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ilongfor-the-arts · 3 years ago

Note

Can I pls request Kirk Hammett smut. Any kind

hey!! :)

I fucking love ur work on here and I saw ur request s we’re open. I was wondering if u could write more Kirk fics? preferably smut circa ‘83 lol

It’s Raining, It’s Pouring

Pairing: Kirk Hammett x fem! Reader

Warnings: language, smut, oral (m! Receiving), unprotected sex, overstimulation

Summary: You never thought you’d fall for the one man who has had your back since day one.

Word Count: 6k

Request?: Yes! (I got two requests for more Kirk)

Taglist: @theweightofstardust

“You can’t fire me! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You’re just not good enough honey… if you wanna run with Metallica you gotta be ready to go the extra mile… and frankly, you didn’t do nearly enough to prove yourself useful.”

I rolled my eyes at the ridiculousness of his statement.

“I haven’t done enough?!”

I pointed a finger at my chest.

“Not only have I taken pictures for you for way less than I’m worth… I’ve done almost any job you’ve asked me to do without complaining which, may I say, is very hard to do.”

Metallica's manager despised me with a vengeance. I would have been fired a long time ago if it hadn't been for my friendship with the bandmates. I enjoy my job and have worked hard to keep it, but it's difficult to do well in the workplace when their manager is staring daggers into my back the entire time, waiting for me to make one minor error.

He waved me away nonchalantly.

“Just get outta here peacefully before I call security, okay?”

He said, not even bothering to make eye contact with me.

I groaned, but turned and walked away calmly, knowing I'd be back soon after informing the boys that their manager had fired their closest companion.

The show had just ended, and thousands of people were rushing to the exit, practically climbing on top of one another to avoid the inevitable post-show traffic jam.

I sat patiently in the back of the crowd, not in a rush because I had no intentions of leaving anytime soon. I let everyone who appeared to be in a hurry pass me.

What I really wanted was for everyone to clear out of the stadium so I could have a one-on-one conversation with Metallica and request to be rehired. Without a doubt, I'd regain my job. The boys treated me as if I were one of them, and they wanted me to be a part of their team as much as I wanted to be a part of theirs.

After many minutes of being pushed and shoved around, I made my way to the stadium's back door, where I knew Metallica would be coming once they had finished packing up their belongings.

I sat patiently, the cool summer air providing the ideal setting to sit and enjoy the night.

Metallica could be heard for miles. When I heard them talking about how good they did and how they were going to blow the roof off the next show, I knew they were on their way to the back parking lot.

I quietly laughed to myself. They were out of control.

This was the moment I had been anticipating for the past half hour. When one of them asked what I was doing out here, I’d tell them I came to say goodbye because their manager had just fired me. They'd be resentful and would undoubtedly seek him out to give him a piece of their mind.

James slammed through the back door, nearly knocking it off its hinges.

“We're the best band in the whole goddamn world!”

They all agreed instantly, being loud and proud of themselves before Kirk noticed me sitting on the curb, staring at them intently.

“Hey Y/N… what’s goin’ on?”

He inquired, his goofy smile plastered on his ridiculously cute face.

The rest of the band joined in on the greetings.

I shrugged, brushing imaginary dust specks off my leather pants and pushing myself to a standing position.

“Nothing… just coming to say goodbye.”

I said it casually, as if there was a perfectly logical and obvious reason why I was biding my farewells.

One by one, puzzled expressions appeared on their faces. They cocked their brows or tilted their heads to the side to show their confusion.

“Huh?!”

James exclaimed.

“What do you mean goodbye?”

Kirk asked.

I scoffed.

“I mean… your boss just fired me and told me to leave. So… that’s what I’m doing.”

Their expressions shifted from bemusement to mild rage. Their brows furrowed and their teeth were clenched, the muscles in their jaws protruding from their cheeks.

“No way!”

“That’s not right!”

“Where is he?! We gotta talk to him!”

James charged towards the back door, his heavy boots thudding against the solid concrete. He had the look of a general leading his troops into battle, ready to fight for what they believed was right.

Kirk stepped away from the crowd for a moment to face me, his hands tenderly placed on my shoulders.

“We’ll get this figured out, okay?... you’ll be back working with us in no time.”

I smiled despite his worried expression.

“I know you guys will put in a good word for me…”

I ruffled his hair playfully, and he scrunched his face in mock disgust.

“I’ll see you later Y/N.”

“See ya later Mr. Hammett.”

He flawed me a smirk one last time before turning to follow his troops into battle, his hands deep inside the pockets of his worn leather jacket.

There had been rumors in magazines and newspapers about a possible romance between Metallica's guitarist and their devoted photographer.

We just laughed at their wild antics, not paying attention to their ridiculous assumptions.

I'd known Kirk Hammett since I started photographing bands. They were the first band to hire little old me, and I gratefully accepted.

Kirk was the main reason I was able to get a job. Despite the fact that I had never spoken to him, he managed to persuade everyone that I would be a good fit.

I’ll be honest, I have no idea how he did it.

Not even five minutes later, the band threw open the back door again. I swear I heard one of the screws pop out of the door and land on the concrete this time.

With a joyful smile on his face, James extended his hand to me in an overly formal manner.

“Welcome to Metallica Mrs. Y/N.”

I bowed my head, smiling, before taking his hand in mine, our arms flailing around clumsily as we exchanged handshakes.

“You won’t regret hiring me Mr. Hetfield… I can assure you I will be a valuable asset to the workplace.”

We spoke sarcastically, treating this ordeal as a joke because we both knew that with Metallica on my side, I'd be able to reclaim my job with ease.

“You want me to drive you home Y/N?”

Kirk asked, chiming into the conversation.

“Sure… let’s take a ride.”

I agreed before bidding my goodbyes to the band and following Kirk through the dark parking lot to his car.

It began to rain just as Kirk and I were getting settled inside his luxurious car, the plush leather seats hugging my body.

“Let’s hope the storm can hold off… I hate driving in the rain… you can’t see shit.”

“Yeah… I’d hate to have you driving home in the rain.”

Unfortunately, the rain did not hold off. It was pouring by the time we got halfway to my house. By the time Kirk pulled into my driveway, the road ahead of us was obscured by the haze of rain pelting down on the car.

It sounded like golf balls slamming into the car at 60 miles per hour. The force was intense, and I was afraid that a large water droplet would rip a hole in his front windshield.

“Well… this certainly isn’t good.”

I scoffed.

“Yeah no shit.”

“I should be okay… I’ll just take the back roads where no one drives.”

I violently shook my head from side to side.

“No way. The road’s invisible! You’ll crash!”

I extended my arm in front of him, demonstrating how little could be seen through the rainy haze.

“Well… what do you suggest I do?”

He inquired, swiveling his head to meet my concern.

I shrugged.

“You could stay here tonight… I just got a new couch.”

Kirk rolled his eyes.

“Don’t take this the wrong way… but I don’t want to sleep on your couch.”

I sighed and made an annoyed face at him.

“Well then I’ll take the couch and you can take the bed… I really don’t care but I don’t want you driving home when you can’t even see a foot in front of you.”

Kirk faced forward, biting his bottom lip and mulling over my request. The rain clapped against the metal like thunder, roaring loudly and drowning out our conversation to the point where we had to raise our voices to be heard.

“Kirk… you drive bad enough when you can see… Imagine how dysfunctional you’d be if you were blinded.”

Kirk paused before concluding that I was correct. He sighed and yanked the keys from the ignition.

“Fine… you win.”

Sarcastically, I batted my eyelashes.

“Thank you so very much.”

Kirk rolled his eyes, mockingly irritated.

“Sure… whatever makes you happy sweetheart.”

We stepped out of the vehicle and were soaked to the bone in seconds. Both of us bolted up my front lawn. When I was getting pelted by water droplets that stung when they hit my skin, the path from his car to my front door seemed to take an eternity.

I fumbled with my keys and nearly dropped them once we reached my front door.

“Y/N! Open the door already!”

Kirk yelled directly into my ear because I wouldn't be able to hear him over the rain if he was any farther away.

“I’m trying!”

I fumbled, the key striking every surface around the lock rather than going inside.

After what seemed like minutes of struggle, I was able to easily slide the key into the lock.

“Yes!”

I exclaimed in delight, throwing the door open with such force that it smacked against the wall with a loud thud.

I was expecting a warm night, so I set my thermostat to a low setting so when I walked through the door, it would be a breath of cool, fresh air.

Instead, every single droplet of water that touched my skin and clothes froze. As I lost feeling in my hands and feet, goosebumps appeared on my skin and my teeth began to chatter.

“Y/N, are you tryna kill me?”

Kirk's lips were a pale blue as he hugged himself to retain his body heat. His usual curly hair was soaked and stuck to his temples. The water droplets on his tanned skin glistened in the dim white light of my house.

His knees were trembling with cold as I dashed over to the thermostat to crank up the heat so neither of us would succumb to a severe case of hypothermia.

“Better?”

I inquired after the thermostat had been set to a reasonable temperature.

I faced Kirk, whose teeth were barred to prevent the irritating chattering of bone against bone.

“I’ll be better once it actually gets warm.”

Despite my house being only one level, it would take some time for the heat to dissipate through the air.

“Sorry… I was expecting it to be warmer.”

“Can I use your shower?”

“Sure… if you want an extra shirt I have some oversized ones that should fit you… take whatever you want.”

I didn't bother showing Kirk where anything was located. He'd been to my house several times and knew where everything was situated better than I did.

He nodded, the light washing over him and causing the dark areas of his face to glisten in the ambient lighting.

I sat on the couch, hanging off the edge so the cushions wouldn’t get wet. I twiddled my thumbs as I waited for him to finish with the shower. I stared at the wall, my eyes following every minor crack and imperfection.

If I wasn't drenched, I'd wrap a blanket around my shivering body.

I bobbed my head to the beat of one of Metallica's songs that had been stuck in my head for over a week, humming loudly.

I heard the shower turn on, and the water began to splash against the acrylic.

The sounds of roaring thunder and water smacking against the shower reverberated throughout my house and violently shook the walls.

If I had been alone, I would have been terrified of the deafening noises that threatened to rip my house apart piece by piece.

I reflected on how much I despised their manager. I reflected on the show. I recalled James's fantastic vocals and Kirk's incredible guitar work. Lars' drums came to mind as well.

Kirk was fantastic tonight; he really knew how to work a crowd, as well as a guitar.

Kirk Hammett.

I like his hairstyle. He has amazing curls.

I like the way he plays... He has good fingers for playing the guitar. They were long and agile.

Ah, I almost forgot he was taking a shower. I was distracted by the sounds of thunder and pelting rain to hear the water smacking against the acrylic shower.

He’s probably washing his hair now… I wonder if it’d smell like lavender from using my shampoo.

I know he likes his showers hot… The room is probably full of steam.

He’s got water traveling down his chest to his…

“Oh… Oh god…”

I cupped my hands around my face.

“I don’t like how my mind went there…”

I mumbled to my palms, not raising my voice above a whisper for fear that Kirk would somehow overhear me discussing how my filthy mind had thought something it should not have been thinking.

I was quite literally just thinking about my best friend’s dick. My best friend, who has always had my back since day one. My best friend, who has always stood by my side and believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself. My best friend, who has always been there for me in times of need.

But then I remembered something I'd heard years ago. Something along the lines of "when you meet your soulmate, you will feel completely at ease in their presence."

Maybe, just maybe, Kirk Hammett is the man I've been looking for my entire life.

No way, no how. I'm thinking ridiculously. I had an intrusive thought. A completely wrong, intrusive thought with no emotion behind it.

I didn't even notice the sounds of the shower stopping due to the pounding of rain on my roof and windows.

“Y/N… you okay?”

Fuck.

My gaze shifted from the darkness of my palms to Kirk, who stood on the threshold leading to my bedroom. He was standing at an angle, his shoulder pressed to the doorframe and his arms crossed over his chest.

Kirk was completely naked, with only a white towel wrapped around his waist keeping me from seeing everything. And it was difficult for me to concentrate on his eyes when the towel kept falling down his hips with every minor movement of his body.

“Yeah… I’m okay.”

My face was unmistakably beet red. I could feel the heat of a blush on my cheeks, and I could sense thin droplets of sweat on my upper lip.

“Just… tired.”

Despite the fact I was completely uncomfortable, I forced a smile. There were butterflies fluttering around my insides, as well as a feeling of unwelcome desire bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

The combination of all of the horrible lustful emotions made the entire situation extremely uncomfortable.

“Okay…”

Kirk didn't believe me when I said there was nothing wrong. He had an unsure expression on his face, one of his brows slightly cocked.

I'd seen him without a shirt before. But, oh my goodness, this was so different. He was standing in my living room, so close to me, in such an intimate setting where it was easy to feel the electricity humming through the air.

Kirk let out a deep sigh, the towel dripping lower to reveal his well-defined hip bones.

The universe was not assisting me in overcoming my newfound desires.

“Well… I’m done with the shower if you wanna use it.”

He pointed his finger over his shoulder, in the direction of the shower. The steam was drifting through the air and into the living room, giving the impression that Kirk was an angel emerging from a cloud of smoke.

He resembled a magazine cover model.

“Um…”

I was worried about what would happen if I was locked in a private room. I feared where my mind would go once I was alone.

“I think… I’ll just change clothes.”

“Are you sure?”

He asked, unsure.

“Yes… I’m sure.”

I stood, trying not to wobble and fall flat on my face.

Kirk moved out of the way to make room for me. I strolled past him with my head down and my eyes fixed on the ground, not meeting his gaze in fear I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to press my lips to his.

I caught a whiff of his scent as I moved past him. He had used my shampoo, and he smelled like lavender.

Fuck.

I gently closed the door behind me, making sure to hear the lock slide into place so the door didn't remain ajar, leaving me exposed to Kirk, who would be able to oversee me as I mulled over my thoughts.

“Oh shit…”

Kirk says, his voice muffled by the door placed between us.

“Hey Y/N! Could you pass me my clothes?! There on the floor in the bathroom!”

He raised his voice above his normal tone so I could hear what he was saying over both the rain and the slab of wood.

“Yes!”

I felt like a pervert guy who climbed into a random girls house to steal her underwear as I retrieved his soaking wet clothes from the bathroom.

Touching his boxers sure as hell did not help my dire situation.

Either the universe was sending me signs, or it truly wanted me to suffer.

“Here you go!”

I gently opened the door, holding his drenched clothing between two fingers. He snatched them from my grasp and draped them over his forearm like a waiter with a fine napkin.

“Thanks gorgeous… I would’ve got them myself but I didn’t know if you were naked or not.”

With a smirk and a wink, he said.

He was acting silly, as he often did when I was around.

But, oh my goodness, it did nothing to help the thousands of thoughts that were racing through my head at the time.

The light streaming in through the slightly ajar bedroom door caused his face to glisten and shine from the moisture that had seeped into his skin. He appeared revitalized, young and free, and undeniably beautiful.

His sly grin had evolved into his iconic endearing smile, which I had grown to adore over the years I had known him. It never failed to make my heart sing with joy.

Kirk was accustomed to witty retorts in response to his mock flirting, complete with a sarcastic bat of my eyelashes.

His joy was short-lived when he noticed I was staring into his eyes, my face blank.

“Y/N what’s going on?”

He was worried, and rightly so. His best friend was acting strangely, with no logical explanation.

I sighed.

“Kirk…”

I stepped through the threshold, closing the door behind me until the click of the lock was barely audible above the thunderous rain.

I leaned against the door, pressing my shoulder blades against it for support so my legs didn't buckle and cause me to collapse.

“Have you ever…”

For a brief moment, I made eye contact with him, but his gaze crushed me. So I shifted my eyes to the floor beneath me.

I must have appeared pitiful. But I didn't care how he perceived me as long as I said what I needed to say.

“I don’t know…”

This was far more difficult than I anticipated.

“Thought about… you and me?”

I was mumbling, and Kirk couldn't hear me over the din of the storm.

“Sorry… what did you say?”

He took a step forward, leaning into me in hopes of hearing me better. Unfortunately, this only added to my unease.

My breath caught in my throat as I caught a second whiff of his hair, and my stomach flipped upside down. Instead of fluttering peacefully without a care in the world, the butterflies were now pounding against the inside of my stomach.

I felt stomach acid stinging my esophagus.

I wanted to bend over and throw up just to feel relief from the unease.

“Y/N… hey, look at me please.”

He spoke softly, as if he were a grown man trying to comfort a scared puppy.

I didn't want to look him in the eyes. To avoid the problem at hand, I wanted to turn around and slam the door behind me, then lock it so no one could speak to me for the rest of the night.

Kirk cupped my cheek gently, bringing my face up so that my eyes met his against my will.

“Kirk… please don’t touch me.”

I spoke while my tongue was not connected to my brain.

It sounded wrong... terribly wrong. I didn't mean it to sound that way.

Kirk recoiled, allowing his hand to fall to his side in defeat as his expression shifted from concern to pain.

His brows, which had been furrowed with concern, now stood limp as his eyes fell with sadness. I'd hurt him, and the warm glimmer of light in his lovely irises had been crushed under my foot.

“Sorry…”

He spoke quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. If I couldn't read his lips due to our close proximity, I wouldn't be able to hear him over the raging storm outside.

“No, no… please don’t be sorry I didn’t mean to say… er- I didn’t mean to sound like that…”

At this point, I was rambling. I'd gone from a shy girl trying to ease into a sensual conversation to a rambling mess of a human.

I cut myself off before I dug a deeper hole for myself.

Okay, it was now or never. I’d already ruined the beginning of the conversation, so it was time to cut to the chase.

“Kirk…”

I took a deep breath, allowing my lungs to fill with the soothing oxygen I had been deprived of for the past few minutes.

I stood tall instead of slouching against a door, and I relaxed, doing my best to quell the nausea which was now simmering inside my stomach

Our chests were almost pressed flush together due to my now confident posture.

It was Kirk's turn to blush.

The energy in the room shifted from nervous to confident and anticipatory. There was something in the air, something sensual.

My only concern was that Kirk would reject my advances.

If we tried and things didn't work out, we'd have a serious talk about it and try our hardest to get past this inconvenience.

We’d dealt with worse things than a failed kiss.

You only live once, right?

“Can I kiss you?”

I placed my open palms on his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat rattling around his rib cage like a cheetah running in the wild. At least I knew I wasn't the only one who was nervous.

Kirk gulped.

Please say yes.

“Okay-”

I pressed my lips to his as soon as I had his permission.

Everything was slow at first, and I was almost certain this would fail, leaving us with the awkward aftermath of a failed advance.

Kirk then moaned into my mouth, the vibrations rattling my teeth and throat.

That's when I realized he was just as invested in making this work as me.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and slid my tongue between his teeth to intensify the kiss. He followed my lead, his arms encircling my waist.

Kirk sighed deeply into my mouth, pushing me back until my shoulder blades slammed into the door, rattling it inside its frame.

His lips felt like two clouds, soft and supple and easily meshing against mine. He was a fantastic kisser, even better than I could have imagined in my wildest fantasies. My mind was now walking through the gates and into the land of angels.

I had ascended to the heavens.

I'd never been happier in my entire life. Every decision I'd made in my life had led up to this point. This substantial moment would change my life forever, for better or for worse.

He was beginning to harden through the thin towel, his cock pressing firm against my stomach.

After exposing him to minutes of torture, getting him worried about what I wanted and debating whether or not he had done something wrong, I needed to repay him.

The towel was hanging on by a thread, the base of his cock practically exposed.

I trailed my soft fingertips down his chest, feeling goosebumps rise under my touch as I traced the plane of his slightly toned chest. The muscles in his abdomen flexed in anticipation when I reached the skin just above his cock.

“You don’t have to-”

I cut him off, pushing the towel to the floor and wrapping my hand around the base of his semi hard dick.

Kirk moaned loudly, throwing his head back in pleasure. His noises were music to my ears, adding to the wetness that was beginning to pool in my panties.

As my kneecaps made contact with the hardwood, a soft thud resounded throughout the silent room.

I was now eye level with his thick cock, beads of precum covering his swollen tip, my mouth watering with delight at the thought of tasting him.

Kirk gently threaded his large hand through my hair, simply for leverage rather than to exert force over me.

“Whenever you’re done gawking at my cock could you please suck it?”

There he was, the jovial and playful Kirk I'd grown accustomed to. He was staring down at me, his dark, thick hair almost completely covering his face. I rolled my eyes, staring at him through my lashes, but didn't bother responding.

Instead, I took his cock into my mouth, my hands wrapped around his thighs for leverage.

Kirk dropped his jaw, a choked moan erupting from his throat as he threw his head back, exposing his neck.

His hand tightened in my hair, pulling the strands from my scalp. The glorious pain travelled from my scalp to my lower stomach, igniting a fire within my abdomen.

“Fuck…”

He mumbled breathily.

I took him in my mouth, little by little until his tip was hitting the back of my throat.

“God… I’ve thought about this for a while.”

He lowered his head until his chin was pressed against his chest, his gaze burning into the top of my head.

He'd been thinking about it for a while?

That statement just made me even more antsy to have his cock buried inside of me.

The vein located on the underside of his cock began to bulge against my tongue as I continued to bob my head along his thick length.

His deep desire for me made my pussy ache for him, forcing me to rub my thighs together in hopes of gaining pleasurable friction.

It assisted in easing the pain temporarily, causing me to moan around his length.

Kirk whined as the vibrations added to his pleasure.

“Don’t stop… I wanna cum in your mouth…”

I sped up, my nose lightly brushing against his pubic bone every time I reached the base of his length.

Kirk sighed deeply.

“That feels so good… so fucking good…”

His cock began to twitch in my mouth, the bulging vein growing more desperate for release.

I moaned around him once more, helping Kirk release his cum into the back of my throat.

His chest heaved as he came, finally arriving at his much awaited orgasm

I swallowed his cum, releasing his cock from my mouth with a loud pop. Kirk’s thighs were trembling from post orgasmic haze.

I sat back on my heels, wiping any extra cum off my face with the back of my hand. It made me joyful to see just how much of an impact I could have on him.

Kirk untangled his fingers from my hair as he released his death grip on my scalp.

I rose to my feet, my knees trembling with excitement.

Kirk was in complete shambles. After our make out session, his lips were wet with saliva and plush. His upper lip and brow were covered in a thin layer of sweat. His bare chest swelled and fell with desire.

He smiled at me through heavy breaths, and I was quick to return his grin.

“That was really good…”

“Thank you…”

I approached him again, wrapping my arms around his shoulders gently.

I leaned into his ear and kissed the skin under his earlobe tenderly.

“Can I ride your cock Mr. Hammett?”

I mumbled, trying to put on the most sensual tone I could muster.

Kirk sighed, his cock already beginning to grow hard once more.

“Yes please…”

He murmured, practically begging.

I reached behind me, unlocked the door, and pushed it open, the hinges squeaking with excitement.

I drew him back until my knees collided with the bed frame, causing me to lose my balance and fall back onto the mattress with a soft thud.

Kirk placed his hands next to my head and settled in between my legs, his knee brushing against my aching core.

I groaned, rolling my hips forward against his knee to ignite the pleasurable friction I craved.

Kirk could sense my desire. He reached in between our bodies and hooked a finger in the waistband of my pants.

Fortunately, the fabric was dry enough to easily slide down my legs. Kirk shifted his body until his knees were on either side of my thighs, allowing him to yank my pants all the way down to my calves.

I helped him out by kicking my clothes off my legs and onto the carpeted floor until I was left in my panties and a t- shirt.

Kirk shifted once more until his knee was mere inches from my aching core, his hands placed next to my head for leverage.

He rubbed his bare knee against my clothed pussy, eliciting a low moan from the back of my throat.

I grasped onto his thick curls to assist me in grinding against him.

“Fuck…”

I mumbled against his supple lips.

I was so horribly wet and aching for him.

So I took command, hooking my leg behind his torso and flipping him onto his back.

Kirk looked up at me with soft eyes and a few curls on his brow. He gently rested his hands on my hips as I removed my loose t-shirt and tossed it to the ground, hurrying to have him inside of me.

“Fuck… I should’ve taken these off before I got on top of you.”

I was still wearing my panties, unfortunately.

“I gotcha honey…”

Kirk grasped each side of my panties, tugging sharply. My heart skipped a beat as a result of a loud snap that came from him ripping the fabric. Kirk tore the leg holes so I was able to remove them without dismounting his torso.

I scoffed.

“You always were a fan of dramatic flares.”

I said, tossing the ripped piece of fabric to the ground.

Kirk moved his hands behind my back, unhooking my bra in one swift motion and tossing it to the floor with the rest of my forgotten clothes.

I grasped his semi hard cock, giving it a few pumps before lining him up with my entrance and sinking down onto his girth.

We both threw our heads back in unison. Kirk's dull nails dug into the flesh of my hips, igniting a pleasurable yet painful sensation in my lower abdomen, making me even more desperate to feel every inch of him.

Kirk’s thick girth stretched my walls until I feared I would split in two. I sunk down until there was no more of his glorious cock to feel inside of me.

“Fuck Kirk… you’re so big.”

I felt deliciously full, like when you're stuffed from dinner but still want dessert.

I leaned over his chest, placing my open palms against his legs and raising my hips before sinking back down slowly.

At first, I took my time, testing the waters rather than diving in head first. When I heard Kirk moaning, whining, and begging for me to give him more of me, I decided it was time to go all in.

“Y/N… please go faster… your pussy feels so good…”

I rolled my hips back and forth, his grasp becoming tighter on my hips with every rock of my pelvis.

I could feel Kirk's heartbeat racing through my palms. Every heave of his chest as he indulged himself in the lustful situation was palpable to me.

“God Y/N, you’re making me crazy.”

Through heavy sighs and moans, he struggled to speak.

His words went straight to my core, adding to the aching and burning desire I felt for him. The need to make both of us cum was now even more prevalent than before.

I wanted to cum more times than I could count on top of his thick cock. The way he stretched me, the way he filled me up until I swore I couldn’t take anymore drove me to the brink of insanity.

It was all good… so good… maybe even too good to be true.

But it was true, it was so true.

My thigh cramped unexpectedly, a sharp jolt of pain shooting up my leg, and not the pleasurable kind.

“Kirk… can you fuck me?”

“I’d love to… I wanna make you cum so hard you’ll be aching for me the next time you think about my cock inside your pretty little pussy.”

Kirk effortlessly flipped us both over. It was an easy transition that didn’t allow any of the passion to fizzle out and die.

He began to pound into me, his hips snapping forward and burying himself balls deep inside of me with every thrust.

I closed my eyes, savoring the incredible sensation of him taking control.

“Kirk!”

I exclaimed, tangling my fingers in his thick curls.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, the new angle allowing the tip of his cock to brush against my g spot with every harsh thrust.

I arched my back into him the second time his cock slammed into my g spot.

“Kirk… please keep going, you feel so good inside me.”

It was my turn to beg for him.

His curls brushed against my face and tickled my cheek as he buried his face in the crook of my neck. The scent of lavender drifted into my nose, making me fall into a sex filled haze.

“I love fucking you so much… I could fuck you all day.”

I dropped my jaw and let out a pornographic moan as his cock began to slam into my g spot at a more rapid pace.

My orgasm came unexpectedly. It only took one hard thrust to have my toppling over the edge with a loud howl of pleasure. Kirk began to slow down, but I couldn’t let this end, not yet.

“No… no please keep going… I need to cum again… I want you so fucking bad.”

Kirk reached in between our bodies to run slow circles into my clit.

“Come on baby… cum for me again.”

He mumbled, his voice raspy and thick with desire.

It wasn’t long after that I was cumming even more violently on his cock. It was euphoric, my body was lifted from the earth and into the heavens. I could only think of the pleasure as my orgasm completely overcame me, making every nerve in my body tender.

This time, Kirk followed close behind, painting my walls with his warm cum.

He collapsed on top of me, pressing his entire body weight onto my torso.

I ran my fingers through his hair tenderly, brushing out the knots and pulling it out of his face. His cock remained inside of me as we both came down from our highs.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Kirk’s eyes were shut as he spoke.

I placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“I think I’m in love with you as well.”

I agreed.

“The rain stopped…”

I'd just realized there was no longer a storm or any heavy rain. How long has it been silent for?

I chuckled.

“It was giving us the opportunity to fuck.”

In each other's presence, we both laughed, pure, happy laughter.

I didn’t regret having sex with Kirk Hammett.

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angstysebfan · 3 years ago

Text

The One Where He Needs To Choose - Alternate

Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader

AU: Modern

Chapter Summary: This takes place after part 3. At this point Natasha gave her ultimatum and Bucky went and told the reader. This was my original thought when writing, but decided to go with the other direction. I’ll explain why at the end. This will be long since it’s probably 2 parts worth in one.

A/N: So I came up with this story based off of an episode of Friends. I’m sure if you know Friends you will figure out which one eventually. It’s not a replica of the episode, but based on the subject. Hope you enjoy!

Series Masterlist

When you hear the door close you collapse on the floor and wail. This is the worst pain you have ever felt. You don’t know if you will ever get over this. Meanwhile Bucky slid down your front door to the floor also crying as he listens to you wail. This is his fault. He will live with this guilt for the rest of his life.

He should’ve never married Natasha. He should’ve told you how he felt. Now you both have to suffer because of him. He hates himself for doing this to you. He hates himself.

Bucky wakes up with a start, sitting up in bed, sweating profusely. He takes a moment to catch his breath as he returns to reality from his nightmare. After a moment, he turns and looks at Natasha sleeping soundly next to him. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He grabs his phone and looks at the time before sliding out of bed and quickly putting on sweats, a hoodie and grabbing his keys.

You’re awaken by the sound of banging on your door. You look at your clock which shows its 3am. You groan as you get up and head to the door. When you open it you see Bucky standing there all disheveled. You open your mouth to question why he was there, especially at this hour, but before you can make a sound, Bucky wraps his arms around you and holds you tightly to his chest.

You are alarmed by his actions, but slowly wrap your arms around him and rub his back softly. You suddenly hear him sobbing into your shoulder, which concerns you even more. You pull away and look at this big man who is crying openly at you in your apartment, while holding you so tight. It’s like he thinks you will disappear.

“Buck, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” you ask.

Bucky shakes his head and pulls you closer. You allow him to hold you a little longer before you pull away again, you take his hands, and you lead him into your room, where you both lay down. Usually during sleepovers you would lay on his chest, but this time, Bucky wraps his whole body around you, laying his head on your chest as he continues to sniffle and cry. You scratch at his scalp hoping that will calm him.

It’s at least another half hour before you hear Bucky’s breathing even out. You look and see he is sound asleep on your chest. You can’t help but be concerned for him. Did something happen between him and Natasha? Why did he come to you so early in the morning. All these questions and more needed to be answered when you both wake up, but for now you allow yourself to drift to sleep holding the man in your arms.

You feel overheated as you start to wake up. You try to move but you are being confined tightly, which makes you remember what happened this morning. You slowly open your eyes and look down at the brunette that is still sound asleep on your chest, wrapped around you like a vine. You hear his phone vibrating somewhere in the room, guessing it was his wife.

“Bucky,” you whisper to him, which makes him just nuzzle into you.

“Buck, you gotta let me up. I gotta pee,” you say.

Bucky takes a deep breath through his nose and slowly opens his eyes, feeling disoriented but well rested. He looks up at you as the memories from this morning come back to him, making him blush. You give him a small comforting smile.

“Hey you. Let me pee and then we can talk, okay?” you ask softly.

He nods and unwraps himself from you, allowing you to get up and run to the bathroom. Bucky sits up and runs his hands through his hair before he hears his phone vibrating on the nightstand next to him. He picks it up and notices 25 missed text messages from his wife, and almost as many missed calls. He knows this will be a bad fight when he gets home, but he needed to see you after that dream.

You walk back out of the bathroom and see Bucky sitting there with his head in his hands. You walk around the bed and sit next to him, leaning your head on his shoulder, as he wraps an arm around your waist and leans his head on yours.

“Wanna tell me what happened?” you ask.

Bucky sighs, kisses the top of your head, and then lays his head back on yours.

“I had a really bad nightmare. I dreamt that Natasha made me choose between you and her and I chose her. I broke your heart and I hated myself for it. When I woke up I needed to see you, to show me it wasn’t real,” he says.

You look up at him, “Oh Buck, I’m right here. I’m here,” you say softly to pacify him while you wrap your hand around the back of his neck and bring his forehead to yours.

Bucky breaths you in and for the first time since before his dream, he feels content. His phone vibrates again, Natasha still attempting to reach out to him. He opens his eyes and looks at you. You’re so beautiful.

“Y/N?” he says.

You hum in acknowledgement that you heard him and open your eyes also.

“I’m going to ask Natasha for a divorce,” he says quietly, scared somehow Natasha would hear him.

You sit up straight and stare at him in shock. “Why?” you ask.

He shakes his head, “Because I don’t love her like I should. Not like how I love... you,” he says slowly.

You stand up and look at him, “What?!” you say in complete surprise.

“Y/N, I need to tell you this because if I don’t I know if I’ll survive. I love you. And not just like a best friend, I am so madly in love with you. I have been for years, but I’ve been too scared to tell you. And I know you’re with Jeremy and you probably don’t feel the same, but God, I need you to know where I stand. And I never should have married Natasha when I knew you were the one, and--”

You stop his rambling by pulling him into a heated passionate kiss. Bucky doesn’t respond at first due to being surprised, but them melts right into it, and wraps you, once again, in his arms. Your heart feels like it will burst with happiness at any moment. You’re interrupted by Bucky’s phone vibrating again, which brings you back to the moment and the fact that you just kissed a married man.

You step away from him to get some space as you take in what he said and then what you did. Bucky looks at you with a look of apprehension, worried he just ruined your whole friendship, though you did just kiss him.

“Bucky, are you ending your marriage for me? Because I don’t know if I can live with that guilt for the rest of my life. We don’t even know if we would be a good couple,” you say.

“I’m ending my marriage because I never should have gotten married in the first place, at least not to Natasha. I’m the asshole here. I knew I didn’t love her enough. I used her as a consolation prize for you, which was so wrong and I will never forgive myself, but I would be doing worse by staying married to her when I don’t love her like that,” he says.

You nod your head in understanding, “ok. I just gotta know something. When did you know you were in love with me?”

“I... I’ve loved you my whole life I think. But I realized when we were in high school. When every girl I went out with had a problem with our friendship, and wanted me to end it, I realized how no matter who I’m with, you will always be my girl. You own my heart completely. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. And I’m sorry that I’m telling you now when you have a boyfriend, but--”

“Jeremy and I actually broke up last night,” you say.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I know you liked him,” Bucky said, thinking about his dream and how Jeremy broke up with you.

“I ended it, actually. I just wasn’t feeling it. I guess no one can compare to.... to you,” you say bashfully.

Bucky’s eyes widen, “You... you love me too?” he asks feeling more hopeful than before.

You step closer to him and nod slowly. Bucky wraps his arm around your waist again and pulls you in to kiss you again, but before your lips can touch, his phone vibrates again.

You sigh, “We can’t do anything until you are at least legally separated and your divorce is filed. I don’t want to be a home wrecker. It’s bad enough I kissed you before,” you say.

Bucky nods in agreement, “Yea I agree. I’ll go talk to Natasha, and then figure out where I’m going to stay in the meantime. Maybe Steve or Sam can let me bunk with them until I can get another apartment. I’ll call my lawyer on Monday and get everything started,” he says.

You take his hands in yours and squeeze them, “Are you sure about this Bucky? Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“Y/N/N, I never should have said ‘I do’ that day. I never should have asked her. I’m just trying to right some of my wrongs. Unfortunately I’m going to hurt Natasha, who doesn’t deserve it, but I don’t want to hurt her more,” he says.

You nod in understanding and then pull him into a hug. “I’m here if you need me, okay? We have to try and just stay friends until things get settled and the divorce is filed. I don’t want to make you a cheater,” you say again.

Bucky kisses the top of your head, “Well let me get things started then. This conversation is going to be terrible, but it needs to be done. I’ll text you when I know where I’m going,” he says.

He kisses your head again, grabs his things and heads home.

Well the conversation with Natasha went as well as Bucky assumed. First she yelled at him for sneaking out during the night and not telling her where he was. Then for not answering when she was reaching out to him. Then when he told her he wanted a divorce, there was a mix of anger, screaming, crying, eery calmness from Natasha. Bucky took everything she gave to him, since he knew he deserved it.

In the end Natasha said she always knew that he didn’t love her enough. She knew you were the love of his life. She always tried to ignore it, hoping he would come around. A part of her was happy it was ending now, and there were no children involved, and she had time to find someone else. But the thought that she wasted years of her life on a man that never truly loved her made her angry.

Bucky understood, and told her that she had every right to hate him. He knew he could never make up for what he has done, but he will do everything to make sure Natasha is taken care of. In the end he packed up most of his things and left. He called the guys and asked to crash at one of their places, and Steve offered his guest room.

He shot a text off to you to let you know he was ok and that he was staying at Steve’s. You told him you would come over to Steve’s in a bit to hear what happened. Meanwhile you felt a mix of guilt and relief over the situation. Relief that you and Bucky finally both came to terms with your mutual feelings, relief that you had mutual feelings, but guilt that Natasha has to be hurt because of it.

Later that night you went over to Steve and Sharon’s place to have dinner with them and Bucky. Of course Sam and Wanda were also there. The group could feel the difference between you and Bucky. There was a tension between you, but not in a bad way. All either of you wanted to do was be together now that you admitted your feelings, but you wouldn’t disrespect Natasha like that. You felt bad enough. But knowing that Bucky was truthful in wanting this made you feel excited for the future with Bucky.

When you were leaving, you gave Bucky a hug and a kiss on the cheek and forced yourself to leave without doing more. It was difficult to pull away and walk out the door, but you did it. You and Bucky continued to talk every day until finally the day came. Bucky and his lawyer officially filed for divorce from Natasha. They were legally separated, and you and Bucky were able to at least start seeing if there was a future as a couple.

You were still wanting to be respectful of Natasha, but you allowed Bucky to take you out on a date, well several dates. You allowed him to kiss you, but as much as you wanted to, you wouldn’t go further than that. Once the divorce proceedings happened, Bucky made sure to take care of Natasha in any way he could. He knows it wouldn’t make up for his hurting her, but he wanted to make sure she would be ok. You were there with him through it all. When it was all said and done, and Bucky was officially divorced, you knew it was truly the beginning of your lives together.

1.5 years later...

You look at yourself in the mirror and admire your professionally done hair and make up, and your absolutely perfect white gown. This is exactly what you imagined you would look like on your wedding day. Wanda and Sharon continue to fuss over you, making sure you were doing good when there was a knock on the door with the wedding planner telling you it was time.

It was a small simple ceremony. Bucky’s parents and sister were there, you siblings since your parents had passed, and your closest friends. It wasn’t the huge wedding Bucky had with Natasha, but it was perfect. The feeling you each had as you walked down the aisle toward him, the way you felt when the rings slid on your fingers, and the complete happiness you had when you were officially announced as husband and wife.

You never thought that you would get to a place where you were beyond content and happy with your life. You loved your job (most days), you had an amazing support system with your friends and now new family, and now the man of your dreams is your husband. When you imagined marrying Bucky as a teenager, you thought it would never happen, but now your fairytale is complete.

Well, it will be once you tell Bucky about your little one that will join the crew in a few months. You can’t wait to see the look on his face!

If this was multiple parts, it might have been a little better but I hope you enjoyed this. The reason I didn’t go with this version originally is because I always have the happy ending. I guess I’m such a softy for Bucky that I hate him being unhappy, so I changed it to the other ending. But I wanted to also share my original idea and you can decide which version you want. Like I said if I had made this 2 parts, it might have been written a little better... lol. Feedback is appreciated.

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#bucky #Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky x natasha #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #Bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #modern au #Modern Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes modern au #natasha romanoff #angst

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imkylotrash · 4 years ago

Text

On The Edge

Pairing: Riven x reader

Request: Reader is a water fairy & gets infected by a burned one and riven’s scared that the reader dies. Anonymous

“You know what? I’m done.” People lie when they tell you heartbreak doesn’t kill. You lift your hand to your chest convinced there’ll be a hole from where he ripped your heart out but somehow there’s no injury.

“You’re done?” It’s masochistic to ask him to repeat it but you just don’t understand how an argument turned into a breakup. You’d mentioned that you were worried about his day drinking which you still are and he’d just lost it. Accused you of wanting to change him and being like everyone else. Clearly, you’d touched a nerve, but you never thought he’d break up with you.

“I’m just over you always trying to change me. I am who I am.” He grabs his stuff before running out the door. Your feet seem glued to the floor because every time you try to follow him, your feet refuses to move. Maybe it’s the shock holding you in place.

“What just happened?” Sky asks. Of course, he heard everything. He’s probably been waiting out in the hallway waiting for the fight to be over with.

“We should get going.” You’re not ready to say it out loud.

“I thought you said it was a bad idea?”

“I changed my mind.” You grab his sword and hands it to him. Yesterday, Sky asked you if you were up for a little hunting in the woods to help Silva. You’d told him it was a bad idea and to let the adults handle it, but now you’d do anything to just get out of here.

“Hey,” he says grabbing your arm, “no distractions. We have to focus when we go out there.” You squash the small voice in your head telling you not to go.

“I’m fine, really.” You even plaster on a smile to convince him and poor Sky, who is desperate to help Silva, believes you. As you head out, you leave a note for Riven in case he comes back to tell him where you’ve gone and that you want to talk when you get back. It’s just that you don’t return in any condition to talk to him. You don’t remember Sky carrying you back to school or Mr. Harvey treating your wounds. For a while all you feel is pain. Your body is on fire and you’re screaming for someone to help you but it’s no use.

“Baby, I’m right here.” You try to locate the voice but it seems so far away. He keeps talking but you’re in and out of consciousness.

“Please just open your eyes. I’m so sorry.” He keeps talking but you can’t hear him. The next time you’re conscious, you manage to open your eyes. Even in his sleep, Riven is clutching your hand. You try to feel out in the room but you can’t get a sense of water anywhere. Panic settles in your body. You’ve never been without water in your entire life, even just a glass of water would be enough for you to feel calm. Being in touch with your element keeps you calm but now you can’t feel it at all.

Riven,” you croak trying to move despite the pain. Immediately, he’s awake asking what you need.

“Water.” He runs out the door and returns with a glass of water. Just the feeling of it entering the room calms you down.

“We had to remove everything with water in it while Ben treated the wounds. Your powers were all over the place,” Riven explains grabbing your hand once again. Silence settles in the small room as you drink the water but you don’t need Riven to say it out loud for you to know; you’re not healing.

“Is Sky okay?” you ask and Riven nods.

“He brought you back to school. He saved your life,” Riven says in a bitter tone.

“I’m so sorry for what I said,” he whispers finally looking at you. He’s seconds from crying and miles from how he normally acts in situations like these.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry and I took it out on you. When I came back, you were gone. I kept thinking if something happened to you, it’d be my fault.”

“Riven, no one is at fault here except me. It was my decision to go out there. I’m sorry I scared you but I’ll be fine.” He keeps quiet and you realise there’s something he’s not telling you.

“What is it?” you ask wondering if you’re even ready to hear what he’s about to say. Judging by the grim look on his face, it’s not going to be pleasant.

“They were hunting in groups. Sky managed to kill one but the other got you. Silva’s out hunting for the one who hurt you.”

“But that’s good news. Sky got the one who injured Silva,” you say not understanding why Riven looks ready to cry. If anyone can find the Burned One, Silva is the one for the job. He used to hunt these during the dark years.

“We’re running out of time,” Riven says and it hits you like a brick. Sure, Silva is good at hunting these things - maybe even the best - but there’s only so much time before Mr. Harvey can’t keep the infection from spreading. You might die and all you can think about is how much it’ll destroy Riven.

“There’s hope until the very end, Riven. If you don’t give up, I won’t.”

“Never.” He leans in and kisses your forehead. He’s being as gentle as possible but your entire skin is on fire. You smile promising yourself that as soon as you get a second alone, you’ll get to shed a tear. But right now you remain strong as you look at Riven who’s turned into a complete mess. Your heart breaks for the boy he truly is at heart and how scared he is of people leaving him.

“Hey,” you say grabbing his chin to make him look at you, “I’m not going anywhere. We have to trust that Silva knows what he’s doing.” You take a deep breath signalling for Riven to do the same. Every breath adds to your pain but it’s worth it if it helps Riven cheer up. What hurts you more than anything is the pain in his eyes. For a moment, it looks like it actually helps then Sky enters.

“You’re awake,” he states in a surprised tone.

“I hear you saved my ass out there,” you say hoping to keep the conversation light, “thank you.”

“Wasn’t easy. Had to drag your ass all the way through the forest. I’ll send you the check from my chiropractor.” You start laughing but it turns into a cough and immediately Riven’s frown makes a return.

“You should take a shower, handsome. You smell.” Sky laughs locking eyes with you for a brief moment before helping Riven to his feet.

“I’ll help you to our room, but you gotta handle the shower part on your own,” Sky teases and you’re forever thankful that your hunting partner knows you this well. Although, Riven protests it only takes Sky minutes to drag him out of the room. You finally allow yourself to feel the pain from your wounds. Trying to seem fine is taking its toll on you. Five minutes of self-pity and you’re done. You tell yourself over and over as you try to face the fact that you might not make it through this time. When Sky returns, you’re not quick enough to dry away the tears.

“He’s showering, you still have a few minutes,” he says quickly and you fall back against the pillows.

“I don’t want to die,” you whisper admitting the one thing you’ll never be able to admit to Riven. He needs you to be strong but there’s no shame in falling apart in front of Sky.

“Don’t talk like that. Silva will find the Burned One and kill it.” Ever the fixer trying to see the positive.

“He doesn’t have much time. I feel it in my bones. It’s spreading and soon Harvey won’t be able to stop it.” Sky tugs a strand of hair behind your ear with a pitiful look in his eyes. He knows you’re right and he knows it’ll destroy Riven.

“There’s still time. Saul sent word that they were tracking one up North. It might be the one,” Sky offers with a smile. He’s giving you hope when there is none. You know you won’t make it through another night with these wounds. Your fever is too high for your body to keep up.

“There’s a letter in a shoebox under my bed in case I don’t make it. Please give it to Riven.” You’ve always known that being a fairy comes with certain dangers so you didn’t want to leave unprepared.

“What are you talking about?” Riven is standing by the door looking like he might break something. “What letter?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you say trying to sit up straight.

“Give us a minute, Sky.” He sends you an apologetic look as he leaves the room. Riven sits down next to you awfully calm. It’s the calm right before he explodes and you’re not sure you’re ready for it.

“What letter?” he asks again making it clear that he’s not going to drop this.

“I wrote you a letter in case I was ever injured and didn’t...”

“In case you didn’t make it? But you said there was hope!” His voice is shaking but you’re not sure if it’s from anger or heartbreak.

“Sweetheart, I’m just trying to prepare for every outcome. I-”

“There’s one outcome and that’s you staying alive. Do you hear me?” You bite your tongue and nod. The last thing you need is for the two of you to argue when you might not wake up tomorrow. Instead you pat the empty space next to you and smile.

“Just be careful,” you whisper as he gently crawls into bed with you. He falls asleep there and at some point, even you fall asleep despite the pain getting worse. You don’t expect to wake up the next day but you do. The fever broke at some point during the night and the foul smell of your wounds have gone away. Not daring to hope you slowly lift up your shirt to find beautiful, pink skin rather than ugly slashes.

“Riven!” you yell out in excitement.

“What?” He’s awake in seconds looking for the danger.

“Saul did it. He found the right one,” you exclaim lifting up your shirt to show him the healing wounds. Your hands are shaking as you cup his cheeks and kiss him. You’re going to be alright.

“As soon as Mr. Harvey clears you, we’re burning that letter. You don’t get do die on me, alright? Not before we’re old and grey.” You can’t help but smile at the thought of growing old with Riven.

“Okay.”

#riven x reader #riven blurb #riven gif #riven imagine #riven #fate the winx club #fate the winx saga #fate winx club #winx club #winx saga #winx blurb #fate winx #winx sky

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no-droids · 4 years ago

Text

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!!

#poe x reader #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #SMUTTTT #reader insert #star wars #fanfic #the formatting on this one is downright horrendous but im so mad that i cant even fix it right now so thatll have to come later im sorry

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nastybuckybarnes · 3 years ago

Text

Deep End - Five

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers X Reader

Summary: He’s back. After all your best efforts at getting away, he’s found you again. And this time, he’s not letting you go so easily. He’s determined to do whatever it takes to get you to be his. Forever.

Warnings: Dark Themes, Language, Angst, Manipulation, Injuries,

Word Count: 3.2K

A/n: here we are, folks. What if I ended it like this lol that would be kinda gangsta of me LMAO

Deep End Masterlist

THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!! 18+ ONLY!!!

~*~

You push open the front door with a heavy sigh, setting the paper grocery bags down on the counter then resting a hand on your growing belly.

There’s a tiny flutter under your hand and you can’t help yourself from smiling.

The smile vanishes, however, when a hand grabs at your shoulder and forces you to turn around.

“Where the Hell were you?” Steve’s angry voice demands.

You look up at him in shock and confusion, looking over at the groceries.

“I-I just went to the store.”

He shakes his head, grabbing your face with one hand and stepping closer. You take a step back with each one he takes towards you, and soon enough he’s got you pinned against the wall.

His grip on your face tightens and you wince, fear overwhelming your body, making your heart race.

“Bucky said he saw you talking to someone. A man. Who was he?”

You shake your head, tears welling up in your eyes.

“H-He was just asking me about my pregnancy. When I'm due, if I know what I’m having.”

It’s nothing but the truth.

“I give you freedom and this is what you do? You go and flirt with other guys? You’re my property. Don’t forget that.”

Your tears fall down your cheeks and into his hand, but he doesn't let go. Even as your chest heaves and sobs bubble out of you, he stays glaring at you.

“Please, Steve, stop. Y-You’re hurting me!”

His jaw flexes and he slowly lets go, only to cage you against the wall, slamming his fist against it in the process.

Your heart hammers in your chest, terror gripping you and freezing you in place as you remember what he did to Nat and her baby.

“I-I came home, didn’t I? I could’ve asked for help! Could’ve said something, but I didn’t. I’m here, again, even though I could’ve run away. I’m here. You have me! You have me.”

You slide down the wall, knees drawn up to your chest as you sob, the reality of your words and the fear doing a number on your emotions.

Steve’s anger slowly melts away, replaced with concern as he sees nothing but terror on your face.

“I-I didn’t mean to yell, honey. It’s okay, shh, come here.”

You don’t fight him as he pulls you into his arms and brings you upstairs into your bedroom, sitting you gently on the bed and pushing your hair away from your face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart I just... You gotta understand how nervous it makes me when you leave the house like that.”

You sniffle then slowly look up at him, your eyes bloodshot and tear-filled.

“Then why give me the freedom to leave?”

Your voice cracks and it makes his heart hurt.

“I... I want to trust you. That’s why.”

You take a few deep breaths, your eyes focused on your trembling hands as your heart starts to slow back to its normal rhythm.

“Ever since that night when Nat and Buck came over you’ve... you’ve been off. I’m worried about you, honey. I just wanna make sure that everything’s okay.”

He wants to know what Nat told you. What she said to have you acting like this.

Your eyes meet his, wet and full of fear as you whisper three words.

“Is it true?”

He has an idea what you’re referring to, and his heart picks up speed.

“Did...did you do it?”

He swallows hard and avoids your eyes, but that’s answer enough.

Some strange mixture of a gasp and a sob bubbles out of you, and you bring your hands up to cover your face as your shoulders start shaking again.

“I didn’t... I guess I did.” You sniffle and look up at him through your tears.

“If you want me to trust you... if you ever want any hope at having some semblance of normalcy, you’re gonna need to elaborate. I’m trying to play your little game but I just... I’m scared you’re gonna kill my baby too. That you��re gonna hurt Sarah.”

He shakes his head immediately, grabbing your hands and holding them softly in his.

“I would never hurt Sarah, or our new baby, okay? Natasha... she was becoming a liability. That being said, I didn’t go into it with the intention of hurting her baby but... I knew it could be a consequence.”

You wait for him to continue, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“When you burned the book... that wasn’t the only copy. Fury made sure there was at least one more, in case we ever needed it. Had his own group working on it, creating a new version of it. Natasha became a test subject long before I met you. Before I... took you.”

He drops his eyes and huffs out a sigh.

“We didn’t need to wipe her memory, we just... needed a way to make her more complacent. To make her realize that she can’t go off on her own and keep secrets like that. Especially when they involve you.”

Your chest heaves as you glare at him, your anger growing by the second.

“Did you kill her baby?”

The words are harsh like the crack of a whip, and he has to stop himself from flinching.

“It wasn’t my intention... but it was worth it.”

You choke on another sob, yanking your hands out of his grip.

“I didn’t know what the tea would do to her baby. It was just a mild sedative so we could get her to the facility and do the procedure. Get her to tell us where you were, where Sarah was. But then she... she started bleeding. I didn’t... I thought maybe it was just a side effect but then the doctors told us... (Y/n), you’ve gotta believe me. You need to know that I didn’t mean to...” he trails off and shakes his head, thinking about the niece or nephew that he could’ve had.

The son or daughter that he stripped Bucky of. The pain he inflicted upon Natasha. But he has you, so in the end, it was worth it.

You slowly look up at him, shaking your head.

“Why? You’ve done nothing but lie to me and hurt me. Why should I believe a word you’re saying?”

He swallows hard, reaching for your hand again only for you to yank it away once more.

“You want the truth? Fine. You’re not the first person that we’ve... taken. And I doubt you’ll be the last. Bucky... he had someone. Someone to help him control the soldier. But she turned out to be worse than him. We had to terminate her because she became a liability.”

He looks down at his hands, remembering how innocent she seemed. And then she snapped. Tried killing Nat and Bucky. Turned the redhead against them until Fury stepped in.

“Nat didn’t... agree with what we did. So we changed her mind.”

Your brows draw together in confusion.

He can’t mean... can he?

As if sensing your confusion, he elaborates.

“We didn’t do exactly the same procedure. But it... its function was the same. We needed her to forget certain things. To be our friend again while still remembering other things about the situation. And it worked. All I wanted to do this time was open her up to us again. Tell me where you and Sarah were. I never meant to hurt her baby.”

You shake your head furiously, tears dripping down your cheeks. “You’re a murderer. A disgusting monster. I hate you.” Your words are venomous and acidic, and Steve almost flinches at them, shaking his head.

“That’s not true, (Y/n). I love you.”

You laugh, the sound manic and for a moment Steve’s concerned.

“This isn’t love, Steve, this is obsession! It’s unhealthy! You’ve got me trapped here against my will! Y-You’ve hurt me and raped me and now I’m supposed to pretend everything’s okay? I’m supposed to play the good little housewife while you go around kidnapping and killing women? Killing other people’s children?! No!”

You stand up and try to move past him but he grabs hold of your forearm, rising to his feet with you.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His eyes are fiery as he glares at you, but you’re not nearly as afraid as you once were. No. You’re just angry.

You glare at him, rage burning through your body as you yank free from his grip and walk out of the room.

“You leave this house and I won’t hesitate to drag your ass right back!” He shouts.

But you don’t plan on leaving.

Oh no.

Why does he deserve his happy ending so much more than everyone else?

You turn to face him once you reach the top of the stairs, your heart in your throat at what you’re about to do. The damage it could cause.

At least it’ll get your point across.

“Why do you deserve a baby so much more than Natasha?” He furrows his brows, trying to figure out what your next move is going to be.

“I’ve given my life over and over for this stupid pathetic world. I’ve sacrificed my happiness time and time again. Do I not deserve something good?”

You take a deep breath and shrug.

“Maybe you do. But not like this.”

With that, you turn around and let yourself fall down the stairs.

Steve tries to grab you, he really does, but he’s just not fast enough.

He watches you fall, tumble down the stairs then lay still at the bottom, and for a moment all he can do is stare.

Memories fill his mind. Of you falling down the stairs. Then bleeding. So much blood. And your baby... gone.

He nearly falls down the stairs himself in his haste to get to you, two fingers pressing first to your pulse, then his hand is pressed against your belly, trying desperately to feel for the fluttering kicks you told him about.

It takes a minute, maybe two, and then he feels a small press against his hand.

He lets out a breath of relief then grabs his phone, calling the doctor.

~*~

When the doctor assures him that both you and the baby are okay, he’s relieved. But that only lasts for a moment before anger takes hold, powerful and persistent.

You can feel the anger rolling off of him when you wake up, and for a moment you’re afraid.

But hopefully, you got your point across.

He doesn’t deserve another baby. Not if that’s what he wants. He’s a terrible human being. And bringing a baby into the world with him as the father should be a crime.

“Where’s Sarah?” You ask, hoping to keep him as calm as possible.

“She’s having a sleepover with Morgan over at Tony and Pepper’s.”

You nod, your stomach dropping as you realize you’re alone in the house with him and he’s beyond pissed off.

Your mind races back to all the times he’s punished you in the past, and you almost throw up with the anxiety coursing through your veins.

“You ever do anything like that again and I swear I’ll make you regret it. I won’t kill you, no. My baby needs his mommy, but I’ll make you hurt. You’re lucky I’m not doing anything to you now.”

You swallow hard and look away from him in disgust, only for him to grab your jaw and force you to look at him.

“You need to stop acting out like this. I told you what happened to the last asset who became a liability. Fury shot her point-blank. A clean shot between her pretty eyes. Then he left her to bleed out on the bedroom floor while he fixed Nat’s memory. S’why she’s even still here and with Bucky. If she remembered what he did to that poor girl... she’d have killed him herself by now. But he needs to outlet to keep the soldier at bay. And he deserves her. Deserves some happiness in his fucked up life.”

You shake your head, disagreeing strongly with every word he’s spoken.

They're monsters. Natasha less so. A victim, like you, maybe. But the two soldiers? Monsters. Monsters who don’t deserve any happiness. They deserve nothing but a slow painful death and an eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.

“I told you, (Y/n), I didn’t mean to hurt her baby. If I’d wanted to, I’d be rubbing it in her face more. Showing off your pregnancy more. And if you think I’m gonna hurt our baby, you’re wrong. I would never hurt my babies. It kills me that you think I’d ever do something like that.”

“Can you blame me? You’ve already killed at least one baby.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks and you regret your words.

“You know what? I think you really need a reminder of your place, sweetheart. You’re mine. Maybe not my wife, yet, but soon enough. Until then, you need to know that you belong to me.”

His grip on your face is painful, but you don’t make a single sound.

No, he’s not going to win.

He doesn’t want to hurt the baby or cause unnecessary strain, so he can’t have you on your stomach like he usually would.

So he makes the most of you lying on your back.

He grabs your wrists and binds them above your head, hooking them to the ring on the headboard despite your struggles.

“Steve, no! Please! I-I... Don’t hurt me, please!”

He cocks his head to the side, watching you wriggle and strain.

“You’re mine, (Y/n). You belong to me. There’s no one in this entire world who’ll help you. You’re my property. It’s time you realized that.”

A sick smile spreads across his face as he remembers what made you obedient last time.

“You know, I think I know exactly what you need.”

He climbs off the bed and drops to his knees, rooting under it until he finds his special black box.

You wriggle away furiously, trying to break free before he can hurt you, but deep down you know it’s all for not.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he sits back down on the bed, worming his way between your thighs and flipping your dress up over your extended stomach.

“Please don't,” you whimper uselessly.

He strokes your inner thighs gently, then leans down to spit on your centre.

You flinch away, tears leaking from your eyes as you realize what he’s going to do.

“Please don’t,” you repeat, only to be silenced by him pushing something far too big inside of you.

You cry out, your back arching and sending shoots of pain up to your scalp. The added weight of your baby makes everything ten times more painful, and you can't stop yourself from sobbing as he forces every last inch of the thick dildo into your unprepared cunt.

It burns. Fire spreads from between your legs up your spine and the tears don’t stop.

“Stop! Please! I’ll be good!” He knows you won’t. Or, he just doesn't believe you. You want the pain to stop but you’re not actually willing to change your behaviour for it. Not yet. But you will.

When the dildo is finally fully inside you, he climbs off the bed and shoves the box back underneath it. He adjusts his pants then walks to the door, pausing to look at your trembling figure on the bed.

Your shoulders shake with sobs, and he feels pride swell inside of him.

Good. Now you’ll finally learn.

“You’re gonna stay here until you learn your place. I don’t care how long it takes. When you’re ready to apologize and be a good girl, then we’ll talk. But until then...” He shuts off the light and pulls the door closed behind him, leaving you alone, in pain, and in the dark.

Memories of the last time this happened stab at your brain, and you quickly start hyperventilating.

What’s worse than that, though, is the tiny voice in your head telling you to get off your back. That it’s not good for the baby if you stay like this.

But no matter how much you scream or cry for him, Steve doesn’t come to the door once.

~*~

He leaves you there for hours, or maybe days. It’s so hard to tell.

The room is soundproof, so no one can hear your cries and you can’t hear anything outside.

Even if people could hear you, it doesn’t really matter now.

You’ve been on your back for so long that you’re starting to get dizzy.

During your first pregnancy, you learned only that it’s bad for the baby to sleep on your back. You didn’t think you’d be feeling the effects of it, too.

But here you are, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, mind spinning and lungs struggling to pull in enough air to satisfy you.

It must’ve been several hours ago that Steve left if you’re feeling such strong effects of it. You’re not sure what the technical term is, but you know that you probably don’t have much time left. Your baby has even less.

Your heart aches. Each beat makes sadness bloom in your soul and you can’t stop it.

New tears fall down your cheeks, and all you want is to reach down and caress your belly, apologize to the life growing inside of you.

Apologize for hurting them, for who their father is. For the life you’re bringing them into.

Nobody deserves that.

But now... now you might not have to worry.

Every passing second sends the walls around you spinning faster and faster and faster until all you can do is let your eyes fall closed.

Sleeping will probably make it better anyway, right?

As the darkness creeps up, seeps into your limbs and chases the pain away, you pray.

You’ve never really prayed much before, but you do today.

You send a prayer to any and all Gods, the old ones and the new, and you ask for forgiveness.

You pray for the safety of your unborn child, and for that of Sarah.

A deep part of your brain knows that you may never open your eyes, and you want your daughter to know that you love her. That she means the world to you and you’ll do all that you can to protect her.

Thinking about Sarah brings a wave of strength seemingly out of nowhere, and for a moment you wonder if the Gods heard you. If this is them sending their aid.

You take a few deep breaths, building up as much strength as you can, and try your luck one last time.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as it should be, and the room is so thickly padded that there’s no way he can hear you.

Hopelessness floods your body and you fall into it.

Your sorrow distracts you from the darkness until it takes hold of you and pulls you down, away from the world of pain that you’ve been trapped in.

And you feel peace.

#Dark Series #dark!fic #dark!au #dark!steve #dark!fanfiction #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve x you #dark Steve rogers #dark steve #dark steve rogers #dark steve x reader #Steve Rogers x reader dark fic #steve x reader dark fic #Steve rogers x reader dark fic

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jenna-jayde-the-renagade · 2 years ago

Note

You may remember me from such films as "You Will Never Be A Woman", "Your Skin Is Thicker and Rougher Than That Of Woman", "Your Pores And Connective Tissue Are Arranged Differently From Those Of A Woman", "Your Bone Structure, Including Jaw, Brow Ridge, And Hips, Is Obviously Male", "You Have A Man's Hairline", "Your Ring Finger Is Longer Than Your Index Finger", "Your Navel Is Above Your Waist", "Your Body Stores Fat Differently Than A Woman's Does", "Your Saliva, Sweat and Urine Contain Male Pheromones", "You Are Biologically Incapable Of Menstruation and Pregnancy", "Every Somatic Cell In Your Body Contains The Y Chromosome", "Children Are Confused When They See You", and who can forget: "Your Parents Will Use Your Real Name When They Bury You".

I gotta agree with you on almost all of that, my real name is actually unisex, i didnt change it. Graves also dont say male or female on them, and with my friends and family being loving and accepting im not worried about it. That is if im even lucky enough to get a grave with a headstone, those are expensive and well, I'm a millennial and I don't wanna leave my family with a shitload of debt. When i die ill probably be cremated and sit in an urn on a shelf for a few decades, or ill be spread about in some place i loved during life. Its funny, i actually dont want to be cremated even though its the cheapest option in my country. If i had complete control over my burial all id do is make a deal with a farmer, and ask to be buried "raw", wrapped in an all natural hemp or unbleached cotton sheet, and have a tree planted over top of me, that way i can fertilize it, and have a bench placed nearby, and a dirt footpath leading to me so that my family and friends can come see me for a "visit" after im gone. Thats what id like, and to be honest I'm more worried about being embalmed and buried with a body full of embalming fluids and preservatives thatll pollute the nearby enviroment in a casket thatll do the same, fuck that shit!!

But yeah no, like I said I agree with you on most of that. I don't deny the truth and live in a fantasy land of denial and such. However the second last one is untrue, adults have a harder time with it than their children do, and thats if they even give a shit, because most of society doesnt. In 3 years ive never once met somebody with genuine hatred for me in real life. You people seem to only exist on the internet, and you people are a very very small minority. Like i said, nobody in the real world cares, they're all too busy living our own lives and understand that people like me exist, and it isnt worth the time out of their day to bully me and put me down. But back to the one thing I dispute about what you said, the children! Now children aren't confused when they see me, because they see a female. Why? Well, after 3 years of hormones and some laser hair removal i dont look like a man, I don't look like "something" in-between. They see a woman, albeit taller than average, I'm well past the point where parents have to explain anything, I blend in in public places. People don't know unless they've known me for a while or i tell them. So yeah no, there's no confusion when children see me. Hell my mom and I went out tonight looking at stereo equipment at a few different stores and it was "may I help you ma'am?" and such.

So uhh yeah, I think you may be the one who's confused...

On a side note:

Before I came out I was very transphobic and hyper masculine because I figured nobody would expect me to be trans or gay or anything else if I showed hate and acted hyper masculine.

So that brings up the question, are you trying to bully me to distance yourself from who you truly are? Are you confused and/or hiding something deep down that you know to be true? Coming out isn't as traumatic and hard as some folks make it out to be. It is what you make of it, I was scared shitless until I did it, and i didn't lose any friends, get disowned by my family or go through any bullying in real life. Everything I feared never happened. In fact it was the opposite, I found my social circle and my family to be encouraging and happy for me. I was extremely depressed with my gender identity, my body, and in general, I was just so depressed. So when I took the plunge and finally did it, after 7 years of debating and planning, i truly came out of my shell and into my own. I was happy, free, and my mental health stabilized and got better! I had hope that things would change, that I wouldn't be stuck, trapped in a body that disgusted me for the rest of my life. It was slow, like I said it's been 3 years and 2 months since I started hormones and such. But in year two I started seeing the person I always wanted to see looking back at me in the mirror. Around the same time society started seeing me as a female too. It was a slow transformation, but I had hope that I would get to where I'm at now, and well here I am lol!

So yeah, next time you go around trying to shit on somebody for living their best life and doing something positive for themselves. Look inside yourself, and ask yourself why you feel the need to bully somebody for who they are? You might realize something, that it comes from jealousy, a feeling of failure or self hatred. This "ask" says alot about you and your own insecurities. So yeah, when the time comes and you've figured out why you feel the need to bully people, just know that I don't need an apology or anything. I'm not offended, instead I feel bad for you, and I hope you can find peace within yourself one day before its too late...

Sorry about the novel sized answer, I just felt it was necessary.

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wheelsup · 4 years ago

Text

the taming of the shrew | one

he is more a shrew than she

penelope reveals her plan to get you and spencer together. unfortunately, her plan has a few hitches.

A/N: again, big thanks to @homoose for being my helpful beta reader, and to YOU for reading it now.

category: fluff, spencer reid x fem!reader, series

wc: 4.1k

<- prev | next ->

Penelope came back to your place the following night, bearing a new bottle of wine and a collection of materials she mentioned were integral to executing the plan.

Very quickly into Penelope’s explanation of this Genius Plan –– her words, not yours –– you remembered what it was she did for work. Officially, she was some sort of technical computer-y person for the Federal Bureau. As you knew her, she’s a danger to society and anyone with a traceable digital presence.

She managed to construct a comprehensive list of every place in D.C. and Virginia that her friend liked going to, along with the approximate times in which you were most likely to find him there. Approximate meaning, exactly which days he visits and the roughly time of day, down to a mere one hour margin of error.

You scanned the list over, shocked at its detail. Where he cut his hair, got his coffee, bought his books. His favorite restaurants, the chess clubs he’s a member of, his local hospital.

His local hospital?!

“I’m not going to need to know that, am I?” you paused.

“Probably not, but it comes in handy with this job,” she shrugged with a nonchalance that was rather alarming.

There had to be a dozen more places on the sheet –– ranked, in order of his (assumed) preference for them. Penelope calculated it based on the frequency of his visits, their average duration per session, and how often he’d mentioned about the place.

“What?” she tossed her palms up, taking offense when you asked her if she had evil plans to take over the tristate area. “Hang out with him long enough, you tell me if you pick up a knack for researching or not.”

Researching. Mining private data through questionable methods. It’s a small difference to Penelope.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side, Penelope,” you muttered under your breath, flipping the sheet back and forth. “You could ruin my whole life with ten minutes on a computer.”

“I wanted to be thorough,” she defended, shrugging. “And I’d only need five.”

You laughed through your nose, giving the paper one last scan. “You left out one important thing, though.”

“No, I put his home address on there,” her brows wrinkled together as she pointed it out on the sheet with one hot pink polished finger.

“His name,” you berated. “Jesus, you think I’m going to show up at his home?!”

“Again! I’m thorough,” she cried at your accusatory tone. “His name’s Spencer. You’ll like him when you meet him.”

You didn’t doubt that Penelope’s friend was a likeable guy, but you weren’t exactly dying to go out of your way to meet him. You told her that you’d get around to it when you had a chance and left it at that.

And two weeks later, you found yourself in need of a caffeine fix that your tea kettle wasn’t strong enough to satisfy. You started on a new piece late the previous night, and midnight rolled into four in the morning, which pushed you into the arms of seven o’clock. Reinforcements were needed.

Throwing on a large sweater to cover up your messy clothes and grabbing the closest pair of shoes you could find, you originally planned on heading to your usual spot just around your street corner. Just as you were leaving, the list, still sitting untouched in the exact spot that Penelope left it in, caught your eye.

It’d been a while since you told Penelope you’d help her out. Enough time had passed that you now felt like there was an invisible deadline over your head.

Maybe it won’t hurt to try something new?

Besides, meeting someone at a coffee shop seemed like an easy, foolproof way to go about this. From all the movies and romance novels, you knew that cafes are the pinnacle of meet-cute situations. Or, in your case, a meet-forced.

Regardless, it should’ve been simple enough, and it would’ve gotten the favor off your shoulder.

You scanned the sheet for the cafe Spencer would be at on a Thursday at 8 a.m., and got there with barely five minutes to spare before he was expected to show.

It was just your luck that he had to pick a cafe practically as far from your home as he could get, and the transfer train had to have a delay that made you walk the last three-quarters of a mile there. Call it crazy, but you didn’t expect to actually have to put in work for this. You expected it better be worth the hassle.

You took a seat in the back of the cafe to catch your breath as you waited for him to show up. Sitting in the booth, with your head down so you coudn’t be seen, the plan started to feel stupid all over again. You were running around the city, spying on this stranger, and for what?

The silver bell hung over the door frame interrupted before your thoughts could travel down that path of questioning. It rang each time a new patron enters, and within the next twenty minutes it rang only eight or nine times. None of them appeared to be Spencer.

You were prepared to call this one a failure and leave, when you realized your colossal mistake. You only had his name, and no idea what he looks like. So unless he happened to wear a name tag around you could’ve already missed him. You realized then that there were more than a few flaws in this plan.

Keeping an eye on the door, you dialed Penelope’s contact as a swarm of new patrons flooded in.

“How am I supposed to know what he looks like?” you whispered into the phone, failing to cover it with a hand cupped over the speaker. Penelope was confused for only a second by the apparent lack of context.

“Oh! He’s tall, has mousy brown hair but he cut it recently. It’s like… missing on the sides, but it’s all there in the front!” she explained.

What the hell does she mean missing?

“Pen, brunette? That’s like all the guys in here…” You took a look around the full cafe; various men typing on computers, taking calls. All of them looked the same, from their brown hair to their khakis and puffer coats. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than brown hair.”

Penelope struggled to explain and with each new feature she gave you, your mental picture of him got more clouded. “He’s skinny! Dresses like a vintage teddy bear!”

“Does he have kind of like… a hot English teacher vibe?” you quirked your head, spying a man approaching from the sidewalk and drinking him in with your eyes. Tall, brunette, clad in corduroy head to toe with a plaid sweater vest underneath. Vintage Teddy Bear F/W 1978 collection.

“Yes! He teaches sometimes! And you think he’s hot?”

Your mouth gaped even though she couldn’t see you. “No, I - I didn’t say that. I said he had the vibes of a hot teacher.”

“And how different is that from saying he’s––”

“Pen, I gotta go. Your guy’s walking in.” You put the phone away before she could pick apart what you said.

The bell on the front door rang as he came in and you stared intently at his face. If this was like the movies, he’d turn his head right then, at the perfect time, and make eye contact. He’d fall madly in love from the first look, and your work would be done. You sat at the edge of your seat, burning holes into his skull, waiting for that moment.

But alas, he never looked up from the linoleum flooring as he walked up to the counter. With a groan, you slid out of your booth and quickly hopped into the line before anyone else could claim the spot behind him.

New plan: eavesdrop, order the same coffee as him, and pretend to go for the cup at the same time. Laugh about the coincidence, how if you share the same coffee order you must certainly have a lot in common, and have him fall in love with you.

But you overheard him rattle off his order and were absolutely horrified. Black coffee, extra sugar. Like, extra, extra sugar.

You were going to need a second change of plans.

You eyed him up and down, searching for something you could approach him about. He was donning black converse under a fitted pair of dark brown corduroy trousers, with a blazer to match, and a deep green plaid vest underneath. On paper, this outfit shouldn’t work. In practice, it… really did.

A little too well, given how good he looks in it. More fashionable than a federal agent ought to be as required by dress codes, right?

“Can I help you?” you heard, and it poked the bubble of your thoughts. Your head shot up to meet his for the first time, eyes wide as heat crawled up your face.

“Uh. No ––” Shit. You didn’t even realize how long you were staring at his legs. Long, long legs. And shit, why did you say no? That was your opening to talk to him.

The man –– Spencer –– nodded his head slowly, uncomfortably, and turned away with a forced grin. He grabbed the coffee cup placed on the counter and you thought now was the time to say something. But by the time you thought of it, he’d already picked up his cup and made his way to the door.

The stupid silver bell mocked you as he left.

The first attempt left you slightly jilted, but a few days later you found yourself in need of a few grocery items. You just happened to be in his neighborhood that day, and though it was very much out of the way of your own, you didn’t plan on it being a problem. He’d never see where you lived anyways, and he’d never need to know how unlikely this chance encounter really was.

You had Penelope text you the address of his regular grocery store, and upon arrival, felt immediate concern. It was not a grocery store. It was a convenience mart slash liquor store at the corner of the street, below a building of worn apartments.

As you walked through the aisles, the only things you found were a large assortment of wines that took up half the small store space, an aisle of candy packets and chips, a section for household supplies, and one measly aisle for canned and boxed foods.

Cereal, instant noodles, soup cans, pancake mix… nothing very fresh.

Spencer seemed like a pretty scrawny guy. You now believed it might’ve been from the fact that his food choices were so off-putting that he simply didn’t eat. It wasn’t your place to be concerned, but you decided that if you ever ended up taking him out, a farmer’s market might be good for him.

You loitered around for perhaps longer than necessary. The inquisitive shop attendant asked if you need help –– as in, why are you still here, get out of my store –– and you told her you were just really conflicted on which detergent brand you needed. Finally, the man you were after arrived at the scene.

“Hi, Dolores,” he greete with a small wave. The attendant, Dolores, greets back with a positivity that she sorely lacked when talking to you. Dolores has favorites, apparently.

An unexpected panic settled in your stomach and you quickly turned back to your selection of fabric softeners. You weren’t hiding, you just didn’t want him to catch you staring again. You picked up your two props, pretending to read the labels on the back and compare the chemical formulas on each of them, when you saw him out of the corner of your eyes.

He went into the aisle in front of yours, and over the short shelves you saw the back of his head sweeping over the modest food section. He turned around to inspect the other side of the aisle, and you ducked your head even lower. It was in vain. He spotted you anyway.

You fixed your eyes even harder onto the bottles, afraid to look anywhere else. He shuffled out of his aisle and turned the corner into yours. You started sweating a little.

“Uhm. Excuse me,” he said.

“Yeah?” You looked up from your bottles, putting on your best caught-off-guard face. Like you were a girl in a movie, reading a book on the beach (not detergent labels in a liquor store) and your romantic interest just noticed how beautiful you looked doing it, deciding he had to introduce himself.

“Can you… can you move…” he asked, gesturing to the section of cleaners that you’re blocking.

Never mind.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” You burned up, moving out of his way. He reached for what he needed and you peeked down to inspect the contents of his basket. Organic whole wheat bread, cream of mushroom soup, and somehow, he’d managed to find the only two apples this place must carry. At least there was light at the end of the dark, dark tunnel.

He tossed a bottle of Snuggle fabric softener and you raised your brows. Given that he was “grocery shopping’’ in a three-piece suit –– a good one, too, black trousers, vest and blazer with an eggplant purple shirt and lavender tie –– you would’ve expected him to simply send his clothes out for dry cleaning.

“Snuggle, huh?” you said. He gave you a confused look. “Oh, uh. I was looking at these. Couldn’t pick between the two.” You raised your two bottles of softener; Snuggle and Tide.

You needed him to know you weren’t just saying Snuggle to insinuate that you would like to do that to him. You remembered Penelope telling you he had a degree in chemistry or some sort of science field, and asked, “Is… is that one like, more organic? I was trying to read the formulas but I don’t… I don’t recognize the chemicals,” you trailed off. You could see yourself losing his interest the more you spoke. He barely looked at you as he grabbed whatever else he needed.

“I don’t know… I just like it,” he bristled. You looked down at the bottle and flipped it over to the front. It had a drawing of a teddy bear on it. How fitting.

You go to comment on it but yet again he’d made an escape, already at the checkout counter and unloading his basket by the time you looked up again. You rolled your eyes, wondering if it’s even worth it to follow him into line and see if he sparks up a conversation this time.

You could tell that he wouldn’t. So you gave him the space to buy his items and leave.

You didn’t really need the detergent, but Dolores gave you a pointed look before you could even think about putting it back on the shelf. You ended up buying the detergent, a loaf of bread, and two packets of sweets out of guilt.

As you took the train home, digging into your packet of sour peach rings, you began to doubt if you can carry out Penelope’s request.

After two failed attempts, you were prepared to tell Penelope that this just wasn’t going to work out. You didn’t expect it to be this difficult to talk to Spencer nor did you see yourself getting closer to him anytime soon. It would be best if she just found someone else to do it.

You caught her in the hallway, leaving her apartment just as you came home from the store. It seemed like as good of a time as any to let her know how unsuccessful your escapades were going. With your tail between your legs, you approached her with the intention of breaking the plan off.

But the second she saw you, it was like she could read through you. She clocked what you were about to say and before you could, she gave you a warm hug. It was the first one you’d ever received from her, actually. And she thanked you for trying.

It didn’t make you feel guilty, per se, but it definitely made you feel weird about telling her the news. So you bit back on telling her what you were really going to say. She didn’t need to know the details of your failure, or the fact that you were seconds away from giving up on her friend.

Maybe you didn’t need to give up right away.

After all, you did only talk to the guy twice. Don’t they always say the third time’s the charm?

You left the conversation at just that –– letting her know that you’re happy to do this for her, even if you aren’t really –– and slinked back into your apartment. The list, buried under the magazines and paint tubes and half-full cups of cold coffee on your table, called for you.

If by any stroke of luck you happened to share one interest with this guy, you promised yourself to give it one more try.

According to the list, that overlapping interest was the wonderful world of Gatsby Books –– a small, locally owned bookstore residing in the heart of D.C. ’s arts district. That neighborhood was smack in the middle of your’s and Spencer’s, and it was where the gallery you showcase at was.

You’d been meaning to get down there for a while now, anyways. It really was the cutest bookstore in the world; inside it lived a white, bushy-furred cat named Gatsby, and he was always there. After all, it was his bookstore.

It wasn’t such a burden to make your visit fit Spencer’s schedule, really. And it would make Penelope happy if you did. So on Saturday afternoon, you took a lovely walk through the sunny arts district of D.C., a smile on your face and a tote in hand for all the books you were planning on hauling back.

The smell of paper and coffee greeted your nose at the door, and you practically fell into a trance, letting it lead you through the aisles of the store without much thought of where you wandered. Not that it mattered, you could’ve roamed the shelves aimlessly all day long.

In the mystery and thrillers section, you found Gatsby. He jumped down from his perch on a step stool and weaved between your legs, greeting one of his long-time regulars. He was such a good shop owner.

“Hi, Mr. Gatsby.” You smiled and bent down to give him a little head scratch when he started running off in the other direction, taunting you into following him.

He rounded the corner and came to a stop at a pair of boot-clad feet; your eyes moved up to find your favorite employee (after Gatsby, of course) restocking the shelves.

“Miles!” you whispered, but he still jumped out of his skin. He turned around, hand still over his chest, and sighed when he realized it was just you. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” you laughed.

“Hey, long time, no see. Back for some more recommendations?” You ‘ooh’ed at his offer.

“I was just gonna say, the ones you gave me last time were so good. I finished them in, like, a week.”

“Really?” He smiled, brows happily up his forehead. You nodded in assent. “Okay, well I’ll give you more this time, see if the list’ll last you a little longer than that.”

You grinned eagerly, following him to the shop counter where he pulled out a stack of bright green post-its and a pen.

“I’ve actually been waiting for you to come in, I already had these in mind for you,” he mumbled, scrawling across the paper quickly. He handed the note over, and it took a moment to decipher the chicken scratches.

“Okay, first you gave me Al-Shayk and Bradbury. Now you’re giving me Chaucer, Dickens, and Doyle,” you recited the note, giving him a teasing look. “Are we just going through the alphabet, Miles?” you joked.

“Honest mistake. But I’d be happy to give you all the other twenty-two letters of the alphabet if needed.”

“I might hold you to that.” You nodded, folding the post-it in your palm to prevent the sticky backing from gunking up. It’d make quite the good bookmark for later. “Thanks for these!”

“No problem, just a part of the job.”

Nonetheless, you thanked him again before disappearing back into the aisles. You found Miles’ books as well as a few of your own and nearly lost yourself in the rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, until you made a turn. Standing in the middle of the next aisle was Spencer.

A week ago, he was the whole point of coming to the store. That day, you completely forgot about it, and it stopped you in your tracks to see him there. He was just standing in the middle of the walkway, staring blankly at the shelf in front of him.

“Excuse me,” you grinned, “Could you move?”

You thought it was a cute reference back to the laundry detergent fiasco, a chance for you to turn the tables, but he had no reaction to it whatsoever. His face was straight as he merely pivoted his shoulder out of your way as you reached for the book you needed; The Narrative of John Smith.

His eyes narrowed at you and his nostrils flared, and you wondered if it was called for because you grabbed the last copy they had in stock.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want this?” you asked, waving the book in his face. He was just standing there for so long, you didn’t think he actually wanted anything since he never picked it up.

“No,” he said coldly.

Contrary to Penelope’s review, he didn’t actually seem that warm of a person. But you smiled tightly at him, letting a forced laugh fill the stale air.

“I… I swear I’m not stalking you,” you laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. Technically it was a bit of a lie, but he didn’t need to know. It’s just something people say when they have the happy coincidence of running into a stranger so often.

“What did you say to me?” he bit. His tone was sharper than you felt like this conversation deserves.

“I mean, I’ve just been seeing you around a lot… it was, like, a joke? Like, ‘ahh watch out, I’m stalking you!’ you know?” With each second he stared you down, you felt your throat dry out, getting more flustered as you felt the need to over explain yourself.

“Maybe you should work on your comedy routine,” he barked, his voice just faintly cracking. He shoulder-checked you as he rushed out of the store in long strides and a brisk pace.

What in the absolute fuck.

You couldn’t stay in the shop for another minute. You dropped your stack of books at the counter with Miles, giving him a rushed apology for leaving them behind as you stormed out of the shop and headed in the opposite direction of where Spencer ran off to.

The air outside was now frosty as the sun disappeared behind the horizon; the wind nipped at your hot cheeks as you charged home. There weren’t enough words to quantify the anger you felt. Your mind ran rampant with how much you now hated this man.

Not only did he bite your head off for no good reason, but he publicly embarrassed you at your favorite place and had gone so far as to bruise your shoulder to make a point. And you know what? If he really wanted you out of his way, you were more than happy to leave him the hell alone for the rest of your life.

You reached into your jacket pocket for your phone and dialed Penelope.

“Hey! How are––” she cheered.

“It’s off.”

“What?”

“It’s off. I’m not dating your fucking friend.”

“What happened? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding––” she started in a panic. She pleaded that you overlook whatever went wrong and promised that she’d have a talk with Spencer about it. She’d try to encourage him into the direction that you need.

None of that registered in your brain, hot blood filling your ears instead of her words.

“He’s a fucking ass,” you spat. “The more I see of him, the less I like him, and… I’m pretty sure we’d rather kill each other than date at this point. So yeah, I’m done.”

☆

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problematicfavesareproblematic · 3 years ago

Text

I Wish I Could Leave This Alone (I Know How Much You Want Me To)

Babe Heffron x Reader (plus guest) One Shot

Summary: Babe’s birthday gift to you has an unexpected party crasher

Warnings: smut, angst, infidelity (?), reader overthinking while getting dicked down, I wrote this and immediately posted it so it will be edited at some point

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Babe’s kiss was soft, but his touch was not.

You couldn’t help the groan that escaped from the back of your throat as one of his hands gripped tightly at your hip, and when he smiled against your lips you couldn’t help but feel like you’d had done something to amuse him.

“What?” you pant, leaning back at the waist to break the kiss and frowning at his smirk.

He chuckled warmly as he walked you backward towards your bed, the hand at your hip finding its way under your shirt and up against your sternum.

“Where’d you go, Gorgeous?” he asked playfully, and you immediately felt guilty.

He was right, you’d gone somewhere else for a while. That wasn’t fair to him, and you knew that. And while he was quick to call you out on it, he never seemed to truly take offense to it. You weren't sure what that said about him. Or you, for that matter.

You shake your head and bring your hands to the hem of his t-shirt, lightly tracing your nails across the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. “Started getting a bit ahead of myself, that’s all.”

Pressing a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, you use your position to slide your hand down the front of his trousers and cup him through his boxers.

“You forgot to breathe,” he mumbles, his voice slow and distracted. “Can’t have you blacking out and embarrassing yourself like that—Woah.”

A smile of your own breaking across your face, you nose at him until he brings his mouth to yours again, making a show of inhaling sharply as the backs of your knees hit the bed.

“Good note,” you say breathily as you pull his shirt up his back, giggling idiotically as he intentionally gives you a hard time of it. Your shirt doesn’t last long either, and with a practiced ease, you have each other stripped and bare in the blueish darkness of your barrack.

He isn’t gentle when his hands grip your bare skin, his movements excited and rough as he settles against the headboard and pulls you up to straddle his lap.

“I remembered, by the way.”

Taking his face in your hands, you hold him away to study him, confusion marring your constantly furrowed brow. “Remembered…?”

His eyes are aglow in the dark, so amber and warm that they reminded you of the spiced ciders your family would make during the holidays back home. A wicked smile crosses his face, and he chuckles quietly.

“I told you what knowing my middle name would cost you when you asked me last month, and the information I wanted in return. And I told you I wouldn’t forget…”

The cogs clicked in your head, and you made a sound of upset when you figured out what he was talking about.

Detail for detail, that’s the deal, Sweetcheeks.

“Happy Birthday, Sargent Y/N.” He waggled his eyebrows, and you booed him quietly.

“What are the odds a blowjob will make you forget about it?” you ask with a wince, gasping when he playfully rolled his hips up to meet yours. Feeling how hard he was made your blood begin to run hotter.

“Hmm,” he hummed, leaning forward to suck a kiss on the delicate skin beneath your collarbone. “Somewhere between none and slim.”

With an annoyed hum, you lean your head forward to rest atop his head and let him mouth at you, your hand coming up to pull at his hair only when you knew he was intentionally trying to leave a mark.

“And do you remember what I said I wanted to give you for your birthday?”

Feeling the blood rush to your cheeks, you realized that you could only sit in hot embarrassment as he laughed at you again.

“Such a prim and proper lady, scandalized by the idea of riding my face—”

“Edward!” you hissed, hands that once held his face now pushing it away. “Don’t say it like that, come on—”

The auburn-haired man laughed, catching your wrists and pulling you into his chest. you grunted with frustration, your face now pressed against the hollow of his throat.

“It’s not like my mouth hasn’t been down there before, you know.”

Sighing, you let yourself sag into him slightly, trying not to lose yourself in his lighthearted tone.

“Yeah, but not like that, when I’m just…you know.”

“Oh I see, you like it better when I do all the work and you get to take the princess position, huh?”

“Jesus Christ, Babe” you sit up again with a huff, attempting to pull your wrists back from his unyielding grip. “I try to be serious for one fucking second….”

Rolling his eyes, he surges up and kisses you sweetly, and for a minute you feel yourself begin to slip out of your body again.

But he brings you back. He always brings you back to him and here and now.

“C’mon, Sweet Thing…” he croons shamelessly against your lips, rough hands releasing your wrists and sliding teasingly up and down your thighs. The touch has you trembling in his lap, and he’s kissing you before you can be too embarrassed. “If you hate it, I’ll stop and you can fucking edge me until I blackout, I swear to god. You gotta let me see you like this, Y/N. Please, Gorgeous…?”

Good GOD he was shameless, literally begging you to allow him the chance to make you feel good, to show you how good he can make you feel- how much he wanted to be the one to do it to you first.

Anticipation was knotted in your throat as you smashed your lips to his, a flutter of heady resolve resting in your belly. As if he could taste what you were thinking, he wrapped his arms around you and hummed against your mouth.

“God, you’re so perfect...” he pulled you into him, rolling his hips in a way that seemed to remind you of the urgency you both had felt before.

When he pulls back this time he’s grinning at you like a complete idiot, happier than any man should be at the prospect of cunnilingus, in your opinion.

But Edward Heffron was nothing if not enthusiastic in his pursuits.

“Hands on the windowsill,” he said breathlessly, his cheeks turning pink and making you want to kiss him again. When you didn’t follow his request quickly enough he guided your hands there himself and folded your fingers around the frame of the open window.

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “Do I want to know how long you’ve been thinking about this, or will I be insulted?”

He smacks your thigh lightly, drawing a surprised yelp from your lungs that melts into a hum of amusement as he kneads the reddening flesh.

“How about we err on the side of caution and say….. just within the past few months?”

“And you held me in the highest regard before that- right, Private?”

He says nothing for a moment, and when he does agree to your proposed question he mumbles it into the valley between your breasts.

“Hmph. You’re a terrible liar. This had better be worth it.”

Seemingly satisfied with your ability to keep your hands where he set them, Babe encourages you to rise up to your knees so you’re no longer flush in his lap. Immediately, his eyes flick down to your sex, and you cannot help the way your thighs start to shake

He says something under his breath that you can’t quite catch before he looks back at your face and his expression softens for a second.

“Remember what I said earlier? I mean it, you know I mean it—”

You’re nodding before he can finish the sentiment, letting a soft smile play at the corners of your kiss-swollen lips. “You’ll be the first to know if I want to stop. Promise.”

With one more biting kiss to the middle of your chest he brings his assault downwards with hands, lips, and teeth- his touch just the right amount of hard and teasing to send your head swimming long before you finally feel his breath on the overly-sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

“Oh fuck,” he sounds far away, but maybe that’s just because you’re feeling too big for your own body at the moment. “Could die happy here…”

God, he’s such a whore.

The first touch of his tongue has you pitching yourself forward, eyes squeezed shut as you let your face poke out the window enough to feel the breeze on your clammy face.

Shit, he was good at that- it felt so good. If you didn't have your own goddamn skeletons in your proverbial closet you may have even been jealous to think of all the other women who had been privy to this most spectacular consideration. Babe was kissing you down there just as sweetly as he had ever kissed your lips, and it made you briefly wonder if anyone else from your past could have made you feel as high as he was making you feel right now.

Bowing your head to look down at him, your breath catching at the sight of him looking up at you from between your thighs, his arms folded around your hips to control the small jumps you couldn’t seem to get a handle on.

“Fuck, Babe!” you bite out, the idea of him looking up your body and watching you squirm threatening to overwhelm you. “Can’t fucking do that, ‘s gross angle for me…”

“Oh?” he said, the sound and feeling of his voice running up your body in the most sinful way. “I beg to differ...”

Knowing that watching him watch you would ultimately be too much, you shake your head to clear your thoughts and lift your head to look back out the window into the night air.

Only to come face to face with Ronald Speirs.

A sound of surprise, shock, embarrassment, and panic got caught in your throat alongside your cresting moan and resulted in the most depraved cry that seemed to surprise all three of you.

Your blood boiled as it froze in your veins as you made eye contact with Speirs, mortification and utter shock leaving your mouth hanging open in a silent shriek of horror.

You had no idea how long the other man had been standing there, but if the look in his eyes was any indication it had been long enough to know exactly what was happening on the other side of the wall, just below the window frame. A cigarette hung forgotten between his lips as he openly stared at you, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed silently.

When Babe’s hand came up to squeeze your breast enticingly, you nearly jumped out the window.

Oh my God This can’t be happening right now I have to stop him Oh fucking hell….

Your head whipped down and he looked up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, mouth red and damp as he panted wickedly up at you. “You okay, Gorgeous?”

A crushing realization fell onto you in that very moment: there was no way you could tell him what was happening- who was there watching your shared private moment outside. Because that would mean that you’d have to explain that Ron always did this, that every night he would smoke near wherever you were sleeping that night and keep watch like a possessive and protective shadow.

And the only way you could explain that was by telling Babe about what you and Ron had once had- no, almost had. He rejected you, you reminded yourself harshly. He made his stance on you abundantly clear when he’d had you transferred into Easy Company. The fact that Speirs still behaved as if he was somehow responsible for you was not your problem.

Besides, you had Babe. You wanted Babe. Even if the ache in your heart tried to tell you differently.

You made your peace with Ron Speirs’ rejection a long time ago.

Not trusting your voice, you nod vehemently and hope what is happening outside isn’t clearly written on your face.

A smug grin stretches across his face. “Good, ‘cause you taste better than I imagined…..”

You curse as he pulls you back down to his mouth, your head flashing back up to see that Ron has gotten rid of his cigarette and shucked off his heavy coat and gun. His dark eyes look downright predatory, and if you had any sense in your sex-dumb head you would stop this debauchery and transfer somewhere far away from the both of them.

You open your mouth to do something, anything to save yourself some dignity in this fucking exhibitionist nightmare, but Speirs’s finger flies up to his lips, the command clear even through the darkness.

You knew this would happen eventually something in his gaze seemed to accuse. Did you really believe you could forget who you’re wishing was beneath you?

But as you watch him tilt his head, something else is conveyed: he’s asking for permission.

He didn’t intend to leave. He wanted to watch.

But he would, if you wanted him to.

It was cruel of him, and something in the way he worked his jaw told you that he knew it too, but like you he was too far gone to stop it.

You both know better, each of you having your own reasons for not wanting to inevitably hurt the other and cross that line. Your own sick, backwards ways of self-protection and showing affection for the other seemed to be twisting and becoming more complex as time went on.

The more involved you became with Babe….Ron suddenly wanted to be your friend again just after you had first slept with Babe.

You immediately understood that you and Ron were nearing your final days of dancing around each other, that you would have to be the one to stop it. Because Edward Heffron was too good and too kind to be fucked with like this. Eventually, you would have to stop being so selfish.

In a final show of weakness, you nod silently to Ron, your breath coming in quick bursts as your lover has patiently worked you up and up to the crest of your crescendo, none the wiser to the wicked thoughts and realizations spinning around in your head.

I really am a monster.

But you couldn’t focus on that right now, not as Ron stalked right up to the window with such confidence that you thought you had gravely misread the situation and he was going to announce himself to Babe.

You had just begun to make a hush of protest when his cold hands gripped yours and he knelt down so he was nose to nose with you, his hot glare turning it into another embarrassing sound of pleasure.

“Shit!” You whimpered, your body trembling more violently as the coil in your belly began to constrict. Ron’s thumbs rubbed the back of your knuckles in a soothing motion as he made a sound of pity low in his throat, the clucking of his tongue quiet enough that it disappeared in the sounds of the forest surrounding them.

When you get a better look at his face you can see his look of empathy is almost mocking, and you briefly wonder if you would ever have sex with someone who didn’t like to antagonize you the whole time.

As you try to pull your hands out from under his, he shakes his head sternly before wrestling them into his grip, the action pulling you slightly further out the window and making you gasp.

Babe chuckles and grips your ass to control the speed in which your hips rocked, a nibble on your clit nearly making you scream.

You’re a terrible person. You’re the worst kind of woman. you hate yourself for this.

Ron’s brows furrow and his face goes soft, eyes a warm burn rather than a vengeful inferno. You don’t realize you have begun crying until he brushes the tears from your cheeks with quick fingers.

You press your forehead against his as your body bows in warning, your orgasm approaching with unforgiving intensity.

Ron doesn’t kiss you and you don’t kiss him. You never had and after this long, you don't think you ever will. You hate how much you wished you could though.

Especially with another man’s tongue working you into a frenzy at the same fucking time.

“Please, I want you...” you said pathetically, and Ron had the grace to look down in shame. Guilty fingers intertwined with yours and with a sad grimace he kissed the backs of your hands.

“I know you do, I’m so sorry,” he breathes across your knuckles, tongue darting out to wet the chilling skin where he kissed, kissing your hand as he had wished to kiss your mouth each and every day since he had met you.

But you couldn’t, he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t let you ever try.

You came with a silent cry, only the whispered reminder from both of the men you loved to breathe saved you from falling apart in the most critical moment.

Because you are cruel you take one hand from Ron, the one he wasn’t kissing, and pull it back.

Babe’s overgrown hair is soft and damp as you reach down to rake your fingers through it, quickly finding his hand on your hip and clinging to his fingers with painful desperation as you quake above him.

Pulling you impossibly close to his mouth, Babe holds you as you tremble through the last of your pleasure, suckling once, twice more before noisily pulling away from you.

The sound was so lewd even Ron had to close his eyes and grit his teeth in order to stay quiet.

your hair clung to your face, and after sliding his fingers from yours Ron brushes the sweaty strands around your hairline.

As you begin to catch your breath, you remember who you are, who all you’re with, and all that’s brought each of you to this point. You remember that Ron Speirs has to go, will always have to go.

He didn’t want you to be his, wasn’t interested in sharing his barracks or you asking him about his past or remembering your birthday. You didn’t matter, none of this did.

All that mattered to him was the fight. The big picture. “We’re all already dead. Why bother acting like this is anything other than a distraction?”

“Y/N,” Babe’s gentle kisses land on your hips and you realize that the time for your decision is coming sooner than she had anticipated. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You take a few more shuddering breaths with Ron, and from the way he tightened his jaw you knew he knew that you were going to have to let one of them go. And, because he’s just as selfish as you are, he doesn’t want you to choose Babe.

He’d rather keep you like a lark he can turn to for reassurance and comfort. Like a bird in a cage.

With a final sniffle, you look down, away from Ron, and give all of your attention to the beautiful, sex-mussed man who was looking up at you so sweetly and with such a clear desire for approval that you almost started crying all over again.

Ron lets you slip your fingers from his and takes a silent step back as you return your attention to your lover. You let him disappear into the night.

“Nothing at all, Babe,” you reassure him with a sigh, moving shakily down his body so you can kiss him as deeply as you can, sealing your body to his as you hold his face between your hands. “I just forgot where I was for a second there.”

Nipping at your bottom lip, he waits until you pull back before smiling stupidly at you.

“That good, huh?”

Shaking your head, you scoff and flick his chest. As he starts to chuckle, you roll yourself off of him enough to scratch your nails lightly across his stomach.

“I’ll give you a full review after round two, how about that?” You smirk as his eyebrows shoot up, sitting up and swinging your leg over his hips to straddle him. “But right now, how about I reward the idiot I love for remembering my birthday?”

If he’s surprised by your sudden proclamation of affection, he makes no show of it. And somehow that makes the moment all the sweeter.

~ ~

(HELLO SO SORRY FOR THE LATE FIC I LOVE YALL COVID IS A BITCH! I’M CURRENTLY WORKING ON THREE FICS SO HOPEFULLY THEY WILL FOLLOW SHORTLY! OKAY BYE BYE MY GORGEOUS GEODUCKS!)

taglist: @mrseasycompany @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite @happyveday @sunsetmando @ricksmorty @now-im-a-belieber @tvserie-s-world

#band of brothers imagines #band of brothers x reader #babe heffron x reader #ron speirs x reader #babe heffron imagines #ron speirs imagines #problematicfavesareproblematic

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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years ago

Text

For Us Sinners

Soulless Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~4130

Warnings: This is 100% pure smutty religion-themed filth. Sam is dressed as a priest. There’s sex in a confessional, severe perversion of the Hail Mary prayer, and a lot of blasphemy happening. Like. A lot. Orgasm denial. Squirting. Non-explicit mentions of Winchester threesomes, gun play, and knife play.

A/N: For @stusbunker‘s “Jam Basket” fic exchange! This is for the lovely @rockhoochie. I managed to squeeze a decent amount of her jams in here. Sarah, my dear, I hope this makes you even a little bit as happy as your friendship makes me.

Thanks to @cracksinthewalls @fangirlxwritesx67 and @fookinghelljensensthighs for lore, encouragement, and inspiration!

You’re frowning at the trunk arsenal, wondering if it’s possible to sharpen a machete too much, when movement catches your eye. Sam rounds the corner of the old warehouse, and you grab a knife and a whetstone just to have something to focus on that’s not him and his stupid smirky face or the way his shoulders look in that suit.

The whole priest thing is a really good look on him.

“Dean’s not back yet?” he asks, without preamble, sitting on the edge of the trunk next to you. You focus very intently on your knife.

“Nice to see you too, Sam,” you snark, to cover the way you’re blushing. “Why yes, I did have a super fun afternoon of doing fucking nothing! Waiting around for you two is exactly how I wanted to spend the last three hours, thanks for asking.”

He laughs. “Weren’t you just telling me that I should stop pretending to be normal polite Sam?”

“Whatever,” you mutter.

“Lemme see that,” he says abruptly, and plucks the knife from your grip before you can protest. He takes one look at it and laughs at you, twirling the blade in his fingers. “Working out some frustration, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What’s really going on? You’re only like this when you’re hungry or horny.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, but he’s totally fucking right. He’s way too perceptive these days.

You’ve been refusing to play poker with him ever since this whole soulless deal came to light. He’s like a walking polygraph test… a very attractive, muscled polygraph who’s really good in the sack.

He’s analyzing your expression with his head cocked. “The knife thing?”

“I don’t know what you’re — that’s not—”

He holds the tip of the blade to your throat, and you stop stammering immediately. You close your eyes and swallow hard.

“That’s not new, though,” he says thoughtfully.

When you open your eyes, ready to protest, he’s tucking the knife back in its sheath and twisting to set it in the trunk.

“How’d you know about that?” you ask reluctantly.

He just smirks, that godawful not-Sam not-smile, with his dimples popping and his eyes glittering.

“One of these days you’re going to realize that I’ll never judge you,” he says, low and sly. “C’mon. Tell me.” He puts on a prim, sanctimonious face, pointing at the collar, and says, “Confess your sins and all will be forgiven.”

He ruins the pious effect by licking his lips and aggressively eye-fucking you.

You try to laugh, but it comes out all squeaky. You’ve never been good at poker, and if Sam’s smirk is anything to go by, he can see exactly what’s written all over your face.

“Shut up,” you say preemptively. “Asshole.”

“This is totally doing it for you, isn’t it?” Sam asks.

“Shut up.”

His smile is gleeful. “Oh my god, it is!”

“That’s not — I’m not—”

You grit your teeth and stand up abruptly, and it’s not like you can go anywhere but you need to move; it’s impossible to think straight when he’s right there and he smells so good.

He gets up so quickly you barely have time to blink before he’s in your space. He backs you against the warm metal of the door, caging you in with one big hand planted on either side of your head, and you have to tilt your chin up to meet his wickedly sparkling eyes.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, soft and heated, lips curling up in a familiar dangerous smile. “Lying is a sin.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you huff, but you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

“Besides, I can always tell. Admit it.”

“You are so fucking—”

Without warning, he’s tugging at your zipper, yanking the button open, and shoving a hand roughly down the front of your jeans as he murmurs, “You are so fucking into this.”

Before you can protest (not that you’d really want to) he’s got two fingers sliding into you, curling sweet and easy where you’re ridiculously, undeniably, outrageously into this.

“Maybe a little bit,” you sigh.

He’s just smiling, watching you squirm, playing with you like a cat might play with a mouse, and as much as you’d like to be angry about it, he knows exactly how to use those clever fingers. Then —

“Dean’s back,” he says calmly, and before you can even process that, he’s sucking his fingers clean and walking around the car to greet his brother.

You have about three seconds to button your pants, thank your lucky stars that you were on this side of the car, and generally get your shit together before it’s back to business.

“It’s a goddamn garden statue,” Dean is saying. “Some crazy old bat donated it to the church and then just up and left town. First person disappeared the next day.”

“So we wait til dark, take it down, break the curse.” Sam shrugs. “Easy enough.”

“Like a chant ‘n’ smash,” you offer. Both the boys give you blank looks, and you try to pretend like your brain isn’t totally scrambled. “You know. Like a salt and burn. A good old-fashioned chant and smash… no? Okay, whatever.”

Sam is barely containing his laughter. Asshole.

“I could use a nap before we do that, I’m wiped,” Dean grumbles, taking off his clerical collar as he slides into the driver’s seat. Sam keeps his on.

As you’re all getting buckled, he says, “Why don’t you just let us handle this one, Dean? You should take the night off.”

“If you guys want some privacy to bone, you can just say so,” Dean grouches. “But get another motel room, don’t bring Baby into it.”

“Yeah, we know. We will,” Sam reassures him.

Dean does not seem reassured. He looks at Sam suspiciously. “So, what, you’re just being nice?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Sam says bluntly. “You look like shit and I don’t want you hunting with me when you’re this sleep-deprived.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, that I buy. Man, this whole soul-free honesty shit is gonna take some getting used to.”

“You and me both,” you sigh, and Sam gives you a wink in the rearview mirror.

* * *

“That is the creepiest-looking angel I’ve ever seen,” Sam comments, striking a match. “And l’m including Zachariah in that. Okay, here we go.”

He lights up the little bowl of herbs he’s concocted and says a few things in Latin, and then the smoke coming up from the bowl turns eerie green and seems to sink into the worn concrete.

“Is that it?” you ask dubiously. “How do we smash it?”

“That’s the fun part,” Sam says. He attaches a silencer and loads his gun, quick and practiced, and when you’re both out of shrapnel range he aims almost lazily while you try not to stare at his fingers. Bad enough that he’s still wearing the priest getup. Watching him shatter an angel with a few perfect shots shouldn’t be a turn-on, but…

“Shouldn’t” is one of those words that lost most of its meaning when you and Sam started fucking. In the last two weeks, he’s managed to discover kinks you’ve never even admitted to yourself.

Speaking of —

“C’mon,” he says, and when the gun is deposited safely back in the arsenal, he grabs your hand without waiting for an answer, leading you around to a side door. The door isn’t even locked. Sam’s smile is gleeful in the moonlight.

“What are we doing?” you ask, as he leads you inside.

It’s almost completely dark, just a faint glow from the emergency exit signs to light the sanctum, until Sam takes out his matches and lights a few of the tall pillar candles that are arranged in nooks around the altar. The golden glow flickers and dances on the walls.

Sam grabs you by the wrist, and you halfheartedly attempt to tug your hand away. He’s got that glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.

“We really shouldn’t be here,” you hiss, as he pulls you over to the confessional.

“What are they gonna do, condemn my soul to hell?” he says flatly, and you stifle a giggle. “We established a while ago that my immortal soul is fucked.”

“Mine isn’t,” you mutter.

He looks at you with another of those smirks and says, “That’s why you’re the one who needs to confess.”

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you sigh, but instead of answering, he crowds in close, pressing you up against the smooth dark wood of the confessional, and kisses you, all teeth and tongue and liquefying heat, until your lips feel bruised and your entire body is tingling.

“Confess,” he whispers, and with one last grin, he points you toward one curtain and slips behind the other.

If you’ve learned anything about Sam over the years, soul or no, it’s that there’s no point arguing when he’s made up his mind about something.

Sam seems to have made up his mind.

You pull the curtain closed behind you and sit on the little bench, and you have to breathe through some long-buried memories before the words come to your lips.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you whisper. “It has been… a long time since my last confession.”

The flickering candlelight cuts through small gaps around the curtain, casting dancing shadows through the cramped space. Your cheeks are burning.

“Sam?” you ask tentatively. “This feels stupid.”

He lets out a low, cocky chuckle, and his voice is all sorts of promising when he replies, “Trust me, I’ll make it worth your while. Play along for me.”

Fine.

“Where do I start?” you mumble. “I drink, frequently. I have been dishonest. I gamble, and I do not dress modestly, and — I don’t know. What else?”

“Do you have impure thoughts?” You can hear the smile in Sam’s voice.

“Yes.”

“About what?”

You swallow hard, closing your eyes, thinking about the way he looks right now. No preacher has ever looked so good in that black suit. “About… about you.”

“Go on.”

“About the way you feel inside me. About the way you fuck me.”

“What did you think about last time you touched yourself?”

Your breath hitches. “I thought… I imagined that you —”

“Lying is a sin.”

Fuck.

That’s the thing about Sam; he won’t let you get away with politeness, or with half-truths, or with telling him what most guys would want to hear.

Fuck him and his creepy polygraph spidey senses.

“I imagined that it was Dean,” you whisper, cheeks burning.

“And how did that go, in your fantasy?” There’s no trace of surprise or hesitation in his voice.

“I was — he bent me over the hood of the car.”

“That’s not the first time you’ve thought about him, is it?”

“Sam, I don’t — this is weird,” you say, squirming slightly.

“Why?” he says, and you keep waiting for the jealousy or the disgust to color his words, but all you can hear is curiosity. “Do you think about him while I’m fucking you?”

You let out a long, measured exhale. “Yes.”

“Have you thought about him walking in? Listening to us?”

“Yes. Sam, I don’t—”

“Were you thinking about him a couple days ago, in the middle of the night? When you couldn’t seem to keep quiet?”

You shudder, pressing your thighs together. “Yes.”

“Tell me.” When you hesitate, he continues, “I wondered… felt the way you were squeezing around my cock every time it got too loud. You wanted him to hear.”

“I wanted him to — to imagine. I hoped he was awake, and that he was turned on, and—”

“You wanted him to join in,” Sam supplies, when you falter. His voice sounds husky, now. “You were imagining both of us, huh? What else?”

“Sitting in your lap, in the backseat, while he watches in the rearview,” you mumble, and now that you’ve started talking, it’s hard to stop: “I think about getting on my knees for both of you. Letting him have my mouth while you fuck me, or… one of you holding me down.”

“Have you imagined us handcuffing you? Taking turns with you?” he asks calmly.

“Well now I’m imagining it,” you huff, and your nervous giggle breaks the tension for a moment.

“I know you’re holding out on me,” Sam purrs, when the silence starts to stretch. “Leave my brother out of it, if you’re getting all hung up on that. What else?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble.

“Trust me. God isn’t judging you and neither am I. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

You can’t bring yourself to spit it out, even like this. “That’s it.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is silk and steel now. “Why don’t I take a guess?”

“Fine.”

“Knives,” he says bluntly, and your inhale is too sharp to be innocent. “You like the way a knife looks in my hands, the way it’d be dangerous if I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Yes.”

“You want to know what it’d be like: cold metal on your skin. A knife at your throat, or... a gun to your temple.”

You’re shaking.

“How’d you know?” you whisper.

“I pay attention,” he says simply, voice ragged, and then there’s a long pause before he asks, “Is that the end of your confession?”

You’d almost forgotten where you are. You’re grateful the screen is still between you and Sam.

“Yes,” you say, and because old habits die hard, you add, “I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past lives.”

“As for penance…” You can hear the teasing note in it, and some of your self-consciousness dissipates. “You can begin by taking off your clothes.”

“Here?” you laugh. “Sam…”

“Here. Now.”

You let out a tiny, nervous whine of protest, but you’re too turned on to care, not when you’ve already crossed so many lines tonight.

Then you strip, taking off your clothes with shaking hands and setting them in a neat-ish pile in one corner of the tiny booth. It’s chilly, and you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling goosebumps run down your bare skin.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Now... you can say ten Hail Marys,” Sam says, with that smirk in his voice again.

“I — really?” you ask.

Just as you’re thinking that’s all?, Sam is ducking through the curtain of the confessional, crowding you in and pushing on your shoulder until you sit back down on the narrow bench. Even in the barely-there flickers of light you can see the wicked smile on his face as he drops to his knees in front of you.

“And you may not come until you’re finished,” he orders coolly.

Then he’s hooking his arms under your knees, grabbing you by the hips and pulling you forward so that he can get that filthy smirking mouth on you. He licks a hot slick stripe up your center, swirling his tongue over your throbbing clit, and —

“Holy fucking shit,” you gasp, letting your head fall back against the wood with an echoing thunk, because whatever Sam’s doing with his lips is sending sweet fluttering waves of heat through your belly. “Oh my God, Sam, that’s—”

“If you keep taking the Lord’s name in vain,” he growls, nipping at your inner thigh, “I’ll double it.”

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” you start, and it’s been a while; Sam’s not the only reason you have to pause. “Fuck. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the — the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now—” Your voice breaks as you whimper, and you finish in one long rushed breath: “— and at the hour of our death, amen.”

“There you go,” Sam says, practically moaning the words against slick skin. You’re already having trouble thinking straight.

You start all over again, trying to rush through it as quickly as possible, but you stutter as Sam fucks you shallowly with his tongue.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sam says, curling two long fingers into you.

Except it’s bad. In the short time you’ve been doing this, Sam has learned your sweet spots like nobody’s ever learned them before, and he’s not touching them now. This is barely a tease, compared to what you know he can do to you. It’s bad, and it’s going to get so much worse.

You start to stammer through the third prayer. You’re so wet — from the thrill of the setting, as much as what he’s doing with his tongue — you can hear the slick thrust of his fingers inside you, dirty and distracting.

When you pause for breath between “Mary” and “mother of God,” Sam hums low against your cunt, and you know he enjoys this, you know he gets off on it, but he lets out these noises that never fail to make you feel feverish, and now is no exception. It doesn’t feel chilly any more. By “amen,” you’re burning up.

“Three down,” Sam murmurs.

On the fourth “grace,” he closes his lips around your clit and sucks gently, and you make a high, squeaky, mortifyingly desperate sound. Your voice keeps breaking as you stumble through the next lines, until you end on a long, relieved groan.

“Good girl,” he croons. “Six more.”

“I can’t,” you hiss.

“You can. And you will.”

On “full,” Sam twists his knuckles, and you gasp, arching your back, squirming. He fucks you in the same rhythm as your words, dragging friction across your g-spot with every syllable, and when you try to speed up, rushing through it, you can’t even get to “sinners” without breaking off in a moan. He stops completely as you pant for breath, and as you mumble through the last lines, painfully slow, you’re rolling your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, desperate for more.

“That’s five,” Sam says. “I’ll give you a second to catch your breath.”

With his free hand, he grabs one of your wrists, guiding your hand to the back of his head. His eyes flick up to you, watching hungrily, until you slide your fingers through the silky strands and tug lightly.

You sigh. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Hope not,” he says, smirking against the crease of your thigh. “I’m into some weird shit, but I like ‘em warm and breathing.”

“Ha fucking ha, Sam, that’s — fuck,” you choke, as he fits his mouth to your clit again, and this time he sucks lightly in time with the slow thrusts of his fingers. You forget what you’re saying, somewhere around “God,” and stumble to the end in bits and incoherent pieces.

“Six.” You realize you’ve got a death grip on his hair, all your muscles tensed-up and rigid with electricity that’s got nowhere else to go, but when you ease up, he pumps his fingers in deep and growls, “Harder.”

He adds a third finger, and it’s so fucking good, so fucking much, filling you with fizzing pressure, and it takes most of your willpower to stop yourself from going under.

You grit out, “HailMaryfullofgrace.” Lightning lances up your belly, and you squirm— “TheLordiswiththee.” — twist your fingers in Sam’s hair— “Blessedartthouamongwomen.” — muscles quaking, cunt clenching around perfectly curled fingers— “Blessedisthe. Fuck. Fruitofthywomb. Fuck — Jesus!” — tension surging and swelling — “Holy Mary, mother of God, prayforussinnersnow, fuck, Sam!” — you’re almost there, almost, and he stops, refusing to give you what you want as you gasp out, “And —at the— the hour of our death, amen.”

“Seven,” he says harshly, and you can feel him breathing hard, damp hot air teasing your slick swollen skin, and his mouth is so close to where you want it. He gives you a second and then: “Keep going.”

You babble out a few words at a time, and your voice is ragged and broken, but it must sound close enough to what he wants; he’s winding you up again, fingers crooking expertly against that sweet spot. The heel of his other hand digs into your lower belly, right over that point of white heat, and it’s so intense, suddenly, that everything goes sparkly and distant.

“Pray for us,” you groan, and he sucks, fast and hard. “Pray for us — us sinners —”

There’s this pressure, right there, right where his fingers are stoking a fire, and it’s blazing, and —

“Sam, I can’t. I can’t, I’m gonna—”

He’s not holding back, and you can’t either. You buck helplessly against the incredible suction of his mouth, holding him with both hands fisted in his hair as you bow up and cry out. All that pressure peaks, crashing down in wave after wave of relief, pulling you under like a rip tide as you come dripping-wet and messy.

It blinds you, for a moment. You’re out of your body for who knows how long, lit-up and paralyzed by the high-voltage shock of it.

When you come back to yourself, Sam is scooping you up and swapping places with you in one smooth movement, manhandling you so that you’re straddling him; he’s got his pants open just enough, can’t seem to wait any longer, and the breathless urgency is so unusual for him that your head spins.

You’re still clenching through the lingering quakes of your orgasm, trembling, boneless like a rag doll, and it’s not you sinking down on his cock so much as him pulling you, filling you up inch by inch as you squeeze and quiver around the thick length of him.

When he’s as deep as he can be, his arms wrapped around you and practically crushing you to his chest, you both pause and take a ragged gulp of air.

“What even was that?” you slur, bracing yourself with a hand against the wall and trying to adjust. He lets out a rough groan through gritted teeth.

“That is what I’ll be seeing every time I look at a confessional now,” he pants, starting to rock up into you. “Never gonna be able to walk into a church without getting hard.”

He wraps an arm around your ribs, and the heat of his splayed hand on your shoulder feels like it spans half your back. Your naked skin seems even more obscene as it brushes the stiff cloth of his suit, and you can feel your own wetness soaking the fabric in places. You shiver, roll your hips, and you can feel the way he reacts, shuddering under you.

“Seems like I’m not the only one who likes this a little too much,” you say, breathless.

“Who said anything about too much? No such thing.” He barks out a laugh, bucking up in a way that makes you moan. “I’ve been to heaven, and trust me when I say, this right here—” He twists his hips viciously to emphasize the word. “— this is so much better.”

“God, this is so —” you whimper. He fists a hand in your hair and bites your neck, and you jerk helplessly against him.

“God doesn’t care,” he growls. “God wasn’t listening to you just now.”

“That’s not —” You’re pretty sure he’s missing the point, but with the way your cunt is throbbing at every perfect thrust, you can’t remember what that point is; you can’t remember anything.

“God’s not going to answer those prayers,” he says hoarsely. “I’m the one who’s going to handcuff you and bend you over the hood of the car and fuck you until your legs give out.”

“Holy shit, Sam.” Your brain is shorting out.

“I’m going to make sure Dean sees you when you’re all strung-out and begging for it,” he promises. He jerks up with a vicious twist of his hips, and you grind down to meet him, every inch of your skin singing. “I’m going to hold a gun to your head while you ride me. I’m going to give you anything you want.”

“Please.” Your moan sounds more like a sob, and you can’t see straight anymore; it’s all going distant, until the only thing that feels real is the aching, pulsing heat of him inside you.

Sam claws at your back, dragging his open mouth up the side of your neck until he can snarl against your ear: “God doesn’t answer prayers, but I do.”

He surges up to meet you one last time. Your vision flashes bright white as you come, one exquisite pulse after another rolling through you, and it feels like a purer sort of ecstasy than any religious experience you’ve had in a church.

This is worth a little hellfire.

There is now a follow-up drabble here!

#sam winchester x reader #sam x reader #sam winchester smut #soulless sam #stus1kjamexchange

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goddessofroyalty · 2 years ago

Note

oof can I prompt then seeing Silco explore those elements of himself (either Zaun Family or Omegaverse) and maybe Vander’s reaction/how Vander supports him?

Wrote two parts because I kind of wanted to explore Silco first wearing a skirt and then him getting one actually made for himself (and not just because I wanted him to wear a more long style skirt and a pencil because I think he would look especially good in those two styles)

I know clothes like this would be custom made. Let’s just pretend there’s an omega in Piltover that has very similar measurements to Silco that had sent their measurements off to get something.

----------

“I suppose we will be able to find a buyer for this,” Silco says, examining the contents on the crate they had liberated from one of the merchant vessels headed to Piltover that did not contain the weapons they had been led to believe it would and instead was filled with clothes clearly destined for Topside omegas to purchase. The fabric is certainly high quality even if the style is somewhat lacking.

“We should chop it up first – make it harder to track back to its source.” There’s bound to be a list of the crates contents that will likely end in the Enforcer’s hands. Even if they only sell to the contacts they well trust it could take just one on-sale to gain Enforcer attention.

“We should,” Silco agrees. Picking up one of the skirts to examine closer. It’s made of long pieces of blue fabric that could easily be cut up and used in other ways or have other things made out of. “It is a shame to have to destroy them all.”

“I didn’t think you would care this much about Piltite clothes.” Vander doesn’t get what the big deal about clothes generally is. The point is to have something to cover your back, what does it matter what it’s made of?

All the fancy fabrics wore through super-fast anyway.

Silco snorts.

“I could care less about anything Piltite. But I can appreciate how not having to constantly make clothes from scraps means the final product looks more refined.”

“Why don’t you keep some then?” Vander isn’t surprised his question earns him a glare. “I’m not saying wear it out and about just when we’re alone together. Remind yourself how one day we will meet them as their equals, fancy clothes and all.”

Silco seems to contemplate it. Running his hand over the fabric of the skirt.

“Come on – you gotta’ at least try it on. Now I’m curious what you’d look like if we were born up top.” If they had the money for the lifestyle Silco honestly deserved instead of scraping by on what they can steal.

“Now it sounds like you have an interest in Piltite style,” Silco says, but he doesn’t put the skirt down.

“Nah, I just have an interest in you. I’m sure you would look better in it than any of those Topsiders would. Worked harder to get it as well.” While it was Benzo’s contact who had told them about the shipment Silco had done most of the planning on how they were going to actually get their hands on it without ending up in Stillwater for it.

Silco snorts at it.

“Alright,” he says, pulling the skirt he had been examining fully out the crate. “I might as well see why they are willing to pay as much as they do for these. Find out if they are worth the value.”

Vander is certain no article of clothing could be worth the coin Piltover spends on it.

He is just as certain Silco is worth every cent it would be worth.

Silco holds the skirt against himself. Checking that, yes, the one he had been examining should fit him well enough, before hanging it over the crate and shucking off his pants, watching Vander out of the corner of his eyes as if daring him to make a comment.

Vander won’t say anything in case it causes Silco to change his mind.

Silco picks the skirt up and steps into it. Easily doing up the buttons on the back of it before adjusting so it sits on his hips where it’s clearly meant to.

“Well, what do you think?” Vander asks as Silco walks over to the mirror in the corner of the room. The base of the skirt just brushing along the floor as he does.

“It’s heavier than I expected,” Silco says, examining his reflection closely. “Not something I would wear around Zaun especially not in our line of work. But I can see why it is such a popular style for the Piltites.”

“So do I,” Vander says, walking over as Silco’s reflection raises an eyebrow at him. Before Silco has a chance to make a comment of Vander’s usual lack of interest in matters of style Vander runs a hand up his mate’s leg, the layers of skirt gathering on his arms as he does. “Easy access.”

“Can you think about something other than sex?” Silco asks but he leans into Vander and doesn’t do anything to stop Vander’s hand from making its way from the outside of his thigh to the inside. The drape of the fabric hiding it from view – another interesting benefit of the skirt Vander hadn’t considered before.

To think Piltie’s walked around like stuck-up prudes when they had this all along.

“Don’t tell me you’re not thinking it as well, could just bend you over the bar and nobody’d even notice with all this fabric covering everything.” Would be convenient during Silco’s heats as well. Especially as the omega wants to continue going about business despite it, would let them both easily sate their lusts without having to worry about getting Silco in and out of his pants every time.

Silco just rolls his eyes.

“Go see if it has a matching jacket,” Silco says with a shooing gesture.

The skirt falls back to the ground as Vander removes his hand and Silco immediately goes to adjust it to sit correctly again.

Vander can’t help but watch his mate even as he digs through the crate. The skirt is a different look on Silco than what Vander is used to. Draws attention to the curves Silco has and makes him look as refined as Vander knows he is deep down.

When Vander finds the matching jacket he knows it’s only going to make Silco look even more proper. The cut designed to hug the figure while still demanding respect.

Silco puts it on and scowls at his reflection. Tugging it and the skirt off immediately.

“This is ridiculous – we might as well sell it like the others,” Silco says as he tugs his pants back on.

“We can afford to keep one.” They hadn’t exactly been planning on selling the contents back when they assumed it was weapons. And it wasn’t like they had paid anything for it.

“I have no need for some Piltite outfit to remind me of what they have that we do not,” Silco snaps, hurriedly folding the skirt up to put it back into the crate. “I would rather more assets towards our liberation.”

“You like that skirt though.” That much was obvious.

“I will like it more when I have gotten one made in the style and colors that represent Zaun.”

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

“Is that the new outfit you had made?” Vander asks when he realizes the vest Silco’s wearing is different to the other’s his mate owns. Silco had mentioned organizing a new one. Something about needing it for some topside event that was apparently important enough to justify it.

Mostly Vander had been wondering if that meant the event was important enough to require his and the kid’s attendance as well rather than listening to Silco talk about the new outfit. Clothing and style far from Vander’s strong suit and sometimes he’d swear Silco was speaking another language when he tried to explain it to him.

“It is,” Silco says, standing from his desk, likely not for the point to give Vander a better look but ending with that result anyway.

The outfit is similar to most of the ones Silco wears these days – fancy and rich looking with dark red and black fabric coupled with gold accents. This one does have an obvious difference to his others.

“You decided on a skirt this time?” The skirt is a very different style to the one from all those years ago when they were younger. Hugging a lot tighter to Silco’s legs and stopping just below the knee – black stockings underneath.

Vander can admit it looks great on Silco but he also thinks it looks the opposite of the easy access of the previous one.

“I must say I didn’t think it would have you pouting,” SIlco says, walking around the desk and over to Vander. “If I remember correctly you liked the last one.”

“Oh I like this one as well,” Vander says, grabbing hold of Silco as soon as he is within grabbing distance. His hands settling on the omega’s hips. He can feel how fitted the skirt is to Silco’s frame. No way for it to be quickly pushed up over his hips either them and that’s before considering getting those stockings down as well. “Just going to be a bit more work fucking you over the bar in this.”

Vander can’t help but trust the resistance of the fabric. Tugging at it just enough to see how much force he thinks it would take to make it tear.

“I know what you’re thinking and no,” Silco says, his gaze sharp.

“I’m thinking you should get more outfits like this,” Vander says as he settles his hands around his mate. “You really do look amazing in them.”

#Vanco #Arcane #Silco Arcane #Vander Arcane #Arcane omegaverse #omegaverse #Anon prompt #Prompt fill #Prompt fic #Gender exploration

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juletheghoul · 4 years ago

Text

Sub Terra

So in honour of the upcoming milestone of 300 (still shocked tbh) I am posting this completely self-indulgent Dio (the one and only goth king) fic. It's short and I always keep these things open-ended because you never know. I'm dedicating this to my fellow -former-goth/emo teen @mouthymandalorian

Literally talked about how both of us would have been ALL OVER Dio as teens and because of this we are fucking kindred lol.

Dio x F!Reader

Pairing: Dio x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Language, Smut 18+ dirty talk, Oral-female receiving (dio begging you)

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

It wasn't the classiest of establishments, but the music was loud, and the drinks were cheap.

It was a busy night and you kept to yourself - it wasn’t hard having perfected the death glare in case anyone got too close.

You noticed a small group of girls crowding a tall lean guy across the bar. Even though the music drowned out everything around you, you could almost hear the pretentious tone he was speaking with.

Dio.

You knew him, everyone knew him. The only person living life at the ‘next level’, in his opinion of course. It’s almost annoying how attracted you are to him, tall and lean - that neck. Rings and earrings adorning his golden skin, reflecting brightly when hit with a light. Annoyingly drawing your eye to him each time.

Even with all of the black clothing, all of the accessories, the long black jacket, the circles under his eyes - you wanted him. You saw him talking to a group of eager women, looking almost bored. You could see him - taking note of each of them, deciding which one was worth his time, none of them ever were.

His dark eyes flash up to you then and he smirks, expecting you to turn away shyly like all the other girls do. His gaze was intense and it shamed you slightly to admit that it sent a bolt of arousal straight through you but you didn’t show it. You held his gaze, your face the very picture of boredom. You raise an eyebrow at him in challenge when he didn’t look away and you knew then you had him. He smiled slyly, looking back to the girls vying for his attention. You turned, giving him your back, smiling at the face he'd surely make to realize your disinterest in him.

Girls were a game to him, a hunt - he was the same to you. It all comes back around.

You felt him slide in next to you as you watched the crowd- could feel his eyes burning into you from your periphery. With you sitting on the stool - he towered over you, taking up so much space.

You ignored him - keeping your eyes focused on the crowd and your drink.

“What’s your name?” He said it directly into your ear, much closer than necessary. You told him - without turning to face him. You could feel the electricity coming off him in waves, trying to get you to look at him. You resisted - you wanted to see if he would get tired of it and leave. He didn’t.

“I’m Dio, what are you drinking? Let me get you another.” You felt him turn to get the bartender's attention.

You finally turned to him, he was swimming in his jacket and you wanted to crawl into it with him. He smelled like cigarettes and a spicy cologne, hairspray and liquor, not too strong but strangely appealing. You finished the rest of your drink in a large swallow and put your empty glass on the counter.

You could see him looking down at your cleavage, licking his lips at the gap between the dress and the lacy bra you wore. He saw you looking and it didn’t deter him. He drank what you thought was absinthe as he continued to look you up and down - you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he’d be drinking absinthe.

You kept your face neutral and let him drink his fill, not failing to notice the girls at the other end of the bar staring daggers at you.

“I don’t think your friends like me.” You looked up at him, subtly gesturing to the girls watching your conversation with an acute intensity.

“Oh they’re not my friends, they just want my attention.” His smugness would normally have turned you off, but you couldn’t help but be attracted.

“And what do you want?” You swirled your drink as you licked your lip, mirroring his earlier gesture back at him.

“I want your attention.” He leaned in and you pulled back smiling.

“Did you think I would just give it to you?” You laughed as you drank your drink in a couple of gulps, the burning in your throat grounding you. You walked away - knowing in your heart he’d follow you. He did not disappoint.

You felt him grab your hand as he caught up to you and pull you towards him, crowding you, curling his body to surround you as he spoke into your ear.

“I like the chase, and I can make it worth your while. Let me taste you.” he placed an open-mouthed kiss at your pulse point. You let him work himself up against your skin before pushing him away with a laugh.

“I’m not convinced - you gotta make me believe you really want it.” you pulled back enough to see his expression, his eyes were dark. He was enjoying this.

“Believe me, I want it - I want to make you cum on my tongue.” He made to kiss you again and you once again pulled away. You briefly looked to the girls at the bar and if looks could kill, you’d be a bloody heap on the floor.

“Why don’t you go ask one of them - I’m sure any one of them would let you do whatever you want.” you kept your hand on his chest - keeping him at bay. He looked back briefly, before turning his attention back to you.

“I’m not interested in them, I want you.” His hands were at your waist - pulling you close to him, it was so tempting to let him kiss you but you were enjoying his desperation.

“Who says I want you?” you laughed in his ear - biting it to get him really riled up. He groaned and lowered his hands to roughly grab your ass through your skirt.

“I think you do - I think you’re intrigued and curious, and I think you’re going to let me lick - what I have no doubt - is a very pretty pussy.” You let him get close but quickly grabbed his jaw - holding him a hair's breadth away from your mouth.

“It is very pretty - but it’s not for you.” You licked his lip before shoving him firmly away from you. You had a bold idea - quickly making sure no one was really paying attention you swiftly reached under your dress to pull your panties off. His eyes widened as he watched you quickly shimmy out of them. You threw them into his face and you saw him shudder.

“That’s as close as you’re going to get.” you walked away from him to head up to the mezzanine of the club you were in. He didn’t follow you right away - standing there clutching your - very noticeably wet - panties to his face. He was rapturous and it took him a couple of minutes to reign in his excitement.

You kept an eye on him as you made your way up, after a few minutes he stalked his way up the stairs two at a time to reach you. The look on his face was dangerous in its intensity. When his eyes locked on you, it was like butterflies burst in your stomach. How far were you going to push him?

As far as you could.

You looked over the balcony at the crowd dancing below. The second bar up there was closed off, leaving it empty.

He pressed himself against your back, the proof of his excitement straining against his dark jeans and the curve of your ass. His arms resting on either side of you - blocking you in.

“You can’t tell me you’re not excited- your panties are soaked, let me lick it.” He bit at your neck as you surveyed the crowd.

“Beg. Beg to lick my pussy.” You turned to look up at him, head tilted playfully although your tone was anything but. His pupils were blown wide, enjoying this way more than he’d care to admit.

“Please baby, please - let me lick it. Let me kiss your cunt. I want it so badly - look how bad I want it…” he guided your hand to press it against his cock. It took everything in you not to gasp.

“Fine, kneel.” His eyes widened and you swore you felt his cock twitch under your palm. He quickly got down onto his knees and kissed your belly through the dress.

“You want me to do it right here?” He was smiling up at you, asking the question even as he lifted your dress and brought your leg up to rest on his shoulder. You nodded, smiling.

“You said you wanted it, you even begged like a good boy. Let’s see how fast you can make me cum.” You grabbed his hair and pushed it towards your aching cunt, spreading your lips open for him with the other hand. He moaned at the sight.

His tongue was heaven.

His hands grabbed at your ass to get closer to you, sucking your clit into his mouth. You moaned at his enthusiasm, you almost hoped he wouldn’t be good at it but he was. You ran your fingers through his hair, holding him in place as you ground yourself onto his tongue.

“Oh god right there-“ you moaned, you were close already. The fact that anyone could come up was exciting you even more. You felt filthy and powerful as you looked down at him, his dark eyes locked on you.

You felt him slide a finger into you and you threw your head back with a whimper. The wet glide of his tongue, steadily sliding over- again and again. The rhythm of it driving you into a frenzy.

Your grip on his hair tightened and he moaned onto your skin, the vibration throwing you over the edge. You came with a moan, clenching around his finger. Drenching him in your arousal.

He licked you until you pulled him away from over-stimulation. His face was that of the cat who ate the canary. All smiles and bravado as you pulled your dress down.

“Was it everything you wanted?” You let out a sigh as he got back on his feet, adjusting himself in his pants.

“Best thing I’ve ever tasted.” You let him kiss you then, tasting yourself on his tongue. His hands grabbing at your ass again. You pushed him away and his eyes were unfocused, he was ravenous.

You said nothing as you dragged him out of the bar by the collar, his shirt bunched in your hand.

He followed you like a puppy and you smiled the whole time.

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

Let me know if you don't want to be included on all things Pedro

Tag-list: @frannyzooey @foli-vora @danniburgh @sambucky21 @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @mouthymandalorian @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl @sleep-tight1 @softdindjxrin @wheresarizona @sherala007 @freak-nasty-thick-dick-mando @marydjarin @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @lori-tovar @freeshavocadoooo @hrk-fic-recs @greeneyedblondie44 @maxwell--lord @princessxkenobi @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi @dihra-vesa

#dio morrissey #shane dio morrissey #dio x reader #dio x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #dio x female reader #pedro pascal x you

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hotwings0203 · 4 years ago

Note

as ur irl bestie i am cashing in my favor and am asking- no begging for a dilf damon fic pls <3

😑fine fineee I guess I can take a quick break from writing BNHA stuff for you🙄

CW: NSFW, Damon Albarn being an a-hole, manipulation, gaslighting, language minor stuff like that

The studio itself was pretty spacious, you couldn't lie. As much as you loathed to give this cursed group any more credit, you were hard-pressed to remember the last time you´d been called into such a professional recording booth. You were used to dingy atmospheres, crumbling walls, stained carpet, and even cramped garages at times. It felt like your years of meticulously swaying your hand back and forth on the rosin and tuning your strings until they damn near popped were slowly going down the drain, lost in spaces of screaming adolescent boys and shady market agents. The streets of London were unforgiving for a young musician like you, no room to turn to since others were exactly in the same position as you.

It was by pure coincidence that the day you had played for a local cafe for a small commission, Graham fucking Coxon was sitting in the back of the run-down joint, sipping a murky glass of Bourbon.

You didn't notice him at first, of course. You had simply let the music in your mind travel from your head down to your arms, and allowed it to move through your fingertips to your bow. The serene melody that sang through the air had turned his head to face you, the shitty drink in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth.

Your solo was only a couple of minutes, but the second you were done and packing your bags to head out, the brunette made a beeline for you, blocking your exit.

¨Uh, can I help you?¨ You cock your head and shift your violin case.

¨Yes, you can actually. Listen, I know this is gonna sound a bit straightforward, but I really liked your piece. Did you compose it yourself?¨ He sounds quiet and sounds nervous, with him barely looking you in the eyes.

¨Yeah, I did!¨ You can´t help but beam-it took you several days just to perfect a few meager lines, but in the end you were content with the piece.

¨Wow...that's serious talent right there,¨ He opens the door for you, and you nod before you head out, him trailing behind you as he leaves with you.

¨You make a good amount of money doing small jobs like this?¨ His voice is nasally and low, but with a slightly higher pitch than your typical London accent.

At this, you squint your eyes a bit and turn your head at him. It was nice of him to be interested in your work, but for someone you don't personally know, the idea of talking about your small gigs that merited little to no money was not something you were fond of.

He senses your hesitancy and immediately withdraws. ¨I´m sorry, that was probably rude of me to be so blunt about it. Actually, I don´t think I´ve properly introduced myself.¨ He stops to face you, and you do the same.

¨I´m Graham Coxon. You may or may not have heard of me, but I can assure you that I too enjoy music, as an understatement.¨ He extends a calloused hand and smiles a little bit, adjusting the blocky glasses on his face.

Graham...Coxon? Graham as in....oh, holy shit.

¨No way.¨

¨Er...unfortunately, yes way.¨ His soft voice lilts as he holds back a laugh, and you gape at him.

¨Oh my god!¨ You drop your violin case in the excitement of eagerly returning his handshake. ¨You-you're from Blur! I know you!¨

¨Was from Blur, and ´careful now, don´t wanna ruin your instrument. But listen, I´m kind of in a bind here so I´ll get to the chase. We´re working on a few chords here and there back at the studio, and I´ve been on the lookout for a while for someone who fits our tune. ´Thing is, the deadline for submitting our song is comin´ up fast, so we only have a couple weeks left.¨

You raise your eyebrows, heart pounding in your chest as you listen to his proposition.

¨So I´m thinking, you sound pretty good, it's exactly what we need to fill in our bridge. I´d love it if you came in and played a tune for us. If we like you and you´re cool with it, you could feature on our song.¨

It feels surreal. Were you hearing right? Graham Coxon from Blur asking you to play on his song? This had to be a prank.

¨Ẅait, but you've only heard me once, what if my sound doesn't match what you're actually looking for?¨ You stammer, palms clammy as you wipe them off on your trousers.

¨Well, that's what a rehearsal session is for, lovely,¨ He chuckles nervously and slides his slightly foggy glasses up his nose. ¨So, you wanna give it a go?¨

You think for a moment, biting your lower lip. There wasn't exactly anything stopping you now, was there? I mean, sure, the prospect of playing in front of one of UK's most famous bands was daunting, but this was your chance to finally be recognized!

Taking a deep breath, you pick up your fallen case and nod. ¨Alright, I´m in. When you do wanna meet up?¨

Graham visibility deflates in relief, letting out a shaky exhale. ¨Great. I'll text you the time and place, yeah? The boys and I´ve gotta get a few more things set up, so we´ll be in contact soon.¨

You both exchange numbers, your phone tingling in your hand long after you bid farewell and drive home in a buzz.

When you finally get home to your apartment, you throw your keys onto the counter and flop down onto the mattress. What a fucking day.

So many thoughts bounce around in your addled head. You want to do well, but obviously you don't have their kind of experience in the industry. Should you play more in tune with their song, or continue with your own sound? An idea pops into your head amidst your lunch, a few hours later. Why not just do some more research on the band themselves? Then you'd know exactly what kind of music they're looking for.

The boys and I´ve gotta get a few more things set up.

Oh yeah, who else was in the band? It's not like you didn't know who Blur was at their peak, but you paid more attention to their music rather than their faces. Truthfully, you never really basked in tabloids and newspapers purring about the next big scandal, or the top dogs of Britain´s industry when that stuff was relevant.

You abandon your pathetic sandwich and make your way to your laptop, sliding into a chair and getting down to business. After a few quick searches, you pull up a couple tabs around the name Blur.

Graham Coxon- Recovering alcoholic. Big fight with Damon Albarn.

Alex James- Cute boy turned conservative. Classic case.

Dave Rowntree- Mainly untouched. Became a successful lawyer. Good for him.

Damon Albarn- A fucking mess.

Puffing up your cheeks and putting your hands behind your head, you lean back in your chair. Good god, this man is a wreck. Headlines from decades ago swim in and out of your eyes, loud, obnoxious neon prints of Justine and Damon broken up again? Suede claps back!, or Will the Blur Brothers ever come back to each other? Find out first-hand from Coxon himself!, and worst of all, Albarn relapses again, Damon Albarn from Blur goes head-to-head with Liam and Noel-news flash, the brothers win!

You think you see something about him and a potential wife and child, and that's when you decide it's time to sleep.

After all, there's no point in getting caught up in any of their backstories.You were just there to play a solo and get out. Nosing around in their lives was more trouble than what it was worth, anyways.

Which is exactly what you kept trying to tell yourself as you walked into the modern studio two weeks later, its grey soundproof walls and white floor screaming fancy and rich to you. And fancy and rich didn't come without grit and experience, which you had none of. As if to emphasize your inexperience, you went into the wrong halls twice before you exasperatedly checked your messages with Graham and saw that no, it wasn´t room 311, it was room 113.

Finally, finally, you came across your designated room. The mahogany door was closed, and you placed a hand on the silver knob. You could faintly hear the sounds of a guitar being played from the inside, and it was curiosity above everything else that compelled you to push it open.

From behind the clear window that separated the booth from the recording area, you see them. Graham, Damon, and other men you don't recognize are all in the midst of the song, the same song Graham had texted you the PDF of for the violin notes. You sheepishly take a few steps forward and clear your throat to catch the attention of a bald man leaning back against his chair right in front of the glass. He turns around and you give a weak little wave, clutching your case in the other hand.

¨Hey, I´m here for-¨

¨-Yeah, yeah, Graham told me all about you. Go on ahead and join in, they just started.¨ He pulls a toothpick out from between his lips and gestures to the door of the divider.

You feel your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way through the second door, and the second you step inside meekly, Damon and Graham´s eyes are on you.

Graham continues to play the guitar, only lighting up his eyes and giving you an encouraging nod when you step in, and the other two men on bass and saxophone also give a quick smile in greeting. And Damon…well.

Damon barely acknowledges you.

He continues to sing and stare straight ahead at the wall in front of him as if there's an interesting scene being played out on the grey paint.

You´re unsure of whether to catch his attention and give a proper greeting, but you decide not to as it would interfere with the song. So instead, you quickly grab a nearby chair and stand and set up your rosin and papers.

Your timing is perfect; the bridge is about to come up. Just to be certain, you look up from your poised position and catch the eyes of most everyone except for Damon´s. They all give you a quick thumbs up or an expectant look for your confirmation of playing.

And then, it comes. Damon stops singing, and your cue to sweep your bow across the horse hairs of your strings comes.

Melodious, whole, fulfilling, it was. Graham´s guitar chords harmonized with the tones of your violin, and music that you´ve never dreamed of creating was made by your hands exceptionally.

Everyone was in awe of your raw talent, from the way their gazes were rapt onto your bow, moving back and forth,staying still in some highs and whittling away at the lows. You even thought you saw the producer from inside the booth turn his head towards you from the corner of your eye, but you couldn´ be sure.

Everyone except Damon Albarn.

The song ended a minute later with the signal of a fading out bass, and then there was silence.

¨Right on with that tune.. ´Thought we'd be fucked ova´ if we didn't find someone to take that melody.¨ The bassist with long shaggy hair grinned and you returned one back.

¨Yeah, I was kind of hesitant when Graham ´ere told us he found one to take this position on, but I'm pleased.¨ The saxophone player scratched his chin and hummed his agreement. You felt relief.

Until he spoke.

¨Is this your first time playing?¨

You look incredulously over at him, looking straight on at his face. Sandy hair, lines on his cheeks, slight scruff around his chin, he looked older than his online pictures.

¨Uhh, no?¨ You laugh a little, trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice. ¨If I was, I doubt Graham would think I´m good enough to play with you guys.¨

¨I don't think Graham is the only one who needs to think that.¨ Everyone shifts uncomfortably, looking nervously from Damon to you, and Graham tugs his collar as if the temperature had gone up.

But nonetheless, you don't back down.

¨Oh yeah? How so?¨

¨You played the G-string too high,¨ He deadpans, looking utterly bored amidst oceanic hues.

¨What?¨ You flip your music pages a couple of times until you find the page where you played that part. ¨No I didn´t, I was right on tune-do you even know how to play the violin?¨

¨No,¨ he smirks, and with your blood boiling steadily you open your mouth to argue, but thankfully Graham butts in.

¨Damon, don´t be a prick, she played fine. Unlike you, who fucked up on the 5th verse.¨

The man in question lazily stretches his arms above his head, causing his white tee to rise a few inches over his belly button. You can´t help but glance at the skin-it's smooth, cleanly chiseled with part of his v-line showing, a happy trail rising from the juncture.

¨Oi, sweetheart, eyes up here.¨

You snap your gaze back to his smug face, cheeks burning.

¨I didn´t-¨

¨Sure you didn´t. Just like how I didn't mess up on the 5th verse, and how you didn't ruin the song with your shitty violin, yeah?¨ He simpers, and you almost rise out of your seat to snarl at him before Graham jumps in between you two, scolding a very inappropriately-grinning Damon.

You get up out of your chair and huff, shoving your belongings back into your bag as everyone else packs up, the men bickering and playfully throwing shit at each other.

The producer even congratulates you on your successful first day, and everyone cheers and pounds you on your back, your hair falling in your face and gracefully hiding your 120k watt smile.

Damon shoulders right past you, knocking your case right out of your hands. You grapple with it for a second before it hits the ground, and when it does you whip around and shoot him an icy glare.

He's not even looking at you, he's already out the door.

It's quiet for a moment.

¨Well, there he goes again being a dickhead. Classic Damon, you got.¨ The saxophone player points to the leaving blond and grins sheepishly at you.

¨What's his problem?¨ You ask in disgust, shaking your head as you join the rest of the boys leaving.

¨Uh, well...¨ Graham scratches the back of his head and avoids looking at you. ¨He's always been kind of like that, y´know, so don't take it too personally, but between just us four, his wife´s been on his arse for a bit about um...some...domestic affairs.¨ He finishes lamely, and the other two men guffaw at your raised eyebrow.

You don't have a chance to press further as to ask what domestic affairs, exactly because a loud clap of thunder shakes you all to your cores as you step outside.

¨Aw, come on!¨ You stamp your foot and hold out your hand for confirmation of the raindrops about to drop on you all. ¨I didn't know it was gonna rain today,¨ you grumble.

Graham squints up at the sky and wipes some droplets off his blurred glasses, covering his head with his jacket hood as he begins walking to the parking garage. ¨I´ll see you lot in about a week, yeah? Just keep practicing, good rehearsal we had today!¨ He waves his hand and dashes off.

¨Good job on your first day, Y/N. Fancy the weather on your walk back for us!¨ The sax and bass player bid farewell and also do a sprint to their respective cars, splashing through the puddles and sending muddy water on your pants.

¨Urgh!¨ You raise your hands to try and protect your bottoms but to no avail- London's sewage strikes again.

Sighing in defeat, you walk through the rain towards your car, succumbing to the grimy walk. Unfortunately you didn't think to use the parking garage due to high nerves when you first came in.

You walk for about 5 minutes, the rain drenching your hair and clothes and chilling you to your bones.

Could this day get any more annoying?

Oh, but you should´ve known that it could.

Because right at that moment, a black limo swerves right next to you on the sidewalk, sending a massive wave of gutter water right your way.

You swear loudly and jump back, barely managing to avoid the remnants of the sewage tsunami crossing your feet.

Looking up wildly at the offensive vehicle, you make a fist and flip the window off, your lip curled up into a snarl.

The obsidian glass rolls down.

¨Well that's not very nice, is it? Nasty weather we got going on right now, careful it doesn't get on your clothes.¨

��Oh.

¨It's you,¨ you monotone, less than pleased to see his salacious grin at your predicament-which was being soaked to your undergarments in brown muddy water, your hair clinging to your face and your violin case lugging down towards the ground, its weight proving mutiny against you today of all days.

¨In the flesh,¨ Damon beams, and you scowl at his cheery attitude.

¨You almost drowned me, asshole,¨ You turn your nose up in scorn, and he chuckles in his baritone voice.

¨Nah, cant´ve love, I can't drive,¨ he clicks his tongue and jerks his thumb to the seat in front of him, where you assume his chauffeur is.

¨Oh, so it was under your orders that your poor driver practically waterboarded me?¨ ¨Well, yeah, I mean what else do you expect me to do when I see a pretty lady walking so harmlessly in the rain?¨ Your voice catches in your throat for a second from his words and the way his glacial eyes twinkle for a moment, but then he erupts in dry chuckles at your demeanor and you throttle your hesitancy at speaking.

¨Shut up, you're absolutely vile, y´know that?¨ ¨So I´ve been told, but to be honest sweetheart, I´d rather hear that in bed, where I´m used to hearing it. Now are you going to get in or shall I talk about my sexual prowess with you the rest of the afternoon?¨ He opens his door from the inside and mockingly winks at you.

You feign a gag, but still decide to jump in the spacious limo when a flash of lightning lights up the sky.

He scoots back to give you space to sit and adjust your violin case on the seats in front of you, but just as you´re about to close the door, he leans in right next to you and reaches behind you to pull it shut himself.

You´re caught still as he draws close, you´re extended hand frozen in midair as his arm against your back flexes and stiffens with it pulling the door. You can feel his breath against your neck as he exhales, can feel some of his hair tickling against your ear and cheek. You hold your breath, not daring to move lest you accidentally brush up against his proximity.

The loud slam of the door causes you to jump, and he laughs a little at that, signaling his driver to go.

You don't quite face him, your gaze down in your lap as his entire body is facing you, still stuck in its position when he was closing the car door.

¨Not nervous, are you?¨ He murmurs in your ear, and you can´t help it when your whole body shivers at feeling the rumble in his gravelly voice.

¨N-no, I´m not. Do you have to be so close?¨ You stammer, barely giving him a sideways glance which eggs him on, much to your displeasure.

¨Not really. But if you´re not nervous, then it shouldn't be a problem, right?¨ He says quietly and leans around to catch your eye.

Before you can lose your nerve and jump out of the car, you snap at him. ¨You just don´t quit, do you?¨

He finally relents and the side of his pink lips lift lazily as he stretches his knees out and practically manspreads across the expanse of three seats. ¨Nope. Not that you really were against it though, ´could feel your heart pounding a mile a minute sweetheart. Trust me, I´m used to making girls nervous, I would know.¨

You sneer at him. ¨Don´t call me sweetheart, and yeah, I was nervous about getting some disease-ridden prick like you getting close to me. God knows how many STD´s you've contracted from bedding some poor groupies.¨

¨Only one way to find out, right love?¨ He leans his head up to the car ceiling and lets his tousled golden hair flop back, his jawline accentuated by the cream-colored seats contrasting with his tan skin.

You catch yourself staring, and shake your head quickly.

¨You must´ve been more hopped up on heroine than I thought if you think I´d ever fuck a self-absorbed, narcissitic bastard like you.¨

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, but once they do your eyes widen and you clap a hand over your mouth in horror.

Damon lifts his head and slowly turns to face you, his mouth set in a thin line.

¨A self-absorbed, narcissistic bastard whose limo you're riding in, need I remind you, so I can´t be all that bad. ´Can't say I haven't heard any of that before love, but most girls who say that end up in my bed anyways.¨

You open your mouth to argue but he cuts you off.

¨Although, ´hopped up on heroin´ is a new one. Just exactly how much research have you done about me so far?¨

Your rebuttal dies in your throat. You were caught.

Your ears burn and your face flushes as you bite your lip in embarrassment. Maybe you went too far, and on top of that you let it slip that you knew about him beforehand.

But you refuse to kowtow in humiliation to this idiot, so you think quickly.

¨I doubt you´ve got your head that far up your ass to disregard how half the world was tuning into your personal life when Blur was big, Damon.¨

He looks unimpressed with your excuse, but before he can open his mouth to question you further, you hurry up with another save.

¨Also, where are we going? You never asked me where my car was.¨

Bingo His eyes brighten and he shouts at the driver, harping on about him being a brain-dead idiot for driving in circles the past 10 minutes.

What a save.

*******************

The moment you step into the booth next week, a drumstick is lobbed at you from seemingly nowhere. You yelp and hold your case up, blocking the weapon as it bounces off your makeshift shield. You bring the case down and shoot a glare towards the only man you know capable of acting so childishly at his grown age.

But he´s already scrolling through his phone, looking for a measure to start from.

¨You´re late.¨

¨Hardly,¨ you mutter, glancing at the clock on the wall. Two minutes past shouldn´t be an excuse for having a drumstick pick out your eye.

¨Good to see you again, Y/N,¨ Graham pipes up softly, sending you an apologetic glance from Damon to you and you stick out your tongue in faux annoyance.

The other two members of your group greet you as well, and you all begin practice. Notes begin harmonizing together, voice and sound coinciding to make music you´ve swayed your hips and nodded your head to on blue nights.

It´s a hot day, humidity clinging to your skin akin to the perspiration hanging off your forehead, and halfway through the song you decide to take off your sweater. You´re wearing a white tank top underneath, nothing too revealing save for the slight dip in the V-neck, but you couldn't care less about modesty at the moment when your fingers were literally slipping in their grasp on your sweat-slicked bow.

During a quick break in your part of the song, you slip off your sweater and fan yourself out. It feels good, but you feel a pair of eyes staring at you. Following the laser gaze, you turn your head to face Damon, but he´s nose-deep in the lyrics sheet, warbling about a broken love or friendship.

Huh, must´ve been imagining it.

Your solo comes up, and you prepare yourself for tackling the notes to your best ability, keeping up with Graham´s rapid guitar pace. Sweat continues to build on everyone´s vicinity when the rapid movement of arms waving around their own instrument causes more body heat to suffocate you all.

Miraculously, the song finishes, and you collapse in your seat like the rest of the men, panting and wiping slick off your foreheads. You reach for a bottle of water on the floor and unscrew the lid, grimacing at its lukewarm temperature but drinking it nonetheless.

For the second time, you have an unnerving feeling of being watched. This time, you whip your head to the side and catch him staring straight at you.

Damon´s face is flushed, his hair tousled, his rose colored glasses steamed up from the muggy aura in the room. His denim jacket is hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his torso covered with a sheer wife beater that accentuates his chiseled dad-body.

But he just stares you down, saying nothing. You frown at him a little bit and shift your body away from him, feeling vulnerable to his laser-gaze. His eyes darken, but Graham speaks, cutting him off from whatever he was about to say.

¨That was pretty good, you lot. Greg, Taz, hold off on the third beat of the fourth measure. We´ve gotta crescendo slightly-¨

¨Y/N, do you have a job?¨

Damon's voice cuts off Graham, and everyone falters as they look at him and then you in surprise.

¨I don´t know what you mean,¨ you respond coolly, knowing that whatever he was about to say wasn't good.

¨I mean, do you have a job? Because as far as I know, most people who work don't dress like whores at their job.¨

His eyes travel from your face down to your slight cleavage, and you sputter in rage as the rest of the boys shift uncomfortably.

¨Damon, for god's sake what´re you on about?¨ Graham asks wearily, taking his glasses off and rubbing his shiny neck.

¨I could ask you the same thing, actually. Because as far as I know, you've fucked enough women in your lifetime that one would think you could keep it in your pants for five minutes without acting like a twelve-year-old. Oh, but unless that´s too professional for you? I guess you´re not as serious about your work environment as you claim.¨ you laugh, and the sax player, Greg, snorts into his water bottle.

Damon sneers, ¨How could I forget, you actually have done your research about my life and sexual endeavors, what a cute little fangirl you are. If you wanted an autograph, you could've just asked, sweetheart.¨

¨Go fuck yourself,¨ you snap. ¨You´re all wearing wife-beaters anyways, what's the difference?¨

Damon starts again but Graham claps his hands loudly, startling you all.

¨Enough, both of you! What's gotten into you? Need I remind you that our song is due in less than two weeks? We need to finish this shit and get on with it. Stop acting like children.¨

You mumble under your breath and Damon shoots a dark look to his childhood friend, but the brunette doesn't back down, and continues to give advice on how to improve their song. You don´t look at Damon the rest of the session out of pure spite, but that doesn't stop him from shamelessly staring straight at you, right until it's time to leave.

The second Graham checks his watch and exclaims that it's a quarter past twelve already, you´re already bolting out of your seat and shoving your violin in its case, eager to get out of the disgustingly hot room.

Fortunately, this time you had the right idea to park in the garage like everyone else to avoid any other unwanted encounters, but unfortunately while it was nice to not be waterboarded on your walk, it wasn´t enough to stop said unwanted encounters from occurring.

Take right now, for instance.

As you stumble to your car in the blistering weather, your energy depletes faster and faster, causing you to be light headed. Practice was already tough enough in the sweltering heat, but after Damon's little scene you don't have any energy to even walk.

You crash blindly into your car, the metal of the doors burning your skin as you make contact with the handle. You hiss and jerk back, swaying slightly as your head fogs up. You can barely see, you feel like your clothes weigh a ton on you, so you slide down the vehicle and sit up against the tires, throwing your head back against the car and groaning. The idea of unlocking your doors and sitting in the seat where no doubt several temperatures higher will be settling on the dashboard and in the front row is nauseating.

Weather-2

You-0

You don't know the building well enough to know where a vending machine is, and even if you shot Graham a text, you don't have enough energy to wander around and scout for it.

And lo and behold, from a distance, a figure approaches. You squint as it draws nearer, and let out a laugh as the features come into familiarity.

The heat must be getting to you worse than you thought, because you´re certain you´re hallucinating Damon Albarn of all fucking people swaggering towards you, one hand holding his denim jacket over his shoulder, and a shit-eating grin on his face as he comes to stand in front of you.

All you can do is pant like a dog, looking up at him with unimpressed eyes.

¨Oi, G-String. ´Brought you some water.¨ he holds out a hand, and you choose to ignore the offensive nickname, insead noticing the large bottle in it, cold condensation covering its expanse.

Your eyes widen and you lick your lips unconsciously, holding your hands out for it.

Damon watches your tongue poke out and loses focus before snapping back to reality and moving his arm above your head. You pout and try to reach for it again, but he laughs and holds it even higher.

You glare and turn your head away from him, suddenly remembering how he embarrassed you earlier.

¨Go away. I don't want it anymore. You´re an asshole.¨ you mumble, perspiration hanging off your lip as you lick the salty beads away once again.

Damon´s eyes never leave your mouth as he listens to you and watches the pink appendage make its appearance again, and his mouth hangs open slightly unbeknownst to you for a second. You cross your arms and glare at the empty parking lot, silently willing him to go away.

He snaps back into focus yet again and shakes his head at you. ¨Oh come on love, I´m just teasing. You look like you´re about to die anyways, might as well make this your last meal-er, drink I mean.¨

¨I´m not taking anything from a complete dickhead who enjoys harassing women about their clothes. You know, for such a womanizer, you act pretty clueless about how comments like that would make a girl feel. No one else but you had an issue with it, or rather, had the audacity to point it out.¨ You cough at the last word, your dry throat and heavy head making it harder to talk.

He sighs and crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet. He pops open the cap and gently turns your chin towards his face, much to your surprise. You´re genuinely too weak to protest, but when you look at his concerned face, eyebrows scrunched up and accentuating the lines on his forehead, you don't think you'd want to turn away even if you could.

He coaxes your agap mouth even more open by dragging a rough thumb down over your lips, and you obediently open your mouth, mesmerized by his eyes. His movements are soft and slow, as if you were a fidgety rabbit about to run off at the slightest touch. He scoots closer, right over in front of you as you simply gaze up at him, allowing him to pour cool water down your throat, quenching your bone-dry palate.

For a couple of seconds, water floods your mouth but all you can do is stare up at him. The light rays are reflecting off his back, casting a yellow glow around his silhouette and he almost looks like an angel. His hair is mussed as if he'd spent the day running his hands through the golden locks, and the scruff on his face peeks through soft-looking skin.

¨Swallow, or I'll really waterboard you this time,¨ he says lowly, chuckling a bit as he catches you staring so adamantly right in his face. You jerk back to consciousness and swallow hastily, accidentally choking on the gulp in your rush.

He laughs even more and lets go of your chin much to your disappointment as he adjusts himself to sit next to you, not seeming to mind the scorching car metal. The absence of his hand on your face leaves a cold, empty feeling in your heart despite the heated blush on your cheeks

¨You´ll burn yourself,¨ you mumble, lolling your head over to look at him.

But he looks straight ahead and shrugs casually. ¨Not any more than you.¨ You both sit in silence for a few minutes, occasionally sipping from the bottle he passes towards you and watching cars go by.

¨You didn't answer my question. Why do you harp on me in the studio? You act like a normal human being here.¨

Damon looks thoughtfully at a white sedan passing by, then speaks.

¨As I´m sure Graham has blabbed to you already, I´ve been having some...trouble with the missus, let's say.¨

You say nothing and raise a questioning eyebrow.

¨For the shitty attitude,¨ he mutters and swipes the bottle from your hand, taking a large swig himself.

¨And, like you said earlier, I am an asshole. Of course I´ll enjoy harassing pretty women over their revealing clothes,¨ he smirks and gives you a once over.

There it was again, pretty woman.

You scowl and get up to leave, but what he says stops you in your tracks.

¨Taz was lookin´ at you,¨ he says quietly, suddenly very interested in the now-empty bottle. ¨´Didn't like it, but I couldn't say anything to him. Graham likes him too much.¨

Huh. Maybe the pair of eyes you felt back in the room didn't only belong to Damon.

He cracks a small smile and looks up at you, his face adorably innocent and wide as he sheepishly admits, ¨I´m used to butting heads with blokes like him for women.¨

You jerk back up to your feet, brushing off any insinuation he was giving and pat his knee awkwardly, ignoring the fire now igniting once again in your chest.

¨Thanks for the water, I needed it. You might wanna move if you don't want to get run over by my car.¨ You reach down and pick up your case as Damon clambers to his feet.

He looks amused as you fumble for your keys, nervously turning the lock and sitting in the hot car, obviously eager to get away from his intimidating gaze.

¨I´ll see you next week, yeah?¨ You laugh breathlessly and roll your window down to call out to him.

He says nothing, but merely cocks his head at you, his eyes now obscured by the rose-colored glasses he puts over his eyes. He waves a little and watches as you drive away a little too fast.

But as it turns out, you don't see him next week.

******

It was just your luck that one of the cutest guys from your work asked you out on the very same week you had practice with the boys. You contemplated moving the date to another time, but...you deserved to have some fun time off too, right? It's not like it would make too much of a difference in your skill, anyways, you´ve gotten all the strings down and such.

So, you decide to go on this date. It goes well, the dude was cute, dorky, lacked a little pizzazz but nothing a bottle of fancy red wine and a night of movies couldn´t coax out of him. It honestly wasn't anything too big, you exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up again soon. After parting ways, you threw yourself back into the regular regime of practicing your violin and meticulously listening to the booth recording every night, just so you could perfect your part to a T.

The day came where you had to go back to practice, and you were ready, veins pumping with determination to make these last few sessions the best you´ve played yet. You texted Graham that you´d be there soon, and he gave you a thumbs up in return. When you finally arrived in front of the room, you were 10 minutes late. The boys were already playing, by the sound of the percussion booming outside the door. You grimace and take a deep breath, turning the handle in and hurrying inside the booth.

No one really spared a glance at you, so you assumed you were okay in terms of punctuality. You opened your case and started strumming your strings, counting the measures and beats until it was your turn. Damon´s voice rang out, melodious and airy as ever, dropping octaves and floating on soprano tones. Your bow moved across his words, accenting his tones and adding emphasis to his sorrowful song. And then, after a couple of minutes, it was done.

¨Alright you lot, pretty good for today. ´Specially you, Y/N, you caught up pretty quick, I expected you to slack behind but I'm actually impressed.¨ Graham flashed you a nervous grin and you beamed back at him in return.

¨Yeah, speaking of, why were you gone last week? I expected someone who makes below the poverty line would actually want to work for their money,¨ Damon chuckles a little meanly.

You feel your smile drop a smidge.

¨Well actually Damon, not that it's any of your business, but I went on a date.¨ You smirk at him, enjoying the way his mouth opens slightly and moves silently.

But he regroups quickly and glares at you. ¨None of my business? The deadline is only a few days away, and you´re whoring yourself out and going on dates? I guess you´re not as professional as Graham thought.¨

Everyone shifts uncomfortably, and blood rushes to your face, anger clouding your mind. Why was he being like this? He was fine the last time you saw him, you actually thought maybe he was going to change the way he addressed you.

Graham speaks up. ¨Damon. You´re overreacting man, I gave her the okay, and she played fine today. No harm done, seriously, there's no need for that kind of language towards her.¨

¨Actually, there absolutely is a need. If I knew you were going to invite a prostitute as our sub-in then I would´ve never agreed to have her here. Didn´t know you were so low on money Y/N, I would´ve spared you a couple pounds.¨ He sneers.

¨Damon!¨

You laugh bitterly and rise to your feet. ¨Oh that's rich, coming from the man who fucked half the continent just because he couldn't get over one girl. No wonder every real woman in your life including your wife wants to leave, nothing is ever good enough for you. Except heroin maybe.¨

The words leave your mouth before you can take them back, and there's a pin drop silence as if a bomb had been dropped. In a way, it kind of did.

Damo glares at you. Everyone is holding your breath, including you.

¨Get out.¨

¨Hey,-¨ Taz tries to gently interject but Damon throws the mic at him.

¨I said get the fuck out. You´re not practicing with us anymore, you can pack your shit and leave.¨

Tears brim at the corners of your eyes, and you choke out a small ¨Fine.¨

You hear Graham berating him behind you as you fly through the door, telling him that they need you, it's too late to change people, but the words jumble in your ears as the door slams shut. You don't hear what Damon says, if he even says anything, and you aren't interested in his comebacks right now.

It's only when you leave the car, tears streaming down your face in rage and embarrassment that you groan to yourself, your hands reaching an empty seat with one foot out the door-

You forgot your violin case.

************

It's nighttime.

The crickets chirp as you creep silently through the parking garage, the soft thud of your shoes echoing a lot louder than you wanted in the empty lot. The studio itself wasn't closed, but you were sure Damon must have informed the manager there not to let an ex-musician like you back in there.

Wearing a black hoodie and black pants was a smart move- you blended in with the shadows well. The doors weren't locked, and you hiss out a small ¨yesss¨ as you slip inside the mostly dark building. Needless to say, you were proud of yourself for navigating through the windings pitch-black hallways to your old booth.

Testing the handle lightly, you sigh out in relief when that too gives way. Unfortunately though, the second the door shuts behind you, you immediately stumble forward and fall.

The room is dark, darker than the other hallways so you can barely see your hands. The only source of light you´re granted is the dim red bulb on top of the booth door. And speaking of, that's exactly where you need to go...which proves to be harder when you keep bumping into random shit and cursing when you feel potential bruises forming on your shins.

Miraculously you stagger through the next door towards where you last sat, and blindly feel around the floor and chairs for your violin case. You feel nothing there, but panic starts settling in your heart when you can't find it.

¨Looking for something?¨

You scream and lurch backwards, knocking your head into some kind of stand. Groaning, you rub your head and hold a hand on your racing heart as you squint into the dim red room, placing the voice to the person.

¨D-Damon?¨

¨In the flesh sweetheart. ´Knew you'd come back for this, s´just my luck I came back to get it tonight so I could give it to you personally in case you wanted to be stubborn. But this is even better than I could´ve hoped.¨

You make out his silhouette in the obsidian abyss in front of you. He's sitting with knees spread on a chair, a few feet in front of you as he leans his head back on the wall. Your precious violin case is being held hostage in his arms, and it's the absolute love you have for the brittle instrument that propels you to your feet and moves you to get the hell out instead of interrogating him.

¨What, so you were just here the whole time listening to me falling around like an idiot?” You laugh incredulously, and you see the area of his shoulders move up and down.

¨Was pretty funny to watch, honestly. You sound cute when you curse.¨ He stands up to his fullest height now, the red light bouncing off his back, giving him a sort of demonic halo.

You knew it was actually time to leave when you felt those stupid butterflies in your stomach rise up again.

¨Right, well, I´ll be on my way then. Good luck with your song and whatever, I´ll just take the case...¨ You trail off as your extended hand is left in midair, no violin case reaching it.

He cocks his head at you. ¨Why are you in such a rush to leave?¨

You can´t help the scoff that escapes you.

¨Are you serious? You were such an absolute dickhead to me this afternoon, you said all sorts of horrible things to me, and you even fired me for Christ's sake! I want nothing to do with you, so could you please give me my case back so I can go?¨

He's silent for a moment before answering. ¨Are you done yet?¨

It isn´t just the light that's making you see red now.

¨Fuck you, honestly.¨ You whirl around and stomp towards where you guess the door is, ignoring the clatter behind you and bingo you locate the handle, but as soon as you turn it-

A hand reaches from behind you and pulls the ajar door shut.

¨Don´t go. I´m sorry.¨

You´re absolutely still as you feel him towering over you, his arm dangerously close to your midriff as his hand remains on the knob.

His voice is low, and you can feel him breathe against your neck, mere inches away. You can´t help the involuntary shiver that passes through you, and he feels it too, inhaling deeply when he gets close to your ear.

¨You smell so good.¨

¨Leave me alone, Damon,¨ you whisper, your voice catching in your throat from the overwhelming onslaught of emotions passing through you.

He breaths in and slowly lets his hand rest on your side.

¨I can't do that. You know why. You have to have known by now.¨

You tremble in his touch, yet allow his hands to wander down to your hip, the other coming around in a sort of hug to pull you closer to him.

¨We can´t.¨

¨Sure we can.¨

You can feel his erection bumping against your ass.

¨You´re not worth this.¨

¨I´ll make myself worth it.¨

And as soon as he latches onto the back of your neck, you´re like putty in his hands, a moaning mess as he sucks galaxy-colored hickies on your skin. You can feel yourself grow wetter as he shoves his hands up your shirt and teasingly pulls down the bridge of your bra, letting the weight of your tits fill up his hands appreciatively. He starts rolling your hardened buds in between his skilled calloused fingers, and you whine and throw your head back when you feel him rut against your ass, panting raggedly in your ear.

You rub your thighs together, desperate for some form of friction as he squeezes your tits, and then letting one hand ghost across the expanse of your stomach, down to brush against the rim of your panties. Damon chuckles meanly in your ear when you buck against the stilled hand over your mound.

¨You want this?¨ He lightly nips your ear. He smells like old spice and sandalwood.

You nod desperately, frustrated with him not giving you his thick fingers already.

But it's not enough for him. ¨No no, pretty girl, use your words now. I´ve barely touched you yet and you´re already moaning like a wanton little slut for me? And here I was thinking you weren't that easy.¨

You stop jerking your hips and blood rushes to your face at his insulting words. You try to move out of his grip, huffing and regretting the whole thing but he outright laughs now and spins you around, tugging you forward until your chest is slotted against his. You pout at him and look away, but he's quick to grasp your chin and pull you in for a rough yet sensual kiss.

Pushing you backwards against the wall, he deepens the lip-lock, tracing his tongue over your lips, nipping at the soft flesh and darkening his eyes when you whimper and look up at him.

He knows what he´s fucking doing when he again drops his hand under your pants and over your panties, his other palm wound up firmly through your hair. He pulls your head back and lets you breathe for a second from his kiss of death before he speaks again.

¨I didn't hear an answer, slut. Do you want this?¨ He leans forward until his nose brushes against your neck, flicking his tongue out to taste your saccharine flesh.

You tremble against his firm body when he pushes his pelvis against you, letting you feel how hard he is for you.

It doesn't matter anymore. Maybe he was right, maybe you were just an easy slut putting up a facade for him, but when his clothes erection grinds up against your pussy you can't care less.

¨Y-yes, yes, ´want you, please,¨ you pant, frantically gripping the back of his cropped hair as his head descends to mark your neck again.

¨What a good girl,¨ he whispers, finally allowing his digits to oh-so-slowly trace over your mound, pressing down harder when you jerk against him. He finds your wet clit and flicks it a few times, snickering when you gasp and moan. Your body writhes in place but he holds you literally between a rock-or, wall- and a hard place, preventing you from scampering off.

He drums his fingers against your folds, paying no attention to the way you grip his head tighter against you, silently begging him to go further.

But he relents eventually and retires from just pushing and prodding your folds, allowing his slicked fingers to slowly dive into your drooling hole. You whimper and bite back a string of curses when you feel him fill you completely, scraping against your walls for that one special spot.

His mouth moves off your neck and he rises to face you, a stupid smug grin on his wet lips, his eyelids lowered and trained on you. You flush at his lustful expression and gently push his head away, not wanting to accept his victory yet.

¨My fingers are literally fucking you right now, and you still won´t let me look at you? What, too embarrassed you couldn't continue being a stone-cold bitch for long?¨

You open your mouth to snap back but right at that moment he curls his fingers and grazes your G-spot, simultaneously grounding his wet palm against your clit.

With a loud gasp and the sluttiest moan you´ve ever made, you cum hard, your mouth open in a silent scream and your tongue hanging out like a bitch in heat as you do so. You fall forward against him.

You don't even need to look up to know that he has a shit-eating grin on his face.

¨What was that sweetheart? Sorry, ´couldn't hear you over those slutty moans. I think even the pornstars I´ve been with would give you a standing ovation if they heard what you just sounded like.¨

Your words are slurred as you curse nonsense at him, yet you´re still gripping his forearms to keep a hold on yourself. Your ears are ringing and you see spots as you come down from your climax, and surprisingly enough, Damon holds you close and doesn't let you slip down to the ground as you expected to when your knees start to give out.

Instead, he lifts you up quite easily and carries you over to a table in the corner of the room. You don´t know how he even navigates his way through the dimly lit room, but you suppose after almost half a lifetime in studios he knows his way around.

You offer no resistance as he sets you down gently and begins to lift your shirt off of your body. You manage to lift your arms weakly up in the air for easier access to stripping, but when he starts to kneel down to take your pants off you stop his hands at your knees and look at him with scrunched eyebrows.

He stops and looks up at you. His eyes aren't so darkened anymore, they´re wide and imploring, probably noticing your hesitation.

¨Damon, I...¨ You trail off as he maintains eye contact with you and slowly lowers his pursed lips to your calf, lightly pecking his way up to your knees and ensuring that you´re watching his every move.

Your breathing increases again as his pink appendage darts out, his saliva cooling on your exposed thighs. He sucks on the plush skin and turns his head upwards to face you.

You want to run your hands through his hair.

¨You have a wife,¨ You breathe.

¨Not for tonight I don´t.¨

Your voice gets caught in your throat at that. He positions his hands at the side of your knees, fingers curling around the hem of your pants in a second attempt.

¨Let me make you feel good, love.¨

His answer is in the form of your hand reaching for his collar and pulling him up into a standing position until he towers over your seated form, once again breath stolen in a heated kiss.

Damon fumbles with his zipper as you shove your pants off, fully ready for him now, your dampened panties solid evidence of your need for him.

He pulls his cock out and it bounces out, slapping up against his stomach.

You do a double take. The tabloids were right. He was absolutely huge.

It was disgusting almost, it was insulting really. How the fuck could he be that big? You lose count of how many inches he is when you start to get light headed, realizing with a jolt that he plans to put that monster inside you.

And fuck, why did it have to be so pretty too? Normally you wouldn´t use the word pretty to describe a dick, but fuck, that´s the only appropriate word that came to mind as you admired the white flesh as it mixed in with a dull pink flush turning into an angry shade of red as your eyes progressed up to his tip...which was soaked with precum, mind you.

He was neatly shaven everywhere, including his plush balls. No wonder he got to fuck half the continent.

Damon notices your gawking and smiles lazily, taking a fist around his prick and stroking lethargically up and down.

¨You gonna just stare at it all day or are you going to spread those cute legs for me?¨

Spoken like a true middle aged fuck-boyman.

You look up at him beseechingly, thoroughly intimidated by his length. He merely scoffs, winking at you when he wrenches your tightly closed knees apart.

It's almost like he falls into a trance when he presses his now-naked torso against your chest, when he slots himself between your legs and drags his tip through your sloppy folds and up onto your clit. His mouth falls open slightly and he moans when your juices coat his dick, making it slippery and easy to push the first few inches ever so slightly into your spasming cavern.

He can't help but want more, need more as he practically smothers his weight onto you, forcing you to lie back on the table and letting your legs dangle off the edge. He hunches over you and thrusts minutely into your pulsing folds, groaning when you whine and lace your fingers around his neck and tangle your legs around his back, dragging him impossibly close into you.

For a moment it´s just the sound of you two panting and moaning like inexperienced teenagers, and a zing of pride zips up your spine at the realization that Damon Albarn, one of the world's most renowned playboy is whining and humping against your pussy, reduced to nothing at your hands.

He takes your hands from around his neck and grips your wrists, forcing them above your head on the table. He leans down and kisses you, hard. You give him back the same energy when your hips move up and down along his length, pushing your inviting hole towards his eager and jumping dick.

¨Pretty little girl,¨ he murmurs against your lips, and you nip his bottom lip playfully in retaliation. He slowly starts to sink himself into you, and you practically purr at the feeling of his veiny member dragging against your sensitive walls until he stops.

You look at him questioningly, and blanch when you see the mischievous glint in his cobalt eyes.

¨I want you to count for me.¨

¨Count…?¨ You shake your head in confusion and he pulls out, making you groan in annoyance.

¨I want you to count every inch I put inside you. Unless your slutty mouth can't even do that? I'd be surprised if you couldn´t, you usually have so much shit to say.¨ His voice is low yet teasing, and a shiver passes through you when the rumble of his chest vibrates against your nipples.

¨F-fine, I´ll count.¨

He hums in approval and regroups, guiding his length into your awaiting pussy once again.

It´s almsot torture how slow he goes, and your toes curl at how vivid the sensation is at this pace.

You almost forget to do what he asks until he ducks his head down and teeths your bud.

¨Ah, fuck! One!¨ You yelp, writhing to get away from his lecherous gaze and hold on your poor tit.

He tuts and licks the swollen area until the pain subsides a bit, and then he continues to push.

¨T-two,¨ you moan and let your head fall back. It's unfair how tightly he´s holding your reins-you want him to plow you down, not take his sweet time in this punishment.

¨Damon, can´t you go any faster? Please, I want y-¨

¨-I didn't take you for a masochist, Y/N, but I´m happy to play around with these cute tits if you want to bitch more.¨

Your scowl is cut off when he suddenly shoves two more inches into you, and you mewl loudly at being filled so much.

¨Three! Four! Fuck, oh god, please,¨ you babble nonsense as he curses above you, his form shaking in an effort not to push all the way in.

¨Doing so good sweetheart, you´re almost halfway,¨ he smirks and you gape at him in disbelief.

Halfway?

Five, six, seven, eight, and nine go painfully slow, and by the time he´s fully sheathed inside you, plush balls pressed against your ass, you´re an incoherent, drooling mess.

Your hair is in your face, your cheeks are flushed, and your body bounces up and down as he begins to rock inside you, finally giving you what you want.

His name is chanted like an obscene prayer from your mouth as he grunts and shakes the table. Your legs are wobbly and unable to do anything except press him tighter against you to the point where he can barely move back. The skin of his stomach slaps against yours, his balls slap against the crevice of your ass, and your pussy practically sloshes with every stroke in and out.

He fists your hair with one hand and pulls your neck up to meet his searching lips, his other hand holds your wrists fast against the table. You want to touch him, you want to explore your body as he has conquered yours but he doesn't let you feel anything else apart from the rapid thrusts inside your battered body.

Damon switches positions and lifts the back of your knees up and pushes them forwards until they meet your chest. He lets his body weight rest on the back of your thighs as he pulls out and pushes back impossibly close inside you, closer than he did in missionary.

You sob with need as he plunges into you and reaches a higher spot than before, his tip grazing your cervix. He pounds into you, and you thrust your hips up to fuck back into him, calling out his name as if he were your god.

It´s a good thing the rooms are soundproof.

You feel your second climax comes when he paves way through your tight walls and batters your uterus. It doesn´t hurt so much as feel intense, and your choked moans become panting gasps when he brings a hand down to swirl his thumb over your aching clit.

¨You´re not going to meet with that prick from your work again, yeah? Say it. Say it if you want me to let you cum.¨ He could have been speaking an alien language for all you knew. Your poor addled brain didn't pick up anything except for the word ¨cum¨, and you were a goner.

¨Yes, yes, anything you say, anything you want, just please let me-¨

And oh he does.

It comes over you like a tidal wave, your mind going blank, your eyes seeing white as your legs shake from your earth-shattering orgasm. You feel like you´re going down a rollercoaster, and you never want to stop dropping.

Distantly, you hear him groan and say your name. You can feel pulsing in your filled walls, with what you assume is his ropes of cum. It feels like when you came, it practically squeezed all his cum out with your clenching.

He lets out a shaky breath and falls forward, his nose inches from yours, his breath puffing in your face.

Your eyes are glazed over, but you´ve never seen anything more clearly before.

Maybe Damon Albarn really was worth it.

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