just as much to blame.

“So, uh…”  Dameron clears his throat as you shut your eyes tight against the awkwardness, but you can still feel a strange little shift in the air from behind you.  There’s something about the enclosed space, the quiet darkness surrounding you both, you feel… too close to him.  Sharing his air, feeling the energy when it’s cramped and you’re not able to just get up and storm away from him like normal.  You don’t like it.  You don’t like that you can immediately tell something has changed without being able to see him, that type of intimacy between you is pushing a boundary you can’t quite pinpoint but know exists.

You snap your eyes open and look over at Dameron’s reflection when he’s quiet for too long, and though you try to glare as fiercely as possible at him while you do it, the look on his face almost stops you dead.  The pure intensity raging in his expression, the way he’s got his eyes narrowed, flicking back and forth between yours, carefully studying you, wondering if perhaps he may have gotten it all wrong.  “I mean, y’know.  Theoretically speaking, and all.  If I broke, you’d let me fuck you?”

You… aren’t expecting that.

You don’t know why but your heart suddenly starts to race again, but it’s not the same as before.  Before it was speeding up and at an angle, like a rocket trying to escape a body’s gravitational pull, to go somewhere, search for something.  This time it just feels like it’s ricketing downhill, unsteady and out of control, about to break apart with every single pothole that rattles and slams through you.  Shit.  You didn’t expect the ultimatum would be presented to you so up front like that—you thought there’d be… some resistance, at least.  

Fuck, you take way too fucking long thinking about it, and your face feels warmer and warmer the more you mentally pick apart his specific phrasing, wondering where you should even begin.  You still haven’t said anything, but the damage is already done.  What should've been a firm, instantaneous go fuck yourself is left suspended, unanswered, open for interpretation.  You miss your window of opportunity to shut him down, you overshoot it by a longshot, and then you feel that spark of a what-if flare deep down once more.

No, fucking stop it.  Stop it.  Maker, your eyes do everything they can to not look at him while you concentrate and work to tap into your anger, stoking the flames of your fire to avoid feeling… temptation.  How dare he?  How fucking dare he do this to you, especially when there’s no chance to get out of here, to abort mission and cut your losses?  You clench your jaw and isolate that fury, magnify it until it’s the only thing you can feel anymore.

“My turn now,” Dameron eventually breaks the silence to clarify, blinking at you, and by this point you’re so fucking pissed off that you don’t recognize that isn’t actually a question.

“No,” you immediately snap, strung far too thin to deal with this new, treacherous territory with him.  Defaulting to normal is best, it’s easier.  “No, it’s not your turn, and fuck no, you can’t fuck me, not even if it means I win this stupid bet.  No to everything that has anything to fucking do with you, alright?  Don’t talk to me.  You’re lucky if I agree to sleep in the same fucking room as you tonight.  And—and?—I think your beard looks dumb.”

Okay, so maybe the last part was just a little bit childish, but you’re in such a bad fucking mood and you want to insult something he’s clearly just trying out for right now, hasn’t yet solidified as part of his usual appearance and unshakeable confidence in it.  It’s a downright lie—you think he might look more attractive with it than he ever has.  Effortlessly rugged and masculine, framing his face and making his eyes all the more piercing.

You don’t think it works, but regardless, he heeds your sharp words and says nothing for a good few minutes at least.  You had hoped the break in interaction would allow you the ability to reset a little bit, give yourself time to work through it, but it’s like the pressure in the air steadily increases regardless of how silent it is in here—or perhaps, because of it.

You can’t help it.  You flick your eyes to the transparisteel in front of you once more and catch his reflection staring directly at you, unmoving.  It jars you as much as it sparks your anger, and you glare down at your hands and give him a few seconds.  A few seconds of grace, of mercy, before you try again.

Sure enough, he’s still got his dark eyes pinned to you when you go to check once more, like he’s actually fucking thinking about something right now, which is just… astounding, for obvious reasons.  Mainly, the nerve of him.  The fucking nerve of him to be able to look at you like that, like he’s just entitled to study your every feature, searching your eyes for things you’ve never looked deep enough to find within yourself, making incredibly loud assumptions with his mind that he has absolutely no right to be making.

“Shut up,”  You snap at him defensively, feeling like you’re sweating buckets even in the freezing emptiness of dead space.  You can’t figure out if it’s a cold sweat or if your body is legitimately just malfunctioning under his stare.  “Shut up.”

You watch as his reflection suddenly drops his head back against the seat and rolls out the stiffness of his neck, blinking his eyes shut and raising his eyebrows like you’re completely overreacting, like he has absolutely no idea.  “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not that dumb,” you challenge.  “You’re… plotting.  Evil plotting.”

A thick eyebrow drops so that only one is quirked up, and a grin pulls at his lips.

“You’re right,” Dameron admits casually after a moment with his eyes still closed, his voice pitched low in the cramped ship.  “I was thinking about what it’s gonna take to get you to lose.”

You swallow against the dryness in your throat, starting to unintentionally bounce one of your legs up and down without even realizing it.  Fuck, this ship is small, it’s too fucking small in here—you gaze wistfully out at the vast endlessness of space, wanting to grit your teeth at the irony of being surrounded by the one thing you so desperately wish you had.

“I just have to find a weakness,” he shifts forward in his seat and reveals to you, bewilderingly shameless in his honesty.  Like all of a sudden you’re an accomplice to this endeavor instead of its target, as if he isn’t spoiling the secret by letting you in on it.  “Something that you like, that gets you going.  Something that riles you up, gets you all hot and bothered down there—”

“So you can exploit it,” you huff, slouching over a bit and trying not to sound like you’re pouting.

“—so I can exploit it,” he finishes happily, collapsing back into his seat like he’s glad you caught on so quick and he doesn’t have to explain further.  “Now we can do the whole routine—the bickering, the tension, the undeniable sexual chemistry we have—or we can skip all that and you can just tell me flat out what it’s gonna take to rev that pretty little engine up, because I want it purring.”

And, it’s so fucking weird, because the specific verbiage that would normally make you cringe just hearing it spoken aloud doesn’t inspire the typical response, even though it feels like it should.  It feels like you should be grossed out, it feels like a moment you should screw up your facial expression and act offended, but you’re… not.  This is actually fucking working, it’s unbelievable.  The undeniable fact infuriates you just as much as it stumps you.

“You do realize that everything you say is a game that two can play at, right?”  You point out, not really sure where you’re going with this but feeling heated about it all the same.  “What’s stopping me from exploiting something you like?”

“See now that’s a great idea,” Dameron announces, clapping his hands together happily and sending you jumping a few inches in your seat at the sudden sound, your hand automatically shooting up to rest on your thumping heart.  “I can tell you what I like, and you can just listen.”

Alright, no, wait—backtrack—

“How about I tell you what I don’t like,” you snip breathlessly, tucking your hair behind your ear and feeling all the blood rush to your cheeks.  Default to normal, default to normal.  “Your fucking attitude.  Your demeanor.  The way you talk down to me.  You don’t listen.  You walk around like you’re such hot shit just because you’re a good pilot but none of that means anything when you don’t ever fucking listen.  You’re terrible at it, doesn’t matter who’s talking—you don’t listen to me, you don’t listen to people who actually like you, you don’t listen to orders, you don’t listen to reason—”

“You think I’m a good pilot?”  He suddenly asks, and you have to take a second.  This cockpit isn’t designed for anything other than sitting, much less turning all the way around, but you’re sure you can find some way to throttle him from here.  He chuckles as you let out the loudest sigh you’ve ever heard yourself make—which, is an incredible feat you think both of you should be congratulated for—before Dameron eventually carries on.  “You could tell me that,” he admits with a shrug, a hidden smile on his face that he’s trying to bite back.  “Or you could tell me the truth.”

You shouldn’t encourage him, but you just can’t fucking help it.  There’s something inside you, something you can only compare to a morbid sort of curiosity.  Maybe you’re just a glutton for punishment, even more so than agreeing to this bet has already confirmed.  “And that would be—?”

“That you use anger as a defense mechanism because I touch a nerve you didn’t realize you had,” Dameron replies breezily.  “Have since the moment we met.  And that you maybe want me to touch something else, but you’re too stubborn and proud and committed to hating me to ever admit it.  You can admit it, it’s okay, I can touch whatever you need me to tou—”

“How about the emergency eject button?”  You hiss, finally feeling your frustration peak.  “Pop the top on this bitch.  Put me out of my fucking misery, right now.  You’ve got such a big head that the blood flow will probably keep your tiny little brain warm enough as long as you strap yourself down beforehand, I’ll wait.  And then you can go back to base, alone , and find another poor girl to emotionally torture since you probably don’t get enough of it from the ones you work your way through but can never remember the most basic things about.”

Remarkably, that actually shuts him up.  You’re doubtful the jab really hurts him, but you’re not going to feel bad about it either way.  He deserved that.  You cross your arms over your chest and don’t even bother looking at him, huffing and flushed with the climax of your ferocity, now left feeling strangely exhausted in its wake.  Eventually your breathing evens out and disappears into the silence, until nothing at all can be heard.

It’s like that for a moment—only a moment, before the loud tearing of velcro suddenly shreds through the quiet in the cockpit, completely rattling you.  Automatically your eyes shoot over to his reflection, watching large hands pull the orange jumpsuit apart at his chest and then shrug it over broad shoulders.  It’s not sexual.  It can’t be sexual, because there’s just no fucking room to allow it—it takes him forever to pull the long sleeves down his arms, but the way he drags it out somehow just increases your anticipation for an event you should have absolutely no interest in spectating.  He’s wearing a white sleeveless undershirt underneath and the jumpsuit bunches at his waist, making him look all the longer and more defined as he finally collapses back into his seat and reclines in it, the distant constellations bathing his lean torso in dim speckles of starlight.

Your gaze catches on every good part of him—it falls down the muscular lines of his neck and follows the thin gold chain wrapped around it, disappearing into the white of his scooping neckline.  His toned body finds a place to rest and stretch out without looking awkward or uncomfortable, coarse hair darkening his jaw and dusting the strong lines of his forearms—but it’s his eyes that make your heart stutter.  They’re endlessly deep and dark and knowing , and you can’t seem to look away from him, not even when he opens his mouth to address you.  

“You’re always so fucking mean to me,” Dameron remarks, and for just a split second—just a split second, you feel a stab of regret.  “I should eat you out tonight.”

Fuck, he hits the nail right on the head on his very first try, and just hearing the words come out of his mouth so effortlessly makes your pussy clench in on itself in need.  Nothing about his inflection changed from one sentence to the next, nothing in his voice made it seem like he just flipped the fucking galaxy upside down with just a few words.  To an onlooker who doesn’t speak Basic, they’d have absolutely no hint as to why your face is suddenly radiating heat at an industrial capacity, blazing hot enough to warm the whole cockpit.  You feel like you’re literally burning up with it.  You have to put a palm to your cheek to make sure it’s not actually on fucking fire.  “What— what did you just say to me?”

“That’s what you need,” he drawls, unbothered by the sharpness of your tone.  “What you’ve needed, ever since I can remember.  Should’ve done it a long fucking time ago, now that I’m thinking about it.  How long’s it been?  Tell me the truth, I know it’s been awhile.”

You feel like you’re being roasted alive like one of those hairy little Kowakian monkey-lizards that you’re pretty sure have sentient designation but are the first to be skewered and cooked over the firepit regardless.  Your heart is slamming against your sternum and you scramble to come up with an even slightly clever response after such an ambush.

“This is your plan?”  You raise an eyebrow at him, feeling a bead of sweat drop down your temple and onto the corner of your lashes.  Oh fuck, be cool, be cool.  “You think this is gonna work?  Ask me if I want a weak orgasm and rugburn on my thighs?”

“I can shave,” Dameron proposes quietly, lifting his chin and gently scrubbing the side of his cheek.  The sound of the thick bristles against his fingers makes you swallow thickly and push back very vivid thoughts of how his face would feel between your legs.  How soft and wet his mouth would feel at the center of that thick, coarse beard.  “Tonight, I’ll shave it off.  Make it nice and smooth for you.”

Something inside you surges up to assure him he absolutely should not shave, and you actually have to bite your tongue to keep it buried at the last second.  Stars, that was a close one, what the fuck prompted that?

“I don’t give a shit what you do,” you quickly return, resisting the urge to wipe your brow.  “Beard or no beard, makes no difference.  Foreplay is overrated, I’m not big on wasting time.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” he immediately laments—so quick , and the worst part is that the sympathy in his voice actually sounds sincere.  You’re having trouble looking him in the eyes right now, hearing the genuine pity come through in his tone.  “Who… who did this to you?”

“You said you want to figure out what I like, what turns me on,” you return, tucking your hair behind your ear once more and trying not to sound self-conscious.  Maker, how long until your shift is over?  You need to get out of here, this shit is… way out of your league.  “I’m not into it, so try again.”

“Really?”  Dameron takes a moment to look at you, furrow his thick eyebrows at you in barely concealed curiosity, before his head tilts sideways and drops to his shoulder.  “Normally I’d respect that, but I meant it when I said you need it.”

“We fucking hate each other, Dameron,” you hiss, a reminder to him as much as it is to yourself.  Fuck, you really don’t like where this is going.  “You don’t know anything about me, you don’t know what the I n—”

“I bet you think we’d fuck hard,” he murmurs, low enough that you have to take an unsteady breath and physically brace yourself for whatever is going to come from that dirty mouth next.  “You think that maybe I’d throw you around a little, give it to you from behind, teach you a fucking lesson for always talking back to me.  But that’s primitive shit, Gold-Ten, that’s not for you.”

Resist.  Resist .  You’re part of the fucking Resistance, for Maker’s sake, you’re taught to hold out until death in torture scenarios.  Since when did this tin can suddenly become a new POW camp simulation you have to train for?

“I want to take you apart so slow that you can’t talk at all,” Dameron continues quietly, and you close your eyes, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.  “We don’t even have to fuck—I mean, I want to, but mostly I just want to taste you.  Go nice and slow.  I want you on your back, so I can look in your eyes and see all that anger just… fade away.  I want to watch you try to fight how fucking good I’ll make it.  How hot it’s gonna be when you can’t glare at me anymore, when your pretty doll eyes go all soft and sweet and you finally realize that I’ve never hated you at all.”

Maker.  This is a trick.  It’s not a question, it shouldn’t be presented like one—this is a dirty rotten trick , and you’re not gonna fall for it.  You can’t fucking fall for it.  It’s a low blow, and you refuse to even acknowledge he said anything at all.  He’s lying to get your guard down.  He laughed at your flirting.  He’s a shit person, he’s using you, this isn’t real.

Real or not, you still gulp loud enough for him to hear it.

“We could go back to our room after our shift is over,” he offers out of the blue, and you have no clue why, but when he pauses and lets it hang in the air for a second, you don’t interrupt him.  You stay completely silent while he waits for you, waits for your typical snarky comeback.  You have it in your head instantly, you know what you’d normally say.  Your room.  It’s not ‘our’ room, it’s fucking your room that you’re generous enough to let him bunk in, a privilege he’s this fucking close to losing—but you can’t find it in yourself to say it right now.  Your anger is gradually losing the war to your arousal and you’re forced to watch every single small defeat inside you happen from the sidelines.

His reflection blinks at you through the transparisteel, his eyebrows raising just slightly at your prolonged silence, before he suddenly sits up a little and leans forward.

“And I could lock the door,” Dameron continues, lowering his voice, both in volume and register.  “The lights in there are way too fucking bright but I don’t want to be in complete darkness, so maybe we can turn them off and open the port shade, let just enough light come through to see.  I could turn on the radio, find something quiet, easy to listen to.  Something you like, I’ll let you pick it out.  And then… Wait, hang on, which bed?”

You clench your jaw and purposefully say nothing even as your pussy squeezes, glaring right through his reflection into the black void of space.

“Mmm.   Your bed,” he eventually decides.  “I want you comfortable.  You shower at night.  Your hair will be wet and you’ll be in those baggy pajamas that you think I can’t see your nipples through, the ones that I know you take off under your covers and then put on in the morning when you think I’m still asleep.  That’s good, I want you relaxed, so that maybe… maybe you’d let me take your panties off at some point.  And you could lay back and open your legs, and I could go down on you for a little while.  However long you need.”

Fuck.

No, this isn’t fucking happening.  Your lower muscles aren’t twisting in so hard that it actually fucking hurts, your pussy isn’t leaking through two layers of fabric under your jumpsuit, your body isn’t outright revolting against the sheer neglect you’ve put it through.  Maker, it’s fucking painful.  You have to clench your hands into fists and dig your fingernails into your palms before you can open your mouth.

“You want to know what I need?”  You nearly wheeze, a drop of sweat sliding down the back of your neck this time.  Your body feels like it’s three sizes too big for this cockpit and your skin feels like it’s three sizes too small for your body.  “I need you to shut the fuck u—”

“What you need,” Dameron purrs, sliding up closer behind your seat and sighing soft against the worn material of your headrest, “is a warm mouth to cum in.  Don’t be shy, pretty baby, you can tell me.”

You growl out his last name as threateningly as you possibly can before he purrs yours right back in your ear, and fuck, you’ve never heard it sound so sexual before.  Last names allow pilots to maintain a respectful distance from each other.  Flight designations are Resistance-wide, but last names are just… allies.  Not friends, not companions, but a vast network of people brought together by a common enemy.  It hurts to lose a first name.  But the way yours sounds rolling off of Dameron’s tongue is just too sinful, too intimate when calling you that is meant to sever intimacy by design.  He says it slow and makes it dirty, muddies it in the back of his throat as he slides up even closer to you, until his face is right next to yours as you stare at each other through the transparisteel.

“I’m really…” he pauses, before exhaling through his nose and swallowing thick enough to make his Adam’s apple drop and bounce up again, his tongue coming out to wet his plush lips as he blinks slowly at you with a heavy gaze, “… really good at it.  Call me Poe and I’ll do it for you all night.”

Shit, your pussy is just a fucking mess right now.  It feels like it’s melting sweet and syrupy all over your thighs, throbbing and pounding and clamping up and screaming at you to do something, at least press your hand down there to alleviate some of the aching tensi—

No— stars, no touching yourself is rule number two.  You drop your hands to your thighs and squeeze them, trying to reign yourself back in.

“I think you’re—just projecting,” you try, but turns out responding in general is just an all-around bad idea.  Nothing about it comes out right.  The ‘just’ sounds like your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and your voice cracks on the word ‘projecting,’ but you don’t even have time to be self-conscious or embarrassed at how much you’re giving yourself away—all your energy has to go towards fighting the tightness between your open legs, how you’re so fucking turned on that you’re worried you’ll cum without even touching yourself.  Oh Maker, can you imagine?  How fucking proud of himself he’d be?  You can’t let that happen, but fuck, holding back something so appealing is so much harder than it sounds.

Tap into that anger, tap into that anger—only, you can’t suddenly find it.  Where’d it go?  Fuck, doesn’t matter, conjure it.  Quick, before it’s too late, get mad —don’t let him lure you into a… a false… 

Dameron tilts his chin down towards the line of your shoulder and then slowly turns his head towards your neck, breathing you in gently.

A false sense of…

His soft exhale makes goosebumps break out all the way down your arms.

… What?

“Maybe you’re right,” Dameron acknowledges, talking just under your ear.  You watch his eyelids dip and the dark beard brushes against your skin and you catch just a hint of that woodsy, spicy scent engulfing you.  Like… teakwood, maybe?  Stars, you don’t know, you think you’re starting to lose your mind.  What the fuck does teakwood even smell like?  “Maybe it’s just what I need.  You should exploit it, chances are I’ll still cum first.”

That rockets another painful spasm down low.  It hurts so fucking bad—fuck, maybe you could… rub yourself up against these weapons controls?  Just a little bit?  That joystick, right there, just ease yourself up against it just to nurse this wound a little bit…?

No, fucking— bad.  That’s bad, you have to stop—

“This isn’t real, this isn’t—y-you just…”  You flutter your eyelashes shut, digging your fingernails into your thighs like it’ll help break through the fog of his lulling voice, how fucking amazing he smells right now.  “You just want to win th-the b—”

“ Fuck the bet,” he tells you quietly, his head dipped low enough now that his lips brush against your neck, and you shudder so hard at the sensation that your shoulder almost knocks into his chin with it.  “You really think I’m doing all this for a fucking bet?”

Don’t trust him, don’t trust him, don’t—

Your deep breath is so stuttery and uneven that it’s technically just a series of shallow inhales all anxiously strung together, too desperate for oxygen to go about it legato.  It’s painfully obvious to him by now, it has to be, but you very quickly miss the shaky breathing as soon as he takes away your ability to do it all together.

“Let me taste you,” he whispers, his voice almost breaking with how gentle it is, how it sounds like it flips in and out of his register when he speaks this low.  “Right now, let’s make it real, let m—I know you have to be soaking fucking wet, baby, just let me try a little bit of it, please—I’m… holy shit, I’m so hard just thinking about it.”

“You c-can’t,” you stammer, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.  At him, at the situation, at the painful throb of emptiness between your legs.  “Fuck, it’s not allowed, it’s against the rules—”

“It won’t be,” he assures you, and you hiccup when you suddenly feel his hand brush against your side, strong fingers branching out to curve against your ribcage.  “You don’t have to do anything, you can stay just like this.  Just a few seconds and then I’ll stop, I promise.”

Oh, Maker, it’s on the very top of your tongue, so unbelievably close to telling him something—but you don’t know what it should be.  You’re right at the tipping point, on a tightrope right between what you want and what you should want.  And, knowing you’re this close to giving in, Dameron slowly eases his hand down your side and starts to trail it inwards, and just the lightest brush of his warm tongue against your neck shatters any composure you have left.

You whimper and instinctively try to close your legs, but you fucking can’t— your knees are forced wide apart by controls and your whole body freezes when his hand slides down and folds gently along the curve of your pussy through the thick fabric of your jumpsuit.

The feeling of being held like this by him is just too good , cradled so perfectly in his palm as he opens his mouth and flutters his tongue out to taste your skin again, giving you a little more of it this time and letting you feel the roughness of his beard with the way his lips move.  Your breath catches, then he hooks his fingertips up just the slightest bit and pulls back, and you suddenly have to smack your whole hand over your face in a terrible attempt to stifle your loud gasp.

“Oh, Maker, I c-can’t,” you stammer against your fingers, not being able to trust him or your own body.  You continue to protest even after he moves back up, resting his palm low on your abdomen, letting the heat bleed through the fabric and transfer directly to your floor muscles as he lifts his head up from your shoulder.  “I can’t, we can’t, I…”

You can’t see him, but you know he’s looking at you.  He’s staring right at you through the reflection, studying the way you’re hiding your face from him, how you’re still melting, still losing your composure just from the warm palm pressed tight your tummy.

His touch leaves you for a second. But then the deafening sound of velcro ripping at the crotch of your jumpsuit has you dragging your hand down your mouth and your eyelids dipping.

“Dameron,” you breathe into your fingers, just as his carefully slip into the small opening and begin to work at the button to your pants. “Dameron, this isn’t—you don’t want—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I don’t want,” he grunts at you, and you try not to bite yourself at the sound of him unzipping things and yanking fabric to the side.  “What I really fucking want is the real thing, but I guess this’ll have to do for now.”

“I—”  Your mind whirs desperately, trying to process when his fingers wedge under your panties and down.   But he doesn’t give you a single fucking second.  As soon as the tip of his middle finger reaches your slit, he’s dropping it and sliding it through your slick, hot, unbearably neglected cunt.

“Fuck,” he spits, and you feel like you might be about to break your own fucking jaw with how hard you’re clutching it, trying so desperately not to make a noise.  The pad of his finger is rough and calloused as it drags against your clit in slow, tight circles, and you clamp your eyes shut and try to breathe normally, but it’s no use.  Fuck , it’s been so long .  You’ve been aching for it for a full fucking month and a half now and you know that even if he couldn’t feel it, he can hear how drenched you are right now.  It’s making an obscene sound as he steadily masturbates you with one heavenly finger, giving your body what it’s desperately craved for so many weeks.  “Fuck, baby’s pussy got fucking wet hearing me talk about how good I’d lick it, huh?”

That sends a bright flare launching through you and you gasp raggedly, both hands whipping out to snatch at his forearm where it disappears between your legs.  “No, shit, wait, stopstopstopstop stop , I—”

His hand slips out immediately and yet you continue to tremble like his finger is still right there, like your clit is just imagining it so vividly that it’s successfully convincing itself of the illusion.  The aching bit of flesh is burning, that good burn, the one that’s searing and bright that makes your muscles continue to chase the sensation long after the stimulation is gone.  Fuck, he almost made you cum.  He barely touched you for a few seconds and yet your fingers have to tighten into claws to slow your body down the fuck down, flexing against your thighs and trying your best to halt the impending climax.

By the time you’re able to wrangle yourself back from the edge and look at his reflection, his middle finger is already in his mouth and he’s blinking slowly at you, his pupils blown wide.  You’re breathing hard at him, staring open-mouthed at the way his lips are closed below his second knuckle, how he takes forever dragging it back out again.  You have to close your eyes.  You have to clamp them shut and keep them that way, knowing you won’t be able to look at him through whatever he’s going to say next.

Except, oddly, he doesn’t say much.

“Shit,” he breathes, dropping his mouth to your neck once more.  “Shhhit.  I…”

Your eyes snap open in sudden, blind panic when he doesn’t continue, horrified at the possibility that he doesn’t like it.  Dameron always has something to say, he doesn’t go speechless.  “Oh—Maker, is it not—?”

“Mmmfuck, just—” he grits, panting hot air against your skin, “—fuck.  Give me a second.”

You can only see the crown of his head with the way he’s angled, but you can see his shoulders a little further back.  They start… moving slightly.  Just the littlest bit, a smooth motion, like his whole body is slowly easing back and forth—

The nav controls are between his legs, you immediately realize.  He’s grinding up against them with how close he is to you and your seat.

And suddenly, it’s like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.  A ray of sunshine that breaks through the raging storm.  Dameron might cum in his pants like this.  Which means you’ll win, and arguably more importantly, you’ll finally be able to cum.  You don’t even take a moment to consider the potential consequences—how you’re going to have to withstand the stimulation until he succumbs to it, how you’ll have to outlast—but you’re not thinking straight.  You’re not really thinking at all.

“You can…” you suddenly hear yourself whisper, and your heart pounds in your throat when he instantly stops moving.  “One… one more.  If you want.  You can put your finger inside this time, it’s where I’m the… w-wettest.”

“Fuck,” Dameron croaks into the crook of your neck, his voice scraping low and rough and sending a tremor through you.  “Fuck, okay, yeah—”

His hand slides across your hip and down, but you catch him just in time.

“But don’t touch my clit.”  You try to sound as firm as possible through the breathlessness, still trying to put your foot down even when you’re giving in, and Dameron’s teeth come out as he stifles a soft groan into your neck in response.

“Yes, baby,” he murmurs obediently as his hand sinks down once more, and so diligently, he avoids it altogether.  His fingers slide under your panties and fall straight down to your entrance, down to where you know you’re the hottest, where your pussy is flexing and pushing wetness out with a steady, wicked throb.  The pad of his middle finger presses gently against the tight muscles there, rubs just the slightest bit to feel that resistance, and then the length of it eases inside you so slowly that your knees rattle against bulky metal.

“Fucking Maker , ” he hisses as he slides it in, his body making a sudden jerk against the controls.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of something inside you after so long, after such a torturous buildup, and you grasp at his forearm again when it curls naturally up against searing pleasure.  Oh, it’s so good, it’s so good, your hands shake while he very carefully moves it in and out, the raw sparks of heat threatening to incinerate you as your muscles cling to every ridge of his finger.  He gets it sopping wet, bathes it so completely in your slick that you’re almost certain it’ll come out pruny and drenched.

“Shit, okay,” you pant, squeezing desperately around his finger, “o-okay, fuck, that’s enough.”

His hand pulls out… slower this time.  He slips his finger out of you quick enough, but he drags the tip of it through your folds as he retreats, just barely grazing your clit and making you jolt in your seat.  Shit, you don’t know if it felt intentional enough to fault him for it—mostly it just excites you, thrills you to have him edge you like this without really needing to put any effort at all into it.

Dameron lifts his head to sink his finger deep into his mouth once more, and you tremble as you watch him enjoy it, staring at the way his shoulders seem to relax as soon as your taste is on his tongue, how his face goes soft with it and he almost slumps.

Relief.  Genuine, not embellished.  He still doesn’t say anything after he slowly slides it out and blinks at you, no sugar sweet drawl telling you how amazing you taste, no candied words to make you give in and let him have another go.  You’re both breathing hard at each other, staring, waiting to see who will break first.

Stars, you… fucking like this.  You want him to keep going, but you can’t offer it again.  It’s just too exposing, too revealing to let him you’re actually really fucking enjoying this, you can’t—

“Do you w—?”  Your voice automatically comes out through the silence without your permission, sounding just absolutely fucking wrecked by this point, but his palm is already slithering back down as soon as you speak, and you make the softest little submissive noise in your throat at him taking immediate initiative like that.  He’s not as careful about it this time—his hand finds its target with less frill, his finger slides in quicker, sinking deep into your heat with little hesitation, lighting you on fire from the inside out, and you bite the meat of your thumb to stay quiet.

“Fuck, this is so hot,” he suddenly breathes next to your ear while your legs spasm and you gasp brokenly.  “This is so—fuck, pretty baby letting me do this to her, I can’t fucking believe—”

Dameron eases a second finger inside you this time, letting you feel that delicious stretch from this angle, unable to lift your legs or shuffle around to help and subsequently resigned to simply experience it the way he gives it to you.  Your teeth have probably permanently indented your bottom lip from how hard you’re clamped down, a testament to how much you’re trying to hold back the loud moan you miraculously haven’t released yet.  Somehow it makes it sexier, not letting him hear you, not having your own noises to drown out the spark of urgency in his voice beginning to peek through.

Shit, it’s too much.  You can only let him touch you a few seconds at a time before you feel that familiar tug towards mind-numbing bliss, and the more he does it, the more appealing that feeling then becomes.  It’s teasing you, floating right in front of you and calling into question what could possibly be so bad about just reaching out to meet it?  You could.  You could cum right now.  What’s two weeks of pay?  You could cum all night long if you want, that is a thing you can do—

Quickly snapping out of your hypnotic downfall, your trembling hands snatch at his forearm once more, and Dameron, the fucker, drags his fingers slowly over your clit on the way out— so not accidental, not even close to it this time, but the sensation makes your hips stutter upwards and chase it nonetheless.

“Fuck you,” you groan at his audacity, your chest arching as you drop your head back, “I said don’t touch my—” but two wet fingers slipping past your lips and onto your tongue muffle the rest of your sentence.  Your heart does half a somersault before slamming down early, the taste of your pussy filling your mouth as you automatically start sucking on them.

“None of that,” Dameron tells you softly, massaging his fingers along your tongue before pressing a sweet kiss under your ear.  “Be nice.  I’m being nice.”

You should bite him.  Instead, you just close your eyes and mphh weakly around his fingers, your body sagging as you give into it and let him explore your mouth with them, your lower muscles cramping up in painful desperation even when he’s not anywhere near that part of your body right now.  Your tongue even comes up to lick between them, swirl around them so soft compared to how hard you’re puffing through your nose.

Dameron slowly inches his fingers out, letting the tips of them rest against your bottom lip for just a brief moment, before his hand is moving again.  Not down, but back and around, so he can open his mouth and taste you another way this time.

Shit, you feel like you’re dying.  You need air.  Your hands clench into fists and you use the back of one to wipe the sweat from the bridge of your nose while he takes his time sampling you like this.  If anything, he looks just as blissed out as before, continuing to rub his crotch up against the solid metal between his legs and teasing you with it as much as he’s teasing himself.

“Maker, let me do this for real tonight, okay,” Dameron pants after dropping his fingers from his mouth, sounding like he’s fighting for his breath while you can’t find yours at all.  Your eyes flick down to watch the way his hand disappears behind the chair to grab the controls and push his cock up against them even harder, how he drops his forehead to your neck like he just can’t fucking handle it anymore.  “Fuck, I’ll shave, I’ll do anything you want, just let me—”

“Cum,” you gasp out before you can stop yourself, and there’s a moment after it where his hips suddenly stutter against the controls, and you both freeze.

Shit.  Shitshitshit, did that actually work?

No, you very quickly realize, his body isn’t spasming like it would if he finally emptied his load after a month and a half.  He’s just… holding there, his head buried in your neck, completely still.

You didn’t mean it like that.  Well… fuck, you did, but you didn’t realize you’d be that reckless about it, that upfront about reissuing the challenge.

Dameron pulls back to look at you from the side this time, but it’s too cramped—he keeps his head turned facing you even as his eyes flick up to the transparisteel to take in the finer details of your features, the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead, and the slightly alarmed way you’re blinking back at him, worried you just shot your blaster at him in the midst of a mutual ceasefire and you fucking missed.

You see the understanding in his eyes instantly fall into place, and it’s not fucking good.  Ohhhhhh no, it’s not good.  Your chest starts rising and falling rapidly, suddenly registering the position you just put yourself in.  Fuck, you didn’t think—you saw your opening, so clearly, you didn’t have time to think about the consequences.

“D-Dameron…” you try your best to placate.

“Don’t touch your clit?”  He asks quietly, the raspiness of his voice ripping a hole through you while his hand suddenly shoves its way back down your body once more.

“Dameron,” you whimper, your heart stuttering in panic as you grasp weakly at his arm reaching between your spread thighs, “Dameron, this is—this is against the r-rules—”

“You keep saying that,” he comments, his fingers easily finding the opening in your jumpsuit no matter how hard you flex your thighs against bulky mechanics to try and close them.  “How clearly do you remember the rules?  What were the rules again?

You open your mouth to respond but his hand sliding under your panties and down just obliterates any chance you were going to attempt.  No words, nothing comes out but a shaky whine as his finger sinks into your soaking heat, going right for the kill.

“Come on, baby, the rules,” Dameron reminds you when you never give him an answer.  “Tell me.  No fucking, no jerking off, and…?”

You suddenly struggle forwards in a last-ditch attempt at preventing the inevitable, hoping you can scoot up enough in your seat to escape his reach from behind.  But fuck, your thighs have been shoved wide open for nearly eight hours—none of the muscles are working the way they should be anymore.  There’s just enough room in front of you to get there and you probably would’ve been able to do it at the beginning of the shift, even with his hand between your legs like this, but you’re sluggish and your thighs pull sharp and urgent with the movement.  The frantic maneuver enough to veer his fingers off course just slightly, moving one of your lips to the side at an angle, and you keep pushing against the pain no matter how useless it is.

“—No cumming,” he finishes for you, and his other hand is slithering up under your arm and groping one of your breasts through the jumpsuit before shoving you back tight up against your seat once more, totally helpless against it.  “Probably have another fifteen minutes or so before our shift ends.  Better hold it in, pretty baby, because this one is all you.”

“This—this isn’t fair, this is—”  The second the slippery pad of his finger presses hard against your clit, you’re biting your lip to cut off a breathless whimper that slips out.  “This is… is sab— sabotage— ”

“Oh, I know,” he moans next to your ear, mocking your high plea of distress with a fake, overly sympathetic whine.  “Feels so fucking good though, doesn’t it?”

Fuck, it does.  The build feels like an orgasm in itself, just working your way to it.  You’re already so unbelievably close after just a few seconds of direct stimulation, an obvious consequence of originally agreeing to such a hardcore edging workout.  You’re pouring sweat, so swollen and tight between your legs as you do everything you can to revolt against your body’s needs.

“Oh fuck, stop touching my clit—” you gasp raggedly, heart thundering in panic while your lower muscles start to immediately seize up, “oh—fuckfuckfuck— Poe, take your finger off m—”

Instead of doing it, his hand just slows down until the tip of his finger comes to a halt, maybe less than an inch over top of it.  You still can’t catch your breath though, not when you feel yourself throbbing against absolutely nothing, the calloused pad holding perfectly still over the bundle of nerves.  The swollen bud still arcs and flares at a steady frequency, building and building, and you choke out a wordless garble, absolutely fucking furious that this is what’s gonna make you cum.

“Don’t make me cum,” you switch up your sentence but not the terrified plead in your voice, the way it’s pitching up and out of control in the dead quiet of space.  He doesn’t even acknowledge it.  “Don’t make me cum, don—”

“Say it again,” he prompts instead, and lightning arcs up your spine.

“Poe,” you wheeze, the words coming from you without thought, your fingernails digging into his forearm even as your hips jerk up into his touch, “fuck, don’t make me cum, Poe—please don’t make me c—”

“But it’ll be so good,” he counters lowly, and your clit throbs in desperation at the richness of his voice when he speaks like this, saying things from deep in his chest.  “It’ll be so fucking good when it happens.  Stars, you’ll feel so much better, won’t you?  Cum right now and I’ll give you as many as I can until we have to go home.”

“N-No,” you whine, feeling his teeth scrape at the crook of your neck.  “No, I can’t—”

“Cum for me,” Dameron raises his voice, sharpening it into a direct order.  “Right now.  Come on— fucking make yourself lose.”

“But I—I—” you sob, starting to feel your body curl inwards, nearly about to succumb to the burning, the tightening, right on its last breath, “I-I don’t want to cum—”

“And I don’t fucking care,“ he hisses while your hands start flexing unintentionally, grasping helplessly at his immovable forearm where it disappears between your legs, the dark hair sliding under your fingertips as you claw desperately at it.  “You’ll fucking cum when I tell you to cum and you’ll like it, you disrespectful, cock-deprived, bratty little—”

And then everything goes dark.

No, literally.  The stars disappear.

The cockpit is suddenly shrouded in pitch blackness, and you’re almost certain it’s because you pass out, except then Dameron is all but ripping his hand out of your jumpsuit and cursing repeatedly in alarm.  You crumple in on yourself, eyes clamped shut and not hearing anything, right at the peak of your ecstasy and ready to soar into the light completely unassisted, your muscles doing all the work on their own—

“—shit, they’re way too close—” you hear his voice shout, “—we have to turn the engines on—Gold-Ten, baby, turn the fucking eng—”

You’re almost there, you’re almost there, you’re gonna cum, you’re gonna fucking—

Your first name, roared out in startling, blinding panic.

You don’t often hear it.  Just during roll calls mostly, but only if you’re flying with a different squadron and need a new temporary flight designation for the day.  First names hurt.  You can’t remember a time you’ve ever willingly told anybody yours.

Your head jerks up to look at his reflection but something else beyond the transparisteel takes immediate precedence.  Your brain takes about two seconds to catch up before thundering terror slams through you and halts your previously inevitable orgasm in its fucking tracks.  A runaway train about to launch off its tracks suddenly slamming directly into a megaton force-field of cold, hard fight or flight instincts.

A staggering fleet of First Order ships silently plunging out of hyperspace on all sides—your powered-down x-wing stationed right in the middle of the drop location.

***

Stay tuned for part two coming soon!!

[sagendipity]

reminder i'm sage i used to be notplanningshit until i accidentally deleted my blog so now im reposting my works!

info: quackity x reader, gn!reader, hurt/comfort, no warnings

on frizzy hair and the pursuit of perfection

Intellectually, in the rational side of your brain, you know that what you’re feeling is stupid.

You see the Instagram posts talking about the importance of self-affirmation and mental health. You see the tweets saying that people are more than their family’s perception of them. You realize that having a condescending and judgmental family is almost a right of passage for your generation.

These are all things you know, intellectually. But knowing something intellectually does jack shit for actually convincing your heart of whatever you know. You can yell at yourself all you want, but it’s clearly not your rational brain making you tear up at yet another text from your dad that was along the lines of “cool, could be better, though.”

You just want someone, just once, to celebrate an achievement with you. You want to be excited to share something with someone, without fear of them scoffing in the face of your pride and excitement. In your family- hell, in the world, certainly- someone has always done better, and you’re damn sure to be reminded of such.

It’s been years of this same behavior, ever since you can remember. It’s not just your dad, either, it’s your whole family- aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins. The whole town you grew up in had this haughty, arrogant air about it, where everyone was constantly competing, even if there was no reason for it. Take the hardest classes, get the least sleep, get the biggest scholarship. Even your friends would flex their better test scores at you, and refuse to help you with the homework, in case you somehow got a better score on a test than them. You know it’s how they were raised, they’re just a product of their environment and don’t know how bad it hurts, but it still stung then, and probably always will. You’re still in contact with a few of them, and it’s just more of the same whenever you exchange a handful of quick texts every couple months.

You know you should stop giving information about your achievements to them, but when your dad texts and asks how you are, there’s not much you can reply with other than “good, got a promotion at work!” From there, it’s a slippery slope of him asking what new benefits you got, and then the judgmental few moments where the gray dots disappear and reappear while he tries to compose his thoughts about your inadequacy in the least-abrasive way a middle-aged man can. That is to say, not un-abrasively at all. In fact, his words are often delivered with the finesse of low-grit sandpaper on soft wood.

Well, could be more. Work harder and maybe you’ll get an increase next month. I got a lot of bonuses at work when I was your age. All you have to do is take the bad shifts and get some good customer reviews. You’ll get there.

You stare at the fresh new message on your phone screen before clicking it off with a bone-deep sigh, your eyes betraying your rational side by, again, tearing up. You shove the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub until the tears are forced away and you see spots.

That’s how Alex finds you, sat on the foot of your shared bed with your hands rubbing fiercely at your eyes. He’s probably just come to grab a hoodie- the setting sun brings with it a cool breeze that washes through your open windows and cools the house from the warmth it’d gathered from the day’s sun.

“You good?” He asks, opening his closet door and pulling out a hoodie. He wrestles it on over his head as he waits for your response- when he pushes his head out the other end, hair mussed and static-y, you still haven’t answered. “Baby?”

He comes and sits down next to you. Your eyes, red-rimmed but still dry, track his movements before flicking to catalog every tuft of disheveled hair protruding from his head. With a superficial smile, you reach up to smooth his long, black locks back and down into place. It doesn’t matter; he’s going to slip on a beanie sooner or later, but for now, you distract yourself by combing gentle fingers through the soft strands.

“Not that I don’t appreciate this,” Alex murmurs, brown eyes searching your face for an answer to what has you upset. “But what’s wrong?”

“Just my dad,” you whisper, not trusting your voice not to crack. You avoid his gaze, keeping your eyes fixed stubbornly on his hair as you finish your work. “There. You looked like a hedgehog.”

He huffs a little laugh, but scoots closer to you and grabs a hand out of your lap- you’d curled your hands into tight fists, your nails digging little red crescents into your palm. He uncurls the hand he’s holding and reaches for the other, but you save him the work by instead grabbing onto your own thigh tightly, redirecting the frustration. He rubs small circles into the aching skin of your other palm while he waits for you to gather yourself and explain, now that the ice has been broken on the topic.

“He always acts like whatever I do is just not quite good enough for him. They all do- him, my mom, even my fucking friends.” You rub your free hand down your face, trying to alleviate some tension. It does not work. “I don’t know why I’m still upset. They’ve been doing it forever.”

“That’s probably why you’re still upset. You hope they’d grown up enough to stop doing that.” Alex presses his thumb into the center of your palm. It grounds you, and you swallow around the lump in your throat.

“It’s not even a matter of immaturity- it’s not as simple as a pissing contest. It’s just who they are. They don’t think perfection exists, but they want me to achieve it anyways.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. That sounds exhausting.”

He sounds so sincere, so genuine, like the idea of you being treated this way is deeply upsetting to him. You’d never really… experienced that. Someone recognizing your struggle, and admitting that it must fucking suck is something you’d never been graced with.

His brow is furrowed in a display of concern, eyes gentle and searching. He’s not lying, he means what he said, and he’s not going to follow it up with a “but-,”.

Eyes beginning to sting again, you lean forward until you’re resting your forehead on his shoulder. The soft fabric of his hoodie immediately calms you, along with the warmth you can feel emanating from him. It makes sense, after all, that the personification of pure sunshine would have such warmth about them.

Alex scoots forward, gathering you more closely in his arms, his legs awkwardly folded so that you can sit right in front of him. His hands come up to hold you, one fisting in the fabric of your sweatshirt, and the other resting on the back of your neck, gentle, but firm. You let out a shuddering breath, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. Not going to cry.

“I got a promotion at work,” you mutter, taking a long, deep breath. You brace yourself, waiting for a dismissive response. “That’s what set my dad off- I got- he-.”

Your voice cracks, and you trail off with a small sigh, clutching at Alex’s hoodie even tighter. It’s thick and soft under your fingers, and you knead at it like a cat.

“A promotion?! Baby, that’s amazing!” Alex pulls back just enough to take a glance at you, his own expression steeling from excitement back to sadness as he sees that you are still fighting back tears. “Sweetheart, I think you’re the only person to ever cry after getting a promotion.”

A little laugh escapes your chest, huffy and wet, but still a laugh. Alex’s lips curl into a smile as he reaches up to smooth back some of your stray hairs, like you’d done for him a moment or two ago. You smile, reaching up to intercept his hand, and lace the two of you’s fingers together.

He squeezes your hand where it’s resting in his grip, looking at your linked fingers briefly. “Also, your family is wrong.”

“About what specifically?” You huff, wiping at your eyes for hopefully the final time.

“About perfection not existing. It does, and I know exactly what it looks like.” Despite the serious words, Alex is fighting back a smile. You narrow your eyes at him, already anticipating the next thing he’s going to say. “It looks like you, dumbass.”

You groan, feeling a hot blush rise to your cheeks immediately. You tip forward to bury yourself in Alex’s neck, this time hiding your flustered face and stupidly happy grin.

“I can feel your smile against my neck, you know.”

“Oh, fuck off-.”

With the hand that’s on the back of your neck, Alex coaxes you out of hiding just to press a kiss to your forehead. “Really. I am proud of you. I don’t want you to be afraid to tell me about your achievements because of what your family has done to you.”

“Okay,” you whisper again, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

He hums in response, tilting his head and looking at you with what can only be described as pure fondness in his eyes. Then, he leans down to meet you for a delicate kiss, and your eyes finally stop stinging.

[anika-ann]

Just a Human (S.R.)

Type: mini-series turned one-shot, SHIELD recruit!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader     Word count: 8750

Summary: Being a SHIELD recruit was a dream come true, especially with people like Sergeant Barnes or Captain Rogers offering an input to your class’ training.

It was also hard work for many different reasons. One of them being all those guys around; not all of them were exactly fit to become heroes, simply because they were not good people.

Maybe you shouldn’t have pointed it out so openly though. Then again, what would the world turn into if you kept your mouth shut when feeling like speaking up?

WARNINGS: so-so graphic description of assault almost turned sexual, violence and a bit of blood, boys being boys in a real bad way, language

A/N: Steve Rogers vs assholes, round 2. Also, ‘you’ vs. assholes. And Bucky in the mix.

A/N: This was originally posted as a miniseries on AO3, but now edited, I decided to thrown it in as a long, sort-of three part one-shot. Enjoy and mind the warnings.

(gif source dailymcugifs, divider by firefly-graphics)

A Handful of Spite

“Can you believe the fucking nerve on him?!” Henry hissed, punching the bag harder and catching your attention. The statement was followed by his companion nodding grimly.

You tried to ignore the walking testosterone jerks; you never liked either Henry or Jim. The reason was simple – they were, as you loved to remind people, an advertisement on toxic masculinity. Bullies on top of that. The kind of people you wanted to avoid at all costs.

You weren’t that lucky to have that chance though.

So instead, you scoffed under your breath and continued your sit-ups series. You had more important things to do than wonder about what they were talking about this time.

It was your regular training session with the other SHIELD recruits led by Sergeant Barnes – which--- oh my. When joining the academy, you had no clue that the director’s ‘you’ll be learning from the best’ meant that of all things; trained by the more-than-once-believed-late James Buchanan Barnes. Everyone here knew his story – or at least some of it. The brainwashing. The murders. His heroics to make up for them as much as he could. His everlasting friendship and a nickname that was tied to it. Bucky; the very best friend of the oh-so-praised Captain America.

Oh, speaking of which, he joined the sessions too. You were being trained by not one, but two supersoldiers slash war heroes. You couldn’t believe this was your life sometimes, but you were not one to dwell on it. You just accepted it as a fact. An abso-fucking-lutely incredible fact.

“He’s just a fucker, man. Forget about Barnes, you have Cassie in your pocket. Just ‘cause he’s all sticky sweet on her doesn’t mean she’ll suck his-“

You made a disgusting face, pushing harder to tune out the conversation. You wanted to gag and at the same time, your blood was boiling.

Could there be a jerk who was objectifying women more than Jim? A guy who was using his lower brain more frequently than him? Doubtful. You really wanted to throw up at rubbish that was leaving his mouth.

Not to mention that he was throwing dirt on Sergeant Barnes who absolutely didn’t deserve it.

“-he’s like that to all of them. The chicks. And they fucking dig him, it’s disgusting. He makes the poor brainwashed kicked puppy face, reminding the sob story of his and they’re all dropping to their knees I swear…” Jim continued, practically spitting the venomous words.

You squeezed your eyes shut, half furious and half guilty; the sergeant did have a heart-breaking backstory and many girls were making eyes on him, their hearts softened by the tragedy and his bravery, yes. And you couldn’t say it wasn’t moving you as well, filling you with compassion – but compassion only. Obviously, Sergeant Barnes was objectively a very attractive man too, but what they were saying… ugh.

He didn’t deserve these insults; he was not trying anything on anyone, he wasn’t offering his ‘sob story’, actually being rather secretive about it for obvious and no doubt painful reasons. He couldn’t really couldn’t be blamed for the girls fawning over him a bit more because of it, could he? What was he supposed to do? Stop breathing? Stop doing what he chose to be his job?

It wasn’t his problem – and thank god for that – that these two assholes had egos the size of Texas and couldn’t handle a little competition.

Seriously. Walking testosterone-filled jerks. You seriously considered moving from the station you had been given, eyeing Captain Rogers, checking if he would notice.

“Well, he’s not. Getting. Any. From. My. Chick. Asshole!”

The bag swung wildly under Henry’s blows despite Jim holding it. You laid off, taking your fifteen second break.

“I bet he’s fucking them all on side. Always so… so soft on them. I bet he’s leaving all the hard shit for bed,” Jim snorted, somewhere between angry at him competition and amused at his own crude joke.

You were gonna puke. You were sure of it.

“And he’s too hard on us. Showing off for them. I would fucking want to see him holding up against us without that metal arm-“

You had enough. You sat up sharply, panting, your face flushed, unsure whether it was from the exercise or the exchange you were listening to.

“Are you serious?!” you hissed their way, earning their shocked glances.

And then, Jim’s face twisted in annoyance and disgust.

“Oh geez, you’re one of them, aren’t you?” he snarked, rolling his eyes. “The fangirls.”

More heat burned in your cheeks. You weren’t kidding anyone; both the sergeant and the captain had showed up in your not so innocent dreams, but you were only human, alright. There was only so much time you could spend with two very fine men like them in one room, a bit sweaty and rough (or just slightly gentler with the ladies) until your brain reacted. Mostly to the captain. Not the point.

But actually crossing the line? Being a part of the thing they were describing if it ever existed? Waiting in the line until one of them picked you for the evening with a promise to do it again after they… Jesus what, tried all the others? No, thank you. You had some dignity left.

Also, you simply couldn’t imagine them doing such thing. Raised in a different era, tried by war and pain and lost, yet remaining the great men they were? Just nope.

“No! Jesus, are you even listening to yourself?” you hissed, minding your volume. You hoped that the low hum of voice in the room, of others working out, giving each other pointers and the noise of the machines would offer you a cover from the rest of your companion.

“What, you wanna tell me they’re not going easy on you? On any chick, really?”

“Yeah, well, maybe because they don’t actually want to break our bones during training. Supersoldiers. Superstrength. Does that ring a bell?” you pointed out, reaching for your water bottle, hoping either of your trainers would forgive you when seeing you only took a sec to have a sip.

Henry scoffed, leaning onto the bag. “Sounds like someone has a crush…”

You couldn’t help the motion of your hands, inconspicuously throwing them in the air in frustration.

Why were you even speaking to them? You should have kept your mouth shut!

“Oh go to hell, Ulrich! You’re just jealous and scared that your girl whom you treat like a piece of shit will run off,” you murmured, wiping your forehead off sweat.

“Yeah, because they’re sure pulling their punches with guys too,” Jim complained again, rolling his eyes as Henry now watched you, eyes narrowed in anger – oh you hit a nail on the head, alright.

You couldn’t but mirror Jim’s action, deciding to stick to Devil’s advocate, because…. yeah, because it wasn’t fair to either Rogers or Barnes. They were good people and didn’t deserve this.

“So they’re not beating the shit out of us like they do with you, get over it.”

“They’re humiliating us! Showing off their big muscles, trying to impress all the chicks-“

You chuckled incredulously as they actually admitted the real reason behind their bitching so openly; as if you hadn’t known the whole time. Ego. Ohhh, the ego was bruised. Call 911, CPR is gonna be needed! God, how did they even live with ego this big? Compensating for something?

“They’re doing their job. Training. Yes, they go a bit harder on you, because your physiology can take it. Did it ever occur to you that they have bigger problems than entering a pissing contest with you just so they could steal the girls? Jeez… just… maybe try to be less of assholes and the girls will be into you too… ”

You missed the hard look Henry gave you, laying down again, this time on your belly to work on your back.

You wheezed when a knee suddenly dug into your back, violently and painfully knocking the air out of your lungs. Before you could react, one of your arms was twisted behind your back, Henry’s voice raspy right into your ear, low and dangerous.

“Listen, you little bitch, you don’t get to talk to me like that. Understand? Huh?”

He was so proving your point, but you didn’t have the time You tried to breathe in properly, and free your arm while pushing up on the free one, your muscles burning with the effort. Shit, he was heavy. You wheezed again instead of the answer.

“Can’t hear you, sweetie. What was that?”

Peripherally, you could see heavy boots approaching rapidly, making a quick guess of who that could be. You gritted your teeth, tears of humiliation pricking your eyes. You were not about to give Henry the satisfaction of proving his point of your trainers being sweet on all the girls even if this so wasn’t that.

“Screw. You,” you let out with the last oxygen left, grabbing his left calf and sharply tugging to the very same side. A half-second later when his weight of you eased just a fraction, you threw your body to the left as well, adding a jerk of your legs.

Both of you rolled over, him ending up under you and you quickly spun away, gasping, desperately fighting for air. As it burned your windpipe, it was as painful as welcomed. Little spots danced inf ornt of your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away – luckily for you, Henry didn’t dare to attack you again.

You shook your head before pushing to sit up, only to meet with Captain Rogers’s strict gaze.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded, sharp blue eyes flickering between the three of you.

Maybe you were hallucinating, but he seemed to be murdering Henry with his eyes. Uh-uh. You would have been glad he was, hadn’t Henry been talking about favouritism only few moments ago. You pushed up simultaneously with him and you both stood straight, facing the captain.

“Apologies, sir,” you stated mechanically, his gaze immediately shifting to you. Your heart stopped. Oh wow, you would swear the blue of his irises was on fire. You gulped. “We had a slight disagreement with Mr. Ulrich. I’m aware I shouldn’t have been talking to him in the first place. I’ll take whatever punishment is given to me.”

“Yeah, I bet you’d liked taking a punishment from him, wouldn’t you…” Jim muttered under his breath, making your gut twist in disgust.

Was he ever not thinking about sex? You prayed the captain didn’t hear him and you had to stop yourself from shooting Jim a murderous glare.  

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Consider it a warning. Mr. Ulrich? You have something to add before you take a few laps?”

You could literally hear Henry’s blood boiling. You opened your mouth to ask for the same punishment, not wanting to have his point proved. You never got the chance to speak.

“No, sir. I only don’t understand why I’m the only one being punished,” Henry questioned innocently and you gritted your teeth.

Maybe because you attacked me, you dickhead?

Captain glared at him for a moment before his gaze shifted to Jim. “You’re not. Mr. Larkin is following your example.”

You pressed your lips together, this time to stop a smile threatening to spread on your lips. God, who knew America’s Golden Boy could get that sassy? You cleared your throat.

“If I might speak, sir, I deserve to run the laps as well,” you noted carefully, earning a curious expression from your superior. You could tell he wavered, a strange spark appearing in his eyes.

You desperately wanted him to let you run too even if you breathing was still a bit difficult; because otherwise Henry would be proved right. Yeah, nope.

“Very well, then. Ten laps around the gym, recruits. Then you move to the station free at the moment. Go. Don’t let it happen again.”

The three of you nodded dutifully and picked up a pace. For some reason, you could feel the captain’s eyes on you while he walked back to assisting his friend with hand-to-hand training. You glimpsed the sergeant leaning to him, probably asking what was that about, but the blond just shook his head.

Towards the eighth lap, you were being overpassed by Henry and Jim, who ran together; faster than you, whether you liked it or not.

“This isn’t over, bitch,” his hateful hiss reached your ears and you picked up speed stubbornly, not showing them that they might intimidate you even for a second.

They wished.

Even when leaving the room after the session was finished, you would swear there was a pair of blue eyes burning a hole to the back of your head. You hoped that you’d soon be free of the captain’s attention.

You sure didn’t want him to watch too closely. You didn’t need him behind your back to see mistakes you sometimes made just like anybody else. Also, it would be harder to admire and ogle him; you did that occasionally, okay. You were just a human, after all.

A Handful of Mistakes

Shauna, your roommate and bestie from science division of SHIELD, was very patient listening to your lament about guys being dicks; she was awesome like that.

So you vigorously vented your frustration with male population, rolled your eyes when mimicking the silent threat of ‘this not being over’, had a very unhealthy piece of cake at the cafeteria that afternoon and moved on.  

You should have known better.

Henry’s words came haunting you few days later; which was too bad, because you had already forgotten about them, until the very moment they had punched you to the face.

…or rather to your shoulder and it wasn’t even a punch, more like one of those bumps people did, especially when they were being jerks, shoving you too hard for you to believe it was an accident.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” you threw over your shoulder sarcastically, continuing your way to the women’s locker room.

In hindsight, that was probably mistake number one; ignoring Henry and not starting a fight right there, not to mention being mouthy.

To be fair, you had no interest in further interaction; you were exhausted from the training, you were sticky and sweaty and all you craved was a shower. You would have just gone to have one at your dorm, but Shauna was having a hot date and you didn’t want to step on her toes. So you had taken your toiletries with you, using the showers near the gym.

Using the gym shower; mistake number two. It meant all of the students being gone by the time you emerged in fresh homey clothes, hair dripping water, because you hated hair-dryers and avoided them unless they were completely necessary.

You had spent much longer in the shower than needed, allowing your muscles to completely relax under the spray of water. That was mistake number three.

The fourth mistake was your pride. When you saw Henry, Jim, George (at least you thought, you weren’t sure, not having many classes with him) and Frank in the corridor, clearly waiting for you, since they bounced off the wall they had been resting against when you appeared, you should have probably been smarter and scream for help right away.

But no, you were being Miss Future Agent and you weren’t intimidated by four equivalents of high school jocks. Yep, this one was definitely the biggest mistake of yours.

“Fellas,” you beckoned to them, passing them gracefully, your bag over your shoulder along with the wet towel.

You barely made a few steps before a hand gripped your arm, harshly tugging you back. Your heart jumped into your throat, but you tried your best not to let it show. You turned to Henry, looking at his face, head tilted back just slightly due to his height.

“Is there a problem, Ulrich?” you asked calmly, earning a lift of his eyebrows at your tone.

“You know there is. I told you it was not over.”

You tried to ignore your pulse skyrocketing and the panic rising in your gut. You were not that stupid – you understood the implications. You knew that with four guys slowly circling you, you would have to fight bites and nails if it came to it and probably still lose. Sometimes it was just better to walk away and swallow your pride; a concept Henry and Jim clearly didn’t understand.

You jerked from Ulrich’s grip, still hoping you could walk away and call it day.

“It is over for me. Now if you’ll excuse me…“

Yes, you were being naïve thinking it would work.

The bag was torn away from your shoulder, your fingers automatically letting go to stay attached to your hand. You gritted your teeth, blood slowly reaching the boiling point.

Also, maybe you were more than just a bit afraid. Not that you would ever admit it to them.

Henry’s hand reached for your chin and your snatched it away in disgust before he could even make contact with your skin. Amusement dances in his eyes along with a flash of anger.

“Oh, kitty has claws?”

You felt another hand on your backside, sending a shudder up your spine, so you grabbed it, shoving it away as well.

Jim. Why weren’t you surprised? Pigs. What the fuck was their problem?

“I’ll let you know when I meet any. Now get out of my way,” you spat, your gut twisting as a sly grin spread on Henry’s face and he made a step right into your route.

“Or what? You’ll scratch, kitty? Or you’ll scream? Like a little girl?” he mocked you in high-pitched voice, his face lowering to yours so you were only inches apart.

“Bet you’d like that,” you murmured, narrowing your eyes when his breath with an unmistakable hint of alcohol fanned over your face. “No, I’ll offer you a breath-mint, because honestly you should do something about your breath.”

Yep, that was the mistake no.5 and definitely an enormous one.

You heard one of the guys chuckle, but you never got to enjoy the thrill of victory.

Out of blue, there was something around your neck, the weight of the towel shifting (add that to the mistake list) and your body flew backwards, colliding with a male one. George was it?

Your hands went to instinctively grab after the towel crushing your throat, but suddenly they were wrested down and pinned to your sides by strong arms. Jim had caught one, Henry another. Fucking cowards.

With your breath coming out short with both lack of oxygen and rising fear, your pulse thundering in your ears, you tried to jerk from their grip, but they wouldn’t budge, having an undeniable advantage.

Oh fuck, fuck, you were so fucked.

“Sassy little mouth, aren’t we?” Henry hummed, wry expression on his ugly face. “So dirty, feels like we should wash it with something. Who wants to go first, fellas?”

Loud alarm bells rang in your head, icy shiver running down your spine, stomach turning over.

Oh no, you don’t.

Your knee snapped up on instinct to gain the momentum, followed by a swift low kick to Jim’s knee.

He yelped and let go of your arm, allowing you to send an elbow straight to George’s face; and finally, your airways were free as the assault as the towel trap loosened.

You coughed, fighting for oxygen and mindlessly threw the item away to have at least one arm free.

“Bitch!” one of the men yelled; you weren’t sure which one, but you didn’t waste time thinking too much. Survival instinct took over.

Tears prickled in the corners of your eyes and you barely silenced the scream when Henry took advantage of your hesitation, twisting your arm behind your back. Fuck he really had a thing for that, didn’t he?

You tried to kick him, but someone else’s leg somehow managed to swept their leg under yours and you fell on your knees. Sharp tug on your hair caused you to cry out and obediently tilt your head back. Few tears escaped you, but you pushed up in attempt to get up again.

A kick coming from behind threw your body forwards and you nearly fell on your face when Henry finally let go of you. You tasted blood as you bit your cheek, but you managed to at least land on your shoulder instead of face-planting.

It still hurt like a bitch, but at least you still had all your teeth… or you thought so, not having time to check. Catching a movement from the corner of your eye, you managed to roll over before a kick to your side could hit you with full force. Frank’s foot only brushed you, but you were sure you’d have a bruise as a souvenir anyway.

A punch landed next to your face when you dodged it in the last moment, someone grabbing your legs and holding them together. Between your efforts to free them, you didn’t have time to chase away the body suddenly holding your arms as well.

“Fuck--- she’s a handful.”

A ragged battle cry erupted from your throat as you tried to jerk your body from their grip on pure instinct, every self-defence move you had ever learned flying of the window.

“More fun to break her, don’t you think?” Henry purred, his hand sneaking around your waist under the hem of your t-shirt.

Your head spun like crazy at the skin-to-skin contact and nausea hitting you hard. You wanted to puke and scream and punch and you couldn’t make yourself to do either, tears rolling down your cheeks as your body convulsed in a desperate attempt to break free.

There was ringing in your ears, disorienting you, but aware of the hand suddenly covering your mouth you tried to bite it on instinct holding you down.

“Oh-ho, biting!“ you heard, strangely muffled as if you were under water.

“I like them feisty-“

“Playing hard to get!”

“Shit, SHIT-“

The pressure on your legs eased all of sudden and you immediately kicked with all you had, catching the rising figure in the calf, knocking them off balance.

“Fuck!”

You would swear the floor vibrated, but in must have only been your mind playing tricks on you. George disappeared from your field of blurry vision; you only saw a fist sending him flying sideways.

Yep, your mind was fucking making up things, because there was no way he could have been thrown away like this by a single punch. You weren’t complaining; the relief the illusion provided was almost blissful.

Henry’s body weight vanished as well in nearly supersonic speed as if he wanted to escape the illusion. So you did the first thing that came to your mind; with your hands free, you grabbed his ankle, stopping him from running away. Which, thinking about it, was stupid, because only a moment before, you would have given anything to get him the fuck away from you.

He kicked back blindly, but his sole never met with your body – he was dragged away and… and lifted to the air as if he weighted nothing.

Blinking your tears away, your fuzzy mind cleared.

Only to reveal a very muscled and very much pissed off blond slamming Henry against a wall and then letting his suddenly unconscious body slide down.

You gasped, your eyes catching a glimpse of the fourth figure – Frank – several feet away, running for his life.

“Buck?!” came a shout and before you could question it, a metal arm emerged from behind the corner, stopping Frank dead as he rushed straight into it.

“Yep?!” the dark-haired supersoldier yelled back, sounding almost amused.

What the hell was happening? What the hell just happened?!

You blood sizzled in your veins, loud and rapid thump-thump-thump banging in your ears, face damp with several shed tears, body aching and your mind fucking racing.

You heard a whimper on your left, automatically turning to the sound. It left Jim’s lips, his form crumbled on the floor, struggling to stand up.

The captain’s knee seemed to come out of nowhere, digging into Jim’s back and pinning him down again before you even registered a movement.

“Is it fucking over now?”

“Steve, let him be. Not worth it,” Barnes’ voice tried to reason, sounding rather growly, but not nearly as loud as before. He approached your group in rapid pace and Rogers scoffed and let go.

You gulped at sergeant’s angry grimace, crazily convinced he was angry with you for all the mistakes you made that lead to this; but his expression softened when his gaze fell on you.

“Hey there,” he greeted you almost casually, holding out a hand to help you up. “Can you stand?”

You blinked several times at the suddenly dispassionate tone, even if you still sensed something bubbling under it. You shook off the thought and accepted the offered hand – the flesh one. The detail didn’t escape you, your bran in overdrive. Of course he hadn’t offered you the metal arm. He didn’t want to scare you. He was thoughtful like that-

-or not. The strength he dragged you up with was way too much for you, more so when combined with the speed and your state. You stumbled over your feet, a wave of dizziness messing with your balance.

You awaited the upcoming reunion with the floor, unable to stop the fall, but it never happened. Before you could as much as reel, gentle hands supported you in a firm grip, pleasantly warm against your bare arms.

“Whoa, take it easy,” Rogers’ voice warned you, soothing. For some reason, it felt more like ‘I got you,’ instead of ‘take it easy.’

You took a deep breath, Barnes’ hand letting go of yours as he semi-voluntarily handed you over to his friend.  

“You’re bleeding from your mouth.”

Thanks for the reminder, I noticed.

You swallowed the snarky remark, well-aware of the sergeant’s care. You fought against the urge to spit the blood out.

“Is fine…” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Bit my cheek. I’m pretty sure I—“ you quickly ran your tongue over your teeth just to confirm your theory, “-still have all of my teeth.”

Sergeant Barnes gave you a tiny smile, the worried crinkle that had found its way between his brows disappearing.

“Whatever you say.”

His gaze flickered to something behind your head, probably in order of exchanging a wordless conversation with your still present crutch. Not that you were complaining. The weight of what had happened was slowly settling on your shoulders and you were grateful for any support – and who were you kidding, Captain America made for a pretty reliable support.

“Why don’t we leave you in pu- Cap’s capable hands while I-“ Barnes’ jaw clenched, pale eyes scanning the four bodies on the floor, calculating. “-take out the trash?”

You nearly choked at the choice of his words, wincing. Captain Rogers’ hands squeezed your shoulders reassuringly and you nodded, not sure what else to do.

You didn’t want to look at Henry. Or Jim. Or their loyal companions.

So when the captain carefully spun you on your heels, you didn’t protest and your feet started moving on autopilot in the direction he had set.

“You okay to walk without support?” he asked softly, a stark contrast to the voice you remembered from earlier or from the training sessions.

You knew that if you said yes, he would let go of you. Honestly, his touch felt damn nice, firm and yet somewhat gentle, a pleasant contrast to harsh fingers of the men who had the nerve to attack you – you had to swallow bile rising to your mouth at the awfully fresh memory. Fuck, it had been so close, just a minute later and--- you shook your head mentally and tried your best to erase this memory from existence.

You decided not to abuse the kindness the captain was offering. After several indulging steps, you quietly confirmed he could release you. You found out that sensing his large frame by your side as if he was your bodyguard was nearly as comforting. Nearly.

You didn’t have the strength admonish yourself for basking the light of his protective persona. Future agent of not, you still had the right to want to feel secure at times.

After all, you were only human.

A Handful of Truths

You didn’t realize you were shaking until a blanket was tossed over your shoulders.

You were sitting on a short couch in what looked like a cosy office, hair still damp, body finally registering the ache caused by previous events, just like your brain was slowly taking in what had happened.

Captain Rogers, whose courtesy was to escort you from the hellhole you had been attacked in, had clearly took it as a personal mission to take care of your injuries; it hadn’t dawned to you until you were seated and your mind helpfully supplied you with ‘This isn’t the infirmary’.

He pulled a swivel chair to sit face to face with you, a box of medical supplies left open on the coffee table at your side. You didn’t realize he had moved the chair or dug the box from god-knew-where until the items were simply there.

“How do you feel?” he inquired, attentive eyes scanning your hunched form. You instinctively curled onto yourself, snuggling further into the blanket. You knew you should come up with an answer, but your brain started to hurt with the effort to do so. “I guess that’s fair. Can you tell me what hurts the most?”

You quickly glanced at his openly kind face, his baby blues still watching for any reaction that would clue him. Your throat went dry at the compassion of display and you had to swallow before speaking – and think. What hurt the most…?

You didn’t know what possessed you to tell him what you did, but it came out before you could stop yourself.

“My pride,” you croaked, causing his eyebrows jump just like the corner of his lips.

“That’s probably fair too. Then again, I’d rather know about something I can fix.”

You felt your body relax a little at his informal tone – you might even say a jovial one, but you could still sense too much worry behind it to call it that. You attempted a tiny smile at least to show him that you were more or less fine – you weren’t – and brilliantly failed.

“Landed on my shoulder. Probably gonna have a bruise on my side from when… when they kicked me. Ribs and arms might be a bit tender for few days, ‘cause they were heavy as they--- they’re heavy,” you voice wavered as you saw the muscles on the captain’s forearms clench and his hands curled up in fists. You sheepishly looked up to his face. “I got lucky.”

His eyebrows rose again in a ‘figures’ manner as he leaned back to the chair.

“Nothing else apart from that, your cheek and your pride?”

“I’m a little cold, but you took care of that,” you admitted, taking a deep breath in as you tugged on the blanket pointedly.

Despite what you were saying, you didn’t feel okay, the tremble never quite leaving your body. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. You stared at your knight in shining armour, gathering courage to do what was needed. You tried your best to meet his gaze, feeling so small and embarrassingly weak in front of him.

“Could have been much worse if you haven’t showed up. Thank you.”

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head. He leaned in, his elbows on his knees.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t faster... I should have kept closer eye on Ulrich,” he muttered under his breath, making you wonder if you only imagined it. “Your pride shouldn’t be hurt. You held yourself against them just fine.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the honestly his voice held – and you were honestly grateful for the slight shift of attention. Oh. Had he forgotten how things had been when he had arrived?

You weren’t sure whether you should remind him. You definitely didn’t want to remind yourself, but before you could solve your little dilemma, he clarified.

“You haven’t started training the combat against multiple opponents yet. Let alone four opponents, all of them having both height and weight advantage. You couldn’t exactly go all Black Widow on them if no one showed you how.”

He accented his words with a reassuring smile and you almost believed him. The shivers finally eased, most likely thanks to the warm treatment you were being given in all senses of the word. The inner cold gradually melted and you were left in nothing but pleasant warmth.

Mentally, you patted your pride gently on its head; you couldn’t quite disagree with him. No matter how helpless you had felt earlier and how ashamed for it you were, the truth was you were still learning. You weren’t a finished agent yet.

You breathed in and out, avoiding the gaze that was still on you. It felt like a freaking brand with how intense it was. You couldn’t say you hated it necessarily, you only wished you at least didn’t look so pathetic. No make-up, probably red with a smudge on blood somewhere, perhaps with some bruising already forming, hair wet and messy. You absently ran your fingers through it in attempt to fix it a bit as if it could help.

What had you been talking about? Right… those assholes being cowards and coming at your four against one.

“I… I just fucking hate bullies,” you grumbled darkly, your hand immediately covering your mouth when you realized what you had said. Oh. Language. Still your superior you’re talking to, no matter how nice. “Sorry. Please, pretend you didn’t hear the f-word. I just hate bullies, period.”

“I might have sworn earlier too, so let’s call it even,” the captain offered, one corner of his lips raised. Oh. He had, hadn’t he? ‘Is it fucking over now?’ What did that even mean? “And so I heard.”

“What?” you yelped, your mind racing again in search for the meaning behind his words.

“I mean… I heard you. When you were defending Bucky, in the gym. I’m pretty sure your exact words were about a ‘pissing contest’.”

“Oh god,” you breathed out, your face no doubt set aflame. He had heard you; that was why he had said he should have kept a closer eye on Henry. Oh. Ohhhh.

Also, did he just say ‘pissing’?

“You weren’t wrong by the way. But… neither were them.”

You blinked in surprise. What? “About?”

You knew he didn’t mean the sleeping around with recruits, your gut was screaming that at you, because they wouldn’t, but still, you rather asked for clarification. If he didn’t mean that part, which one then?

“Ladies do fall over for Bucky,” he hummed with a lopsided smile, a playful twinkle in his eyes. It did something to your belly, a strange familiar shift that was very inappropriate, but hell, people needed to cut you some slack. He was impossible not to ogle and you didn’t have the energy to control your reaction after today’s events. “And I don’t really pull my punches when I’m training those two in particular.”

“Why?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself and think better of it.

His gaze bored into yours, burning with intensity and with a glint of something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I don’t like bullies either.”

Did he lean in even more or were you so focused on his face it only seemed closer?

You weren’t able to look away. His blue eyes simply locked you in, not allowing you to escape. The strangest thing was that it wasn’t scary. It should be, he was— he was a freaking captain, your superior, a superior to a lot of people, which you were constantly forgetting ever since he had saved you from falling on your ass in the hallway and you had to remember that.

Before you could though, your racing mind packed up and let your body, your mouth to be precise, act without supervision.

“Not trying to impress the ladies then, huh?”

His tiny sheepish smile cut off the uprising panic in your chest when you realized how bold of you was to say that. He lowered his gaze, giving a subtle shrug. “Guess I wouldn’t want one falling for guy’s muscles and a show-off of dominance.”

“What for then? Honesty? Sincerity? Kind eyes? Strong moral compass?” you heard yourself prying, internally horrified how far you had come when saying that. Your face was drained of colour when it clicked. You were literally naming things you liked about him, absolutely shamelessly putting them in the open. Oh shit. Fix it, fix it, fix it! “…the sass?”

His eyes went wide and he burst out laughing so loud it startled you for a second, especially as he threw his head back with the outburst. Then you reluctantly joined him, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment.

“The sass!” he howled, unable to hold back another fit of laughter and when you peeked at him through between your fingers, you saw his palm resting against his chest as if it could help him stop laughing.

Just like that, blood rushed back into your cheeks.

“Oh god, I made it worse!” you cried out, wishing for the earth to swallow you, frantically looking around for the fastest escape route. “Oh my god, I have to switch schools now… excuse me-“

You hastily got up from your seat, but a quick hand snatched yours, pulling you back.

You stumbled, landing ungracefully right back in your place, this time without the blanket. Captain Rogers was watching you with the corners of his lips high, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Sorry for grabbing you like that. But no, please. Stay.”

Your throat closed off when you heard his soft plea, only traces of humour in it. Yeah, you bet he hadn’t met anyone with such big mouth for a while, so he thought it was better to keep the comic around.

“Captain Rogers, I-I- what I said, it was completely out of line-“ you stuttered, only to be interrupted.

“Were you making it up?” he questioned.

You gulped, your mind screaming at you to say yes to save you the humiliation. And yet, with the cerulean irises staring into your eyes, your mouth did the exact opposite.

“No.”

Dammit.

“Then why would you go?” he questioned softly. His hand still didn’t leave yours, only easing the grip into a kinder one. You felt like a brand was being burned into your skin. A pleasant one, so you didn’t retreat. Oh, you’d never. But what on Earth was he getting at? “We need someone honest like you. People who stand up for others, even if only to defend their honour. That is the kind of people who should be in this line of work. The good ones.”

You opened your mouth, no sound coming out as his speech shook you to your core, tickling your stomach pleasantly along with your pride. His words seemed to be coming from heart, genuine, which was not helping your blood pressure and suddenly wobbling limbs.

“Even when they have potty mouth and put their foot in it? ‘Cause I seem to excel in that.”

“Especially then,” he chuckled and you could tell there was no pinch of a lie in it.

Something was in the air, crackling deliciously, and you liked it. You wouldn’t be able to describe it properly, the feeling simply too unique, but it was tickling your fancy so weren’t about to complain.

“O-okay. Thank you, Captain,” you whispered, revelling in the sight of the gentle curve of his lips.

“You started with the compliments, Agent.”

And just like that, you wanted to run for your life again, drowning in embarrassment.

What were you even still doing here? Complimenting him? Enjoying his touch? Flirting with him?

Were you nuts?!

Him, a captain— no, the captain. And you, an agent--- hell, you were not even an agent yet!

The captain whose eyes flickered to not-an-agent’s lips for the shortest of moments, widening a fraction before returning to her eyes.

Oh, now you were definitely going nuts. You were hallucinating. You must have hit your head too. He wasn’t into you and you being into him was very stupid.

You should go.

…any moment now.

…just get off your ass for god’s sake-

“Can I ask you something?”

You blinked yourself back to reality, shushing the voice in your head, curious smile appearing on your lips involuntarily. The softness of his voice felt better than the blanket before and you wanted to cocoon yourself in it, postponing the leaving plans to never.

“Sure,” you replied, the smile remaining on your face despite your better judgement.

He lowered his eyes to your joined hands, his thumb running over the back of your hand in a feather-light touch. You heart positively stopped at the moment, your breath hitching. Holy shit, what was he doing?

“This, does it… do you hate it?” he whispered the question, not meeting your eyes as if he was too shy, which was… ridiculous. He had no reason to be shy.

It still felt like a shot through your heart – a nice one, though, it that was possible. The words combined with the way they were spoken, it stirred something in your belly, warming it up and you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You really wanted this man; whatever this was, it was getting beyond a silly crush. Also, for some reason, it seemed as if he was trying to tell you he was interested too, which you thought was pretty freaking crazy.

“Stay honest, please,” he pleaded when you didn’t answer right away.

Did you hate it? The chastest display of affection if you dared to call it that? Your mind raced, trying to figure out why on earth he would ask that. Because the only reason you had come up with so far was completely impossible.

“No,” you said simply, earning a brief glance up before he looked down again. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Good. That’s good… and would you… I’m aware this is out of line and I—I want you to answer truthfully without fearing the consequences-…“

It was your turn to swallow loudly, because what? What did he want to ask that he considered it out of line? He was your superior – you could think of thousand ways of how you could get out of line, but him? And why should you fear the consequences?! Did he want you to help him to hide a body?

That’s not it and you know it. You know what he wants to ask, you rational side admonished you.

Oh please, shut up. Since when you switched sides?

“O-okay. What— what is it-- Steve?” you stuttered out, freezing when his name left your lips and his head snapped up, his hand giving yours a squeeze. Oh boy.

“Would you possibly say you like it?” he blurted out and your brain went to overdrive at the hope behind his expression.

Huh. He really just asked that. Oh shit. Oh wow. Your jaw fell into your lap – only figuratively, you hoped –, your ears buzzing, your blood bursting in excitement.

Oh yeah, you understood why he mentioned the consequences. Either you could say no and you’d fear he might treat you differently or you could say yes and you’d ‘fear’ he might treat you differently.

The fire in your insides burned hotter at the idea of the latter.

His hand slowly left yours, giving you a simple choice you still couldn’t believe you were given.

Holy shit. What do you even say to something like that? Coming from someone like him? Your brain froze as you only managed to stare.

Did his— did the corners of his lips turn down? Was that sadness pooling in the sea of blue of his eyes?

Oh no, you don’t.

“Y-yes,” you admitted sheepishly, closing your eyes at the heaviness of your confession.

You could feel the weight on your shoulders as silence fell, only interrupted by your soft breathing that sounded ominously loud.

Your fingers twitched when his warm palm covered them again, your lips parting in surprise. You kept your eyes closed, indulging the strange moment. His free hand caressed your other as well, the gentlest of touches, tender, contrasting with rough callouses on his fingers.

“I like it too.”

At that, you gathered enough courage to look at him, only to see him inspecting your face closely, observing your reactions. It shocked you that it wasn’t uncomfortable as you would expect; must have been the kindness and wonder in his gaze. You forced your lips to curl up in a tiniest smile. Steve smiled back with same hesitance, his face lighting up.

He looked like a boy next door (making it to a modelling agency), shining eyes and happy grin forming on his lips. He was more gorgeous than ever.

Still keeping your hands, he raised his right one, his knuckles brushing your unharmed cheek. The gesture was so tender it brought tears into your eyes, causing him quickly retreat.

“Sorry-“

You shook your head with a self-deprecating chuckle, squeezing his fingers before he could let go of you completely.

“It’s not you—I mean… it is you,” you babbled nonsensically, taking a breath to gather your thoughts. “It’s just— that was really sweet. No, that’s not-“ Not the right word. “It was beautiful. I swear I never felt so…” loved “-cared for in my life.”

He frowned, a shadow of pain running over his face. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I know that today was… unpleasant.”

Seeing his reluctance and discomfort, you went for the first thing that came up to your mind. You straightened up and pressed a light kiss on his cheek, withdrawing much slowly because once you were in his orbit, it was hard to leave.

His breath hitched, his eyes glued to you intently, flickering to your lips again.

“You didn’t upset me, Steve. That’s the last thing you could do with that,” you assured him, face still inches from his. His name rolled off your tongue easily this time, even though it still left your heart fluttering.

“And if I asked you to have dinner with me?”

Your stomach twisted in a pleasant knot at that suggestion, your lizard brain already thinking about having a dessert for a second; and you weren’t thinking cake or ice-cream.

Yeah, barely. This was a guy ready to treat you right, you were sure of it. He certainly wasn’t about to kiss you now, not afar what happened today, he might go for it after the dinner and that was only if you got lucky enough. You swallowed the disappointment at the idea, quickly shaking it off.

Make up your goddamn mind, woman. You should be glad that men who weren’t thinking with their lower brain still existed and one of those was clearly interested in you, which… yeah, what the hell, that might take a while getting used to. Add the fact that he was being incredibly considerate of how you might feel after being assaulted and you had a winner of your heart. You realized you were actually happy he wouldn’t try anything even nearly ‘funny’.

You were fine with hand-holding and brushes of his fingers on your face, which honestly, the tenderness behind that gesture made you toes curl. You didn’t care much if that made you a freaking sap.

“Still not upset,” you gave an answer at last, deciding he probably liked when you were a bit cheeky.

He offered a closed lipped smile in response, confirming your theory.

“Does that count like a yes?”

You shrugged, the corners of your lips twitching. You had no idea when the change had happened, but all you wanted now was to giggle. And maybe snuggle, but you weren’t about to say that out loud.

“You tell me.”

He licked his lips and shook his head as he retreated. Before you could protest – or have a heart attack, because the motion of his tongue attracted your gaze like a magnet, setting your core on fire –, he sat beside you, leaving enough space in case you didn’t like it.

You liked it, subtly moving an inch closer to his side. Damn, he radiated warmth. Maybe just a bit closer…?

“Cheeky dame, aren’t you?” Steve more stated than asked, reaching for the blanket pooled around you to cover you again.

You didn’t realize you had goosebumps before his hands gently tugged you in, careful not to touch you where you could consider it inappropriate.

Yeah, forget about any funny business any time soon.

You huffed. “Clearly. It did get me into trouble before.”

His eyes darkened a bit, his face noticeably falling.

No, nope, bad move, miss not-an-agent.

“I should walk you back to your dorm,” he remarked, already rising to his feet.

You first reaction was to say no, because you weren’t ready to say goodbye yet. Your second was to say no also, because Shauna probably still had her hot date.

Instead, your hand shot up to catch his, effectively stopping him. He froze before returning to his seat, tiny question mark in a place of his face right next to his soft smile.

You cleared your throat, deciding to give him the latter reason.

“Uhm… my roommate has a date. If I go there, I’ll probably find a sock on the doorknob,” you admitted, biting your lip when he raised an eyebrow and relaxed to the cushions.

“People still do that?”

You chuckled, the fact that not only he was a captain, but also Captain America, which meant he was about hundred years old, hitting you like a train.

“Yeah, people still do that,” you assured him, amused.

He pouted, which you found unfairly adorable and… kissable. Nope, later.

“Sure, make fun of the old man…” he uttered, but a spark of laughter lighted up in his irises, so you assessed he wasn’t too offended. He was most likely used to the teasing.

As an idea of interpreting his words differently popped in your mind, you grinned.

“Is that a permission to make fun of Sergeant Barnes?” you pried playfully, sending Steve into another surprised fit of laughter, not unlike when you had complimented his sass. Your heart swelled at the joyful picture of him and the prospect of seeing more of it in future.

Due to his laughter, you didn’t hear he knock on the door if there was any n the first place. The door simply swung open, revealing the other supersoldier. Speak of the Devil…

Seeing his friend, Steve burst out laughing once more. Sergeant Barnes closed the door with a puzzled look.

You just shrugged in response, opening your mouth without a sound coming out and he took in the scene in front of him again, a smirk appearing on his lips. Under that gaze, you felt your face heat up. You could only imagine how that looked like, Steve cosily close to you, laughing, your hand right next to his thigh as his outburst had sent it sliding from his hand.

The smirk on the supersoldier’s face only deepened when he noticed how flustered he had made you.

“Punk?” he questioned and Steve wheezed once more, raising a palm in the sergeant’s direction, turning to you first.

He offered you a hand to shake. Confused, you accepted as his eyes twinkling in mischief bored into yours.

“Deal,” he mouthed, sending your lips twitching, and only then he shifted his attention to his friend. “Buck?”

The supersoldier had his eyes narrowed, watching you suspiciously.

“I’m gonna regret sending you with her instead of doing it the other way around, aren’t I?” he stated, not actually asking as his gaze flickered between the two of you.

His expression pushed you over the edge and the giggle building up in your chest for the last few minutes finally broke free. You simply couldn’t contain it anymore despite having two superiors in the room. Steve gave you a warm smile as the sound left your lips, clearly not bothered by it.

You hoped you’d be forgiven by Sergeant Barnes as well. After all, you were just human.

“Yeah, Buck, I think you are.”

S.R. masterlist

Sorry for the cavities at the end. Or should I say ‘you’re welcome’? Whatever works for you :))

Thank you for reading!