#had fun messing around with rough brushes and bright colors

[crow-with-a-pencil]

✨cowboys✨

(fanart for @castercassette 's au)

[no-droids]

Rumors, Freebies, and a Race for Last Place

Part Two of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

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

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

***

It’s recommended to read part one first.

***

Getting into the x-wings is always fun.

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

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

You came back in one piece this time.  Barely.

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

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

Dameron.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You request mission assignments together,” Rossi adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

You're finally alone.

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

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

And yet, you can’t seem to enjoy it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, this is so fucking… presumptuous of him.

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

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

You don’t even think you want to anymore.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His tongue softly grazes your knuckle as it works.

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

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

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

There.  There’s the drop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything except his face, you soon realize.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cum.

You lose.  Fair and square.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

You lose count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, that’s it.  That is it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you just start giggling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… to pull a bag of chips out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has a nice voice, you think.

[angry-geese]

Homesick Remedy

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Warnings: nsfw. Smut and fluff. Tender sex, hickeys/marking, oral (fem recieving), unprotected sex, creampie, breeding mention, praise kink (sort of/interpretable). afab reader.

Notes: Gojo returns home from a job and spends some quality time with the reader. domestic fluff turned smut

You're not quite sure when you hear the door open.

Gojo usually comes home late. It's the nature of his job. Being one of the world's best Jujutsu sorcerers doesn't exactly follow a 9-5 schedule. Curses don't care if you're sleeping. Most nights you would stay up to greet him. Your schedule was nearly as hectic as his, you dealt with this often. If he found you dozing off on the couch he'd press a kiss to your forehead and carry you to bed.

You had gone on a job the day prior. It was nothing of note; something you could easily handle on your own. A curse was proving to be difficult for lower level sorcerers so they sent you in. Mistakenly you let your guard down—only for a moment—and it cost you. The curse landed a blow on you. Nothing fatal. While your injuries weren't the most visible, they sure don't feel that way. You found yourself unwilling to tell Gojo, though. You could take care of yourself, but he always fussed over you. If he noticed something was off this morning, he made no mention of it.

Gojo's hand briefly touches your head, messing up your hair.

"You're home early." You say, reaching your arms out for him, making grabbing motions with your hands.

He leans down to give you a quick kiss before hauling you into his arms. Instinctively you bury your face in his chest, inhaling the woody scent of his cologne. As much as it smells nice, he puts far too much on. The scent tends to linger long after he's left the room. Something metallic hangs onto it. Blood. Although he doesn't appear injured.

Dramatically he flops back onto the couch. You shift so you're sitting in his lap, facing him. Dark circles line the skin under his eyes. It makes you wonder when he's last slept. His hair is a mess. Idly you brush it out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear.

"Missed me?" This dumb looking grin spreads across his face.

"You? Never."

He visibly deflates. Of course you missed him, but his ego could survive a hit or two. There are very few things you enjoyed more than bullying your boyfriend. All in good fun. He's rarely bothered by it. Unfortunately you love him.

You often wonder how you got so lucky.

When the two of you first met, you couldn't stand each other. It was so long ago that it's hard to believe now. There was an obvious rivalry in school. He was always the best at what he did. Though he was a few years older, and moments you ran into him were rare, so it was often shrugged off. If you found something you thought you'd be good at, he was always better. Growing up, he was annoying like that. For someone like you, it made you furious. You had a petty, competitive streak. You had to be good at everything you did. You had to be one of the best sorcerers. You had to be the best in your class.

And you were, but he was always better.

You're a very talented sorcerer yourself, but it's hard not to feel inadequate standing next to him. Most people could say the same thing. Half of the Jujutsu world either wanted him, or wanted to be him. He always fit in so well.

It wasn't until well into adulthood that your paths crossed for long enough to talk. The two of you were more similar than you ever thought. You gave him a chance. Reluctantly so, but you did. Your work only made the two of you grow closer.

He shifts so you're in a more comfortable position in his arms, head resting against his chest. The sudden movement makes you wince. His demeanor completely changes. Gojo handles you like you're fragile; like you'll shatter in his grasp.

It pisses you off just a little bit.

"Is everything alright?" He asks.

He scans you over for injuries. The feeling of his eyes on your body makes you want to shrink back and hide.

"I may have had my ass handed to me on that last job." You let out a nervous sounding laugh, burying your face in his jacket. You're not quite sure why you're embarrassed. It was a mistake, nothing more. But he never makes them.

You're not sure if that makes it worse or better. So you don't question it.

You lean back in to deepen the kiss. It's the first distraction you can think of. It seems to work. The strong muscle of his tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth. He tastes sweet. The scent of his cologne is heady, and makes your head swim.

"Do you want to?" He asks.

He's almost certain of the answer, but it never hurts to check.

You nod—maybe a bit too quick—but you nod. Despite the way your body aches, you want him.

"We're doing this in bed then." He says.

Gojo doesn't give you any time to respond before he's hauling you up into his arms bridal style, heading straight for your shared bedroom. The way he tosses your body onto the bed is a bit rough. It sends a sharp pain up through your ribs. The bed dips under his weight as he kneels in front of you. As you try to sit up, he pins you. His hands hold your wrists to the headboard, his knees straddling you.

Gojo coaxes your shirt over your head, humming in amusement when he realizes you don't have a bra on underneath. He palms at your breasts, tweaking your nipples between his fingers, working them into stiff peaks. He leans forward to take one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. It feels nice, but you can't help the throbbing ache it sends right to your cunt. Your hands tangle in his hair, gently guiding him where you want him most. It hardly takes him any time to turn you into a moaning, babbling mess.

You'll have a collar of hickeys in the morning.

Part of you hates how quickly he can turn you to putty in his hands. He knows all the ways that make you melt.

You palm at the growing tent in his pants. He's half hard, his cock leaking against his thigh. He's been gone so long, maybe you've missed him more than you thought. He's certainly missed you. He always finds himself wanting to come home to you at the end of the day.

You lift your hips enough so he can slide your shorts—along with your panties—completely off. Then Gojo's shirt. They're tossed in a heap to your side, landing by your discarded clothes. You're always surprised at how muscular he is without his jacket. It hides a lot more than you thought, you suppose. His eyes scan over you, and the instinct there is to hide. He notices you shying away and stops for a moment.

"Do you still want to?"

Again, you nod. You'd have stopped him if you really didn't.

He pulls you in for a kiss—just a quick peck this time—then plants one on the tip of your nose. Your cheeks turn bright red at that. His head dips down to press a kiss to your sternum; the valley between your breasts. He trails kisses down your bare stomach. Somewhere during that time his hands find your breasts, kneading the plush flesh. He's always admired the curves of your body. His was nice, but it was all angles and hard muscle.

His cock is around average in size—maybe a bit bigger—about six or so inches. It's pretty, like a pornstar's, and he always keeps it well groomed. He's not very intimidating. The head is a ruddy color, with a prominent vein running right to it. Although he's clean shaven, the hairs at the base of his cock are the same white as his head. That question bothered you for years before you finally got an answer. It doesn't take a whole lot of prep to take him, but he always likes working his partners up. Anything you could deal, he'd dish back out double. Never anything you can't handle, but Gojo can be a bit of an ass.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, sucking a dark mark where you won't be able to see. The action sends an ache of need right to your core. Heat pools low in your stomach, slowly building in intensity. Gojo's arms hook around your thighs, pulling you towards him. Your legs rest just over his shoulders. The aching need in your cunt makes it hard to think straight. All you want is for him to touch you. He licks a long stripe up your slit. His own eyes are clouded with need, his cheeks flushed, lips bitten pink. His strong hands knead the soft flesh of your thighs, his breath hot against your skin. He licks a stripe from your bellybutton to your mound. You jump as he presses kitten licks to your clit, working the bundle of nerves in achingly slow motions. You taste sweet, he notes.

Your hands bury in his hair, guiding him to where you need him most. This time he relents, leaning in to lap at your clit in soft, steady motions. One of his fingers presses against your entrance. They're long, but thin, and dexterous. After a moment, he adds a second, pressing up against your g-spot. It's another moment before he starts pumping them. The sounds of your slick sex and moans fill the room. He sucks onto the sensitive bundle of nerves so desperately that it feels like it'll pop off. He swirls his tongue around it in a way that makes your toes curl and your fingers bury in the sheets. You get louder the closer you get to your own orgasm. He takes note of this. It's only a moment later when he pulls away. The lower half of his face glistens in the dim light. He makes a show of licking his fingers, groaning at the taste. Gojo leans back in for a kiss. Not much more than a quick peck. You can taste yourself on him. He finds your shocked and disappointed look endearing.

"Please,"

A smug look spreads across his face. "Please what?"

"Fuck me,"

He cages you in his arms, pinning your wrists against the bed. You might be able to wriggle out of his grasp if you really tried; not that you want to. He can't help but admire the mess between your thighs.

You take his cock into your hands, giving him a few quick pumps. He's painfully hard. Precum beads at the head, which has turned an angry shade of red. Gojo wastes no time in lining himself up. His slick cock head traces around your entrance before pushing in. He takes his time, slowly bottoming out in you. The stretch stings slightly, but isn't necessarily painful. With all the prep, he slides right in. He groans as you take him right to the hilt.

As he starts to thrust, your scramble for purchase against his chest. Your arms wrap around his neck, your fingers lacing together behind his head. His hair tickles your neck. He coos words of praise into your ear, telling you how good you take him, how good you feel around him. You clench around him, pulling him back in. Gojo sucks dark marks into your neck, only adding to the collar of hickeys. He takes pride in seeing you all marked up. Some possessive part of him loves seeing the marks he leaves behind.

Gojo's hips roll against yours in lazy thrusts. To him, there's no prettier sight than seeing your form writhe under him. His hands grab your legs propping them up on his shoulders. The new angle allows him to hit deeper than before. He picks up in pace, snapping his hips against yours in short, quick motions.

His free hand traces circles around your clit. The heat in your stomach soon grows scorching in nature. You're close. He notices the way your breathing grows shaky, how your moans get louder and more desperate sounding.

When you cum, you cum hard. Your legs clamp around his hips, pulling him back in. The way your pussy spasms around him is enough to send him over the edge. It almost catches him off guard—he didn't expect to cum so soon—he bites into his tongue hard to stop the moan that escapes him. His cum paints your walls white, filling you up more than ever before. As he pulls out, he does so slowly to not spill any of his cum.

He pulls you so your back is flush to his chest. Your skin is sticky with sweat, and maybe a bit of saliva. The sound of his steady breathing threatens to lull you to sleep. He smooths a hand over your hair, brushing it out of your eyes. Gojo looks at you with such adoration that it makes affection swell in your chest. Moments like these are rare; falling asleep next to him. Life rarely seems to allow it. It's always nice when you can take a break together.

"I missed you." You finally say.

"I know." He plants a kiss on your forehead. "I missed you too."

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(Clone Wars) ARC Trooper Echo x Reader: Sightseeing PART 2

(Requested by the amazing @nahoney22

I hope you likez!!!!

Warnings: some kissy kissy

Word Count: 2,146)

Link to Part 1

   You wrenched the final bolt in, teeth clenched with the effort.  Despite the quick thrum of your heart at the set of boots that were visible from beneath the ship, you kept your focus on the work in front of you.  Finally, the bolt would not screw in any father, and you set the wrench down with a loud clang.

   Swiping the back of your hand across your forehead, you sighed and began to climb out from under the vehicle.  The bright lights of the hangar made you squint, though a silhouette stepped into view.  Those boots you saw before were a few feet from your head.

   The man knelt down, extending his gloved hand in your direction.  You smiled as you took it, and he hauled you to your feet in an effortless motion.  Suddenly, you felt a little self-conscious in your dirtied jumpsuit with grease smeared on your skin.  You avoided his gaze as you brushed off what you could from your jumpsuit.

   “All done?” Echo finally spoke, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

   You finally met his eyes.  It was hard to feel self-conscious when he was looking at you with tender adoration.  One would think you were wearing the most elegant gown with the way his eyes glinted.

   “All done,” you said.  “Thank you for waiting.  You didn’t have to, you know.  You could’ve gone ahead to see the town.”

   Echo shrugged his armored shoulders.  It was so casual, like it was no big deal that he stood in the hangar for forty-five minutes waiting for your shift to end.  He didn’t have a whole lot of time off as an ARC trooper, and you didn’t want him to miss out because of you.  “It wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

   A smile crept onto your features.  There were times when he couldn’t formulate a sentence in front of you, and other times when he could be so smooth and so sweet.  You knew it came from a genuine place and not from someone looking to score a date.  Besides, it had been several months since your meeting, and he still hadn’t officially asked you out.  It became a tradition for the two of you to go sightseeing on the planets you came across, but nothing had been said about them being dates.

   Fives complained about it often enough.

   “I need about ten minutes to shower,” you said.

   Echo nodded.  “I’ll be waiting...if you still want to go with me.”

   “Of course I do.  I just feel bad you’ve been waiting so long.”

   “Like I said, it just wouldn’t be the same without you.”

   “Alright, well I’ll be back in a few.”

   Fifteen or so minutes later, you found Echo waiting patiently as ever near the exit.  You caught up with him, feeling much better about your appearance.  He simply smiled when he saw you.

   “Ready?”

   “As I’ll ever be,” you said.  The two of you were able to take a military transport into town.  It was a short ride, and the transport was filled with your chatter as you shared information about the planet.  Echo had used his waiting time wisely to read up on some of the cuisine.  He listed off some interesting restaurant ideas, making both of your mouths water. Apparently a festival was going on, so there would be lots of things to see,

   When you stepped off the transport, Echo extended his arm slightly towards you so that you could loop your arm through it.  No doubt the two of you looked like a couple, which was why you waited until getting into town to make such contact.

   Your faced warmed as you observed his profile for a moment.  His eyes were wide and fascinated as he glanced around the ongoing festival.  Citizens wore colorful outfits and masks, bustling here and there.  Cheerful music played by musicians with stringed instruments filled the air.  Many delicious smells teased your senses.  A loud growl from your stomach made Echo’s gaze snap back to you.

   “Hungry?” he asked, amused.

   “I haven’t eaten since before my shift,” you admitted with a bashful smile.

   “Well, we’ll be sure to get something right away then.”  He nodded in the direction of the nearest stand.  “Let’s go.”

   Several happy citizens were leaving the stand with food in hand, smiling and talking amongst themselves.  You caught a whiff of one of the dishes.  “Ooh, we should get that,” you told Echo.  He followed your gaze and nodded.

   “Mm, that does look good.”

   Suddenly, you felt a rough hand grab your shoulder and give you a little shake.  Your heart quickened at the potential danger, but as you turned your head, you saw a gloved hand on Echo’s shoulder too.

   “There you are!” Fives exclaimed, giving you and Echo another affectionate shake.   You exhaled at the realization it was just your friend.  “I was wondering when you two lovebirds would venture out!”

   Your poor companion’s words caught in his throat.  “We’re not-  I mean…”  Echo stole a glance at you, flustered.  Finally, he seemed to gather some resolve as he raised a brow.  “No offense, but it’s none of your business.”

   “Oh-ho-ho.”  Fives chuckled, giving his brother a playful nudge.  “I’m just teasing.  No harm done.”

   Echo rolled his eyes, nudging him back.  “I’m sure.”

   You smiled at the brothers’ banter.  It was almost always like that when they hung out, which was all the time.  Fives had also become a good friend of yours as you got to know Echo better.  The three of you would often eat together at the mess hall or cause trouble at whatever places you found yourselves at on these new planets.  

   “Next!”  the lady at the stand called.  She wore a bright red costume with the sleeves rolled up as she put away the money from previous customers and closed the box.  Only her smiling eyes could be seen behind the matching mask.  “Troops!  We appreciate the protection the Republic has provided our planet.  What can I get you?”

   “We’d like two of those,” Echo ordered, pointing at the menu item that you had mentioned earlier.

   “Make that three,” Fives interjected.

   “Okay, three of those.  And could we also get two cups of tea.  Fives, you want one too?”

   “Count me in.”

   Echo nodded and turned back to the lady.  “Sorry, three cups of tea.  And that’ll do it.”

   She nodded and began adding up the cost.  Echo handed over the credits, and you pitched in to tip the woman.  She uttered her thanks, and the cook behind her started serving up the order.

   “These are our special desserts that are only made during this festival,” she said, packaging up three little cakes.  “You must try some!”

   Echo reached back into his pouch for more credits.  “How much?” 

   “On the house!” she said.  “I insist!  Enjoy the festival!”

   “Oh, thank you!” you accepted the packages, and Fives and Echo grabbed the food and teas.  The three of you headed over to one of the empty picnic tables and claimed your meals.  You sipped the cold cup of tea, smiling at the mildly sweet flavor and how refreshing it was.

   Fives had already dug into his food.  “This is great!” he mumbled through a mouthful.

   “Yeah?”  Echo took a bite of his own.  “Wow, you’re right.”

   Another loud growl sounded in your stomach, making Fives laugh and earning him an elbow in the side from Echo, as you finally tried your portion of the meal.  It did taste good, and it was very filling, though you had just enough room to have the dessert after.

   When you were done, you started cleaning up the picnic table and dropped the garbage into a nearby trash can.  On your way over, you overheard a conversation between the two ARC troopers.  They were trying to speak over the volume of the festival and remain out of earshot of you- to no avail.

   “So, Echo,” Fives said.  “You know you don’t have to do the whole ‘secret relationship’ thing in front of me, right?  Of all people, I’m not gonna’ say anything.”

   “There is no secret relationship,” Echo muttered.  “I was serious before.  We’re not together.”

   “Oh my gosh.”  Fives shook his head.  “Well, you’d better hurry up and claim her.  Or someone else will.  I’m telling you, she likes you.”

   “Shh, she’s coming back.

   You smiled, pretending you didn’t hear a word over your shoulder.  “What is next on the agenda?”

   “I’m actually going to go off on my own again,” Fives answered.  “You two have fun.”  Before either of you could even say “goodbye” for now, he left.  You looked to Echo, shrugging, and looped your arm with his again.

   The two of you did an initial sweep of the festival, checking out the games and activities as well as taking notes on any that you’d like to try as the evening went on.  There was something different about this outing.  You’d been to many places with Echo before, but this time, it seemed he was being a little more forward.  In a good way, of course.  You figured it was because of his conversation with Fives, but even so, you had not expected him to be as confident as he was.  At one point, he removed his arm from yours and took your hand instead, shooting you an inquisitive look.

   You nodded in silent approval of the gesture, giving his gloved hand a squeeze.  The smile on his face was so handsome.  It was nearly impossible to look away.  Pretty soon, the two of you were stopped in the middle of the festival with folks going around you.  He gazed back into your eyes, the smile slowly fading into an expression you’d never seen on him before.  Excitement coursed through your veins as he suddenly gave your hand a tug, leading you through the swarm of people until the two of you were in a small alley between two of the town’s shops.  It gave you a nice view of the festival from where you stood without being crowded out by other people.

   “What’s this about?” you asked, though you had a feeling you already knew.  Echo leaned his shoulder against the wall, glancing down at your intertwined fingers.

   “I wanted to play it cool,” he said.  “But I’m afraid I’ve been playing it too cool.”  His eyes met yours again, and you didn’t miss the way his chest rose and fell with a deep breath, as if he was preparing himself for something daring.  “The truth is... I really like you.  I have since the moment I first saw you.”

   “Nothing wrong with taking your time,” you replied.  “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”

   “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you too,” he agreed, your response visibly putting him at ease.  The smile returned to his face.  “I don’t consider any of the time we’ve spent wasted.  And if you’d rather we stay friends, I can do that.  I just...wanted you to know.  I care about you.”

   Your insides were practically melting at his words, though your heart was thudding fast and strong.  From the start, it was like gravity had been bringing you closer together.  You revolved around each other; not quite touching, but never too far.

   Suddenly, gravity brought you even closer.  You took a step forward.  He pushed off the wall slightly to meet you halfway, releasing your hand only to wrap his arms around you in a firm embrace.

   “I care about you too,” you told him softly.  He regarded your misty gaze with another one of his smiles before his eyes fell on your lips with intent.  Echo, ever the chivalrous, shifted so that his back was to the crowd.  Once you were concealed from any curious stares of those passing the alley, his lips caught yours. 

   The kiss was planet-shattering.  It held all the tenderness you would’ve expected at first, and then slowly built up with tension the two of you had been keeping tucked away for some time.  Something snapped, then.  Your lips were meeting his faster, needier; and he was happy to oblige.  

   Both of you were unwilling to part, but the sounds of the festival brought you back.  Echo was still tilting your chin as he pulled away to see your loving gaze.

   “Beautiful,” he murmured.

   “You sure are,” you said with a chuckle.

   He chuckled too with the slightest shake of his head in amusement.  “And she has a sense of humor.  How’d I get so lucky?”

   You pretended to consider his question for a moment, your face scrunching up in thought.  “It sure is a mystery,” you joked lightly, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.  He caught your lips one more time before you pulled away completely, and you nearly swooned.

[seancekitsch]

Out of the Rain: a Marko x Reader fic

Warnings: bloodplay goes without saying bc vamp, rough sex, dirty talk, semi public sex, telepathy?? me projecting my music taste on this fic again. drug use, fast and loose use of vampire lore bc when i write i am god and u cannot stop me. also can u tell i have like…. v clear descriptions of the setting like i used to work at the place im describing but its not in california

No one had come in for hours. What's the point of staying open? You dim some of the lights in the store, which is one of three head shops in Santa Carla, but the only one open late. You're not really sure why this is the only store that stays open, why everyone else if worried about the three am walk back to their car on a weekend night. You've never seen anything of suspicion, just sometimes that biker gang watches people shuffle out. That was almost comforting, though. People didn't like those guys, so no one would make you use your switchblade if they were around.

The bright while fluorescent lights of your typical daytime ambiance faded away, and now green light bathes you in the “mood” lighting your boss thought was a good idea. The green lighting reflects off of the glass counters, shining it back at the ceiling and making everything that much more green. It fits, you think with the overall vibe of the store. The stale scent of weed, gently and miserably covered up by some nag champa incense, always burning in at least four different spots within the store. You'd long since gotten used to the smoke in your eyes. The music does everything to add to the ambiance. You always have full control of the music in the shop, usually because no one else is willing to take the night shift in Santa Carla. In fact, most of the boardwalk shops had a revolving door of night shift workers. You never got why, something clearly spooks them that does not spook you. Whether that makes you brave or stupid, you dont know. Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow pumps through the speakers in the store. But I suppose no one knows, you're my plastic fantastic lover.

The rain batters the boardwalk outside, a roar much different than the typical hustle and bustle of drunk teens, of the cliques and crews that come in and out; the few that sit and snicker in the doorway, never entering. Some too afraid to be associated with the implication of being spotted in the shop. We sell jewelry and vinyl too, you always say, when they balk at the idea of being in the same room as a bong or incense.

But then there's the other group that stands and idles in the threshold, also not entering. It's that biker gang. Four guys, a girl, a kid. Maybe he’s the brat of the girl and the one who takes himself too seriously, but maybe not. She looks too young for that. They'd been hovering around quite a bit lately, always after dark. You’d spoken to them, at least the ones that are talkative. The hair metal wannabe and the cute short one. Paul and Marko. You knew the dark haired one was Dwayne, but all he ever offered you was a curt nod and a tight lipped smile, respectful but indifferent. They're nice, not worth the spooky reputation they have. Any time it's not just you at the shop, your boss tries to spook them away. Good thing your boss isn't here tonight, because one of them is prowling around the storefront in the rain. That is, if it's not your spliff induced haze playing tricks on you.

No, one of them is out there. Without his little pack. The cute one. Marko.

You walk over to the door, which you haven't had propped open since the rain trickled in as a drizzle at the beginning of your shift. At least he had enough sense to be huddling under the awning. Fuck, he’s handsome even when he looks like a drowned rat.

“What are you doing out here?” You scrunch up your nose as you ask.

“Y’know, waiting for you to show up.” Wanted a look at that cute ass.

You blink at him. Did he really just say that?

“Okay… well, you know it's raining out there, right?”

“I might,” he offers noncommittally, eyeing the spliff still in the hand that's not holding the door. If it were anyone but him, you'd probably get fired for it.

Why is he just hanging around out here? That's hella weird. His curls are getting matted to his forehead, slick with rain, his jacket starting to look a little sad.

“C’mon in, Marko. It’s too wet out here. You’ll fuck up your jacket.” You nod towards the interior of the shop holding the door open as he passes you.

Wrong move, sweet cheeks.

“What did you say?” What did he mean, wrong move?

“I didn't say anything,” he offers nonchalantly as he thumbs at one of the tapestries on the wall. A garish mess that’s supposed to be the worm from Alice in Wonderland, but it’s distorted by a botched tie dye job of dark muddy colors. Every time you look at it, you assume one of the day workers did it.

“No, you said something.”

“Do you want me to say something?” there's both a threat and an innuendo in his tone. Maybe you do, but you just laugh, a sharp exhale through your nose, and bring the spliff to your lips again as he follows you deeper into the store.

You jump up onto the counter next to the ash tray, easy reach for each time you need to ash.

“So why are you really here?” your eyes narrow at him, kicking your sandal off on the floor where it lands a few inches from his boots. He looks uneasy in the space, like for all the wild shit you assume he’s into, he might not actually belong in it. He sways a little to the music, perfectly in tune with the rhythm. You sway along too, and suddenly he fills the space like he belongs. He just needed someone along for the ride with him.

“Do you ever come around during the day, or just at night because I’m so fun?” You’re teasing him, but it’s a nice easy feeling between you.

“Not really a sun guy,” bullshit, he would look beautiful with a tan, “but I do drag everyone here just to see you.”

“Awww, all for me? Do you have a crush, Marko?”

It’s more than that. You hear the words clearly, but his smile doesn’t move. You kick the other sandal off.

“I can hear you, I don’t know how, but I can. I bet you can hear me too.”

I can. You’re wrong about the tan thing.

You straighten up, mind clearing as you blurt out your next question. Something absolutely stupid.

“So what are you, a vampire or something?” he laughs at you, but his big toothy smile doesn't reach his eyes. No, there's something predatory, extremely dark in his eyes. Otherworldly.

How could you guess?  

“Well, that for one big fucking clue.” You ash the spliff for the final time, leaving the roach in the tray. You would think you’d be more surprised, more upset that you just found out vampires were real, and that you were in the same room as one. You have to say, weirder things are probably afoot in Santa Carla. Murder capital of the world can’t all be from some rowdy teens and a ten year old.

“You do those surf nazis?” is all that leaves your mouth. You kind of hope it was. They were the fucking worst. Racist, misogynistic, destructive. You’d had to threaten them a few times to leave your store on your shift.

“The—? Oh! Surf nazis. Yeah that was us. Ate a few of them.”

“Good for you. I mean— murder. bad. But they were nazis, and now they’re dead. so…” you trail off. Not really sure what to say next, but then you keep going. Remember everything you know about Marko.

“No, no I mean, it makes sense. Right? You and the guys only hang around at night. Aren’t vampires solitary hunters though? I don’t remember Dracula being in a frat.”

“They’re my pack. We take care of each other.” He says it with such fondness and devotion.

You feel a pang of jealousy run through you. You work alone for the most part, live alone, you’ve got friends but they’re all over the place. He belongs to something.

“And you're down with this?” he’s legitimately asking. You nod. You don't really have a choice, you're down or you get eaten, but like genuinely you are down with it. If he was going to eat you, he probably would have by now. There's probably a reason they've been hanging around the store, and in your sightline while you close up. You're putting things together.

“Like really?”

“Well, you haven't made me a kebab yet.”

He shrugs, frowns.

“Could still skewer you on something.”

Laughter erupts from your lips while you roll your eyes, music to Marko’s ears. This is why he took a shine to you, it's easy to get along with you, and you're not one of his brothers.

Something heavy falls in the room, and it's not the haze of the incense. He steps towards you, big blue eyes raking over your body, but always coming back to meet your gaze. He closes the space between you, easily fitting between your thighs; the rough patches of his jacket brushing against your bare skin where your shorts ride up. He leans in, like he's about to kiss you, and against all better judgement, you're going to let him.

You're going to let him.

The record skips. He holds out his hand, more like a gentleman than a biker gang killer, and helps you off the counter.

“Hold on, let me pick out a new record,” you turn without waiting for his confirmation, not at all surprised when Marko follows hot on your heels to the back room. Your boss’ office, the record room. Whatever you wanted to call it. His hands ghost over your arms as you push past the wooden bead curtain to enter the room. You can feel his presence close enough to touch. That's it, right where I want you. There’s his voice again.

He lets you actually pick out a new record. You slide it out of the sleeve and walk it over to the player. The static buzzes and pops as the needle finds the groove.

“Ocean Rain, you heard it?” No. He shakes his head, and you can feel it as he leans into your back.

“Echo and the Bunnymen. They've got a new album coming out this year.”

You turn to face him and his fingerless leather glove clad hands cover your cheeks.

He kisses you gently, tenderly. Not at all the way you’d expect. He’s eager, kissing like there’s something to prove. He licks his way into your mouth, tongue pushing your lips apart and you let him. His arms tighten around you as you kiss, tongues now greeting each other playfully. Your tongue explores his mouth, running along each and every tooth in his mouth. Huh, no fangs, you realize, and maybe he isn't actually a vampire. As if he reads your mind (maybe he does), he pulls away.

“They're, uh, hiding,’ he nods, almost to himself more than you. You nod as well, slow and uneasy, not quite believing him, but he pulls you back into a harsh kiss, more of what you expected. His hands roam your body as yours bury themselves in his curls. Still damp, but long and beautiful just as well. He shrugs the jacket off his shoulders, and his hands only briefly leave you to throw it and his gloves somewhere else, leaving him just in a thin white tank top. His mouth leaves yours to trail lower, kissing your neck. Your pulse point. Fucking irresistable. No, that's definitely his voice. Is this the end? Could be.

“I can smell you, hot stuff,” he moans into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You find yourself gripping onto his shoulders a little tighter, but he lets you sink. He guides you, again more gently than you thought he would; bare knees brushing the threadbare carpet floor before you plant yourself. You look up at him through your lashes and he all but bites back a groan.

“You gonna join me down here?” You lick your lips, waiting for something.

“Nah, I’m gonna let you have a head start,” there's a joke in his tone. You're learning that’s normal for him. He’s silent, or playing jester. It’ll be interesting when you let him fuck you. Shit, did he hear that?

“Quit thinkin’ so loud!” he runs an affectionate hand through your hair. “But yes, I heard you. Glad you're as eager as I am.”

That's encouraging. You take your time undoing his belt, connected to faded and soft leather chaps, not bothering to push them down his thighs before you move to the top of his jeans, teasing your fingers at the skin just above the waistline. He shudders under your touch, extremely reactive. Does he get touched like this often? Or is it just quick fucks? You don't want to think about who else he might be doing this with, focusing again on his body, and all of the offending clothing covering it. You unbutton them slowly, teasing. For a member of the undead, he seems to be out of breath under your movements. The zipper is pulled down just as slowly. You run your palms flat along the bottom of his stomach, to his hips before pushing his jeans down to around his ankles, hooking his boxers on your finger along with them. He’s beautiful, and you can help but stare. Hard, eager, and thick, greeting you with a small trimmed patch of golden blonde curls. You wrap your hand around the base.

You never expected a vampire to whimper, but that's exactly what happens when your tongue darts out of your mouth to lick the head of his cock. Quick, tentative little lick, testing the waters. Your tongue swipes across the slit at the tip of his thick member and his hands animate like you flipped a switch, rising up, going to your hair, rising up again, slamming down against the desk. Your boss’ desk. You lick a long stripe to the underside of his cock, paying close attention to the prominent vein there.

“So good, so good, oh you feel so-” he pants out, hands white knuckling the edge of the desk. Heat pools in your core, loving that he’s so vocal. Fuck, if he could just keep speaking. Your other hand moves to your shorts, sloppily and hastily undoing them and wiggling them down to your knees. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and sink down on it, taking him as far as you can, until you couch when he hits the back of your throat.

“You look fucking beautiful like that. Please move, Please move, you’re so fucking good at this.”

You do, starting to bob your head up and down on the length of him, hollowing out your cheeks and flattening your tongue against him, cupping and massaging his balls in your hand. Your free finds itself between your legs, rubbing gently at your clit, stirred and encouraged by his praise.

“Does sucking me off get you hot and bothered?” Yesitdoes.

You keep bobbing your head, rubbing your clit, eyes trained on his until his eyes squeeze shut. His cock twitches in your mouth.

“Don't wanna- don't wanna finish in your mouth,” he’s urgent, grabbing you by the chin and pulling your mouth off of his cock. He pushes you back by your shoulders, letting you guide yourself back to lay on the rug. He pulls your loose shorts easily off your legs and settles himself between your legs, too eager to bother with removing his boots and everything.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long. Do you know how bad I wanted this?”

“Fuck me, Marko, dont say it. Just do it,” youre breathless under him, wanting nothing more than for him to be fucking you. He pauses.

“I dunno…” his thumb swipes up along your clit, drawing a whine from your throat, “For some reason I think you like it when I say things.”

You nod, knowing words will fail you. And he gives you what you want, lining himself up and sinking into you, groaning as he buries his head into the crook of your neck.

“Oh I knew your pussy would feel like fucking heaven,” he pants against your neck, pressing a harsh kiss to the underside of your jaw. He sets the pace quickly, unmerciful and fast, fucking hard and deep into you. His hands push up your thin tee shirt, and you can feel his sigh of relief when he gets a handful of bare breast. He doesn't have to deal with a bra tonight. You hike your knees up, opening yourself as much as you can to him, wanting him to fill you to the brim. He looks into your eyes while he fucks you, which comes as a surprise to you. Maybe it shouldn't. You wonder what it would be like to be a victim of his. Does he treat them well? Have fun with them like this? Or is he vicious? You don't know if you could picture him like that… vamped out.

“What does it feel like?”

“What?” he thrusts sharply, snapping his hips into you, making you yelp.

“To be fed on, but not to die.”

Are you serious? You hear him in your head.

YesIam. He thrusts like that again, earning an identical yelp, now coupled with your thighs squeezing him around the middle. You're close already, and he can tell.

He nods, a question; You nod, confirmation.

He pulls at the neckline of your shirt, already scooping so it doesn’t ruin, and exposes your shoulder. Somewhere non lethal. His other hand comes up to grip your jaw, covering your neck but being careful not to squeeze it. You hope he bruises your jaw, you realize. A physical way to feel him when dawn comes. He slows his pace to a rocking, grinding into you, staying deep.

Then he bites. Stars erupt behind your eyes, and it feels like your blood has turned to seltzer. Every nerve in your body is in overdrive as you moan and shake and come undone around his cock. You're the kind of girl that comes from the bite of a vampire, apparently. He doesn’t let up. You can faintly hear him moaning against the open wound in your shoulder, and you hope you taste good to him. He licks the wound a few times more, softly, carefully, like he’s trying to soothe you when he finally lets you come down from your high.

When he pulls back to let you see him, his features are gruesome, full vampire with sharp brows and cheekbones, pointed nose even that much more so almost birdlike. Fangs and bottom half of his face covered in blood.Your blood.  He’s panting like an animal after the kill. But he doesn't scare you. Maybe he should, but he doesn't.  It's just Marko, no matter what, and if he wanted to eat you he would have. Several times now. His hand finally releases your jaw, to wipe the blood from his face. He wipes his hand then on your face, covering you in your own blood, hot on his fingers and palm.

“Fuckin sexy,” he pants, voice deeper and distorted. His thrusts speed up, trying to find his own release as your nails dig into his back, maybe making him bleed as well. You feel the rug burn forming on your back, you feel tears in your eyes. It's never felt this good with other guys.

When he comes, he comes with a howl, buried deep inside you as he shouts and shivers then stills above you. Your chest is heaving, trying to regain yourself as his face slowly fades to normal, and he slumps down on top of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, near the wound he tore open, now no longer bleeding. He mouths at any bare skin he can find, lazy half kisses as he spreads more mess and blood on you. Your fingers find his curls again, winding them around your digits as you stare up at the sickly green mood lighting bathing the walls of the room.

An hour later, Marko is helping you lock up early.

He makes sure to dump out all of the ashes from spliffs and incense, makes sure the vinyl is all in its right place while you make sure the register and inventory is all in its rightful place and order.

“You’re dangerous, you know.”

“Me?” you scoff, “That rich, coming from you.”

I’d do a lot of things I’m not supposed to for you. You kinda don't want to ask him what he means by that. For some reason that feels like a conversation you shouldn't have tonight. 

He leaves the store before you, holding the door open for you and letting you lock the doors. He slings an easy arm over your shoulder, not bothering to shield either of you from the rain as he steers you towards your car. You can feel the rain cleaning your face, the blood flowing away and saving you the shower you were going to take before collapsing into bed tonight.

“Where’s your bike?”

“I flew here,” he says with that devilish smile, and you're really not sure if he's joking or not. Your arm sneaks its way into his jacket and wraps around his waist, holding him close as he makes sure you get home same. Marko makes you feel calm, in a way you didn't feel before you moved to Santa Carla. How long had he been waiting to make his move? And does this mean he and his brothers would be coming around more often? Maybe being more friendly towards you. Each step towards your car feels heavy; You don't want to go home alone without him, but somehow you know he won't come with you. 

“Will I see you again?”

He grabs your car keys from your hand, and sticks them in the door handle. Of course you will.

Right. You just have to be near the beach at night. You know, where you work.

He kisses you full on the mouth, holding you close and tight, like you could slip away at any second. When he finally lets you go you pull away to be met with his face, full on grinning, his eyes still closed from the kiss. He doesn't look like a killer.

Marko watches you as you pull open the door to your car and more or less throw your ass into the seat.  He holds the door as he gives you one last smile, and says:

“You know, you should never invite a vampire into your life. Renders you powerless.”

And he winks. 

[expectingtofly]

Not-So-Easy-Bake Oven, 2k

Established Dean/Cas, Toddler Jack, Fluff without Plot

day 3 of @thiscastielhasflown and i's follower celebration

prompt: baking

“Petzel, petzel, petzel!” Jack chanted, banging a tiny plastic whisk on the table. He wore a kid's apron decorated with bumblebees, dotted black lines twisting and curving to show the bees' crisscrossing flights.

“Alright, buddy, give me a sec,” Dean said, pouring a bag of dry pretzel mix into a bowl. Charlie had bought Jack an Easy-Bake Oven for his fourth birthday, and this was their first time using it and its soft pretzel making kit—much to Jack’s excitement.

Cas came over from the sink with the kit’s measuring cup filled with water. “Wanna pour?” he asked Jack. He steadied Jack’s hand as he took the cup and poured it into the bowl. “Now it’s time to mix.”

He lifted Jack up to kneel on the table, and, gripping his whisk in one fist, Jack began stirring the mix and water together—if jabbing the bowl could be called stirring.

Dean opened the oven, checking to see if it was working. Already pretty warm for a squat bright pink appliance. “Woulda killed for something like this when I was younger.” He looked at the inside of his wrist. “Used to have a pretty nasty scar from when I tried making Sam brownies in some janky motel oven.”

“You should’ve never been left unattended in the kitchen at such a young age,” Cas griped, grabbing the bowl before it careened over the table's edge from Jack’s vigorous stirring. “You could’ve seriously hurt yourself. If I ever meet John…”

Dean grinned. “He’s lucky he never met you.”

“Exactly.”

"Done," Jack announced, dropping the whisk. Dean raised an eyebrow at the bowl where the mix was only half-combined, dry powder still clinging to the bowl.

"Looks good, kid," he told him, and picked up the flimsy pink whisk to finish stirring.

Jack protested, though, grabbing his hand. "Done!"

"It just needs a little more," Dean told him. "Look, it's not totally mixed."

"Hey, Jack," Cas said. "Help me pick out stuff to put in our pretzels." Successfully distracted, Jack clambered over to him and Cas carried him to the pantry.

Dean finished stirring the mix quickly. "Good choice," he heard Cas say and looked over to see him grabbing a bottle of soy sauce. Oh boy.

The oven chimed, announcing it was pre-heated, and Dean stared at the lumpy excuse for dough in the bowl. Maybe it’d look more appetizing when cooked.

"Chocolate chips, pepper, raisins, oregano," Cas listed, coming over and setting various items down on the table.

"Uhh." Dean stared at the box of corn flakes Jack carried over to the table, nearly as big as his torso. He couldn't figure out which items were Cas’ choice and which were Jack's suggestions. "Not really sure all this goes together."

"You never know," Cas said, picking Jack up and standing him on a chair.

He might not've known for sure, but he was pretty sure he could guess. "Alright, well." He dumped the dough onto the table and divided it into small sections. "Time to experiment, I guess."

Cas sprinkled flour on the table so they could roll out the dough, but before he could even close the bag, Jack smacked his hand down on the table, sending a cloud of flour into the air.

Cas coughed, waving flour away from his face and Jack cackled, one palm dusted white. Dean laughed at Cas, until Jack leaned over and swiped at his t-shirt.

"Dude, seriously?" Dean asked him, brushing his shirt off. Jack only laughed, clapping his hands to send more flour floating in the air. "How ‘bout you put the flour to good use?" Placing a small ball of dough in front of Jack, he propped up the box that the mix had come in and studied the instructions for forming a pretzel shape.

"So first you roll the dough out into a rope," he said, following along with the pictures. "Then you form it into a u-shape." He glanced at Jack to see if he was paying any attention, but Jack seemed more interested in rolling the dough around the table and through the flour. Then he yelped, staring at his hands in bewilderment.

"I'm messy," he said, staring at the dough sticking to his fingers. He held them up to Cas, who told him.

"You have to get your hands dirty." Taking one of the balls of dough, he poured some chocolate chips on it and began rolling them into the dough. "Look at Daddy."

Jack looked over at Dean, just as his dough rope tore in two. "Dammit." He balled the dough back together. “Let’s try that again.”

Before he could try, though, Jack started clamoring for the corn flakes, so Dean set a handful of the cereal on the table. "I think this is gonna mess up the baking times," he said, skimming the back of the box. "Recipe doesn't say anything about adding extra shit."

"This is a child's baking oven. It's supposed to foster fun and creativity." Cas nodded at the box.

Dean turned the box around. Fun for the whole family! it read along with a photo of perfectly formed pretzels. At the bottom, it also read, "Ages 8 and up." Ah. So maybe a little advanced for a four year old.

Corn flakes went flying and Dean dodged one shooting towards his eye. Oblivious, Jack continued crushing the cereal with the flat of his hand, a gleeful smile on his face.

"Yup, uh, good enough," Dean said quickly, grabbing Jack's hands.

"No!" Jack yelled, trying to get out of his grip.

"Take the oregano," Dean said quickly, hoping for a distraction. It worked, except now he had to hand over the container and watch Jack sprinkle the herb all over the near vicinity. Maybe he could pass off clean-up duty to Cas, who was making his own mess, adding food dye to his dough to make a swirl of purple and pink.

He helped Jack combine the corn flakes and oregano into the dough, then roll it out into a rope. Cupping Jack's hands, he guided him through curving the rope of dough into a U-shape, crossing the two ends twice, then pulling them over to make a rough pretzel shape.

“Hey, not too bad.” Pulling out his phone, he took a photo. "Smile for Charlie, Jack."

Jack held up the pretzel, effectively warping the shape, and grinned at the camera. "I make one for Auntie," he declared when Dean lowered the phone, and grabbed more dough to form his own pretzel.

“How did you do that?” Cas asked, studying the box. Going to him, Dean did the same thing he’d did with Jack, standing behind him and holding his hands to help him form a pretzel shape. Cas' fingers were dusted with flour, and Dean got a bit distracted by the way Cas leaned back against him, letting him guide him into creating a pretty decent pretzel. Not as perfect as the ones on the box, but close enough.

“I think I’ve got it,” Cas said, grabbing more dough and forming another pretzel in two easy swoops. Okay, way better than the one before.

“Did you just trick me into helping you?” Dean asked, pulling away from him slightly.

Cas tilted his head into him. “Mhm.”

Dean rolled his eyes but kissed his neck anyway.

Several tries and several more mishaps later, and they had a few semi-recognizable pretzels. Some they dipped into a cinnamon sugar glaze that came with the kit, others they placed as is into small, pink, round dishes.

“They go in here and cook for ten minutes,” Cas instructed, helping Jack push the dishes inside the oven. Jack peered into the opening, then back at Cas and Dean.

“Done now?”

“Gonna be a long ten minutes,” Dean said, setting the timer.

They tried to clean up as the pretzels cooked, though Jack was covered in so much flour, food dye, and dough that he left a trail wherever he moved. And he would not stop moving. As Dean tried to wipe down the table, Jack ran loops around the island, and when Cas tried sweeping, Jack decided to start spinning around in the middle of the kitchen until he fell over. Then do it all over again.

“If he has this much energy now, what the hell’s he gonna be like when you give him a chocolate chip pretzel?” Dean asked Cas, putting the oregano and soy sauce back. He had no idea which pretzel Cas had slipped the sauce into and was not eager to find out.

“That may have been an oversight on my part,” Cas admitted. The oven beeped and Jack rushed to the table.

“Petzel!” he began chanting again.

"Don't touch," Dean warned, using a tool from the kit to pull the dishes out of the oven and place them on the table.

“Which one do you want to try first?” Cas asked Jack, who took a moment to study the pretzels before pointing to the purple and pink one—or what was once those colors but had now taken on a more bloody appearance.

"It's pretty," he said.

“Yes, it is,” Cas agreed, transferring the pretzels onto a plate. Dean turned off the oven, then startled when Jack began crying.

“Hot!” Jack cried, pointing at the dish Dean had told him not to touch. In hindsight, he should’ve realized the temptation would’ve been too much to resist.

“Let me see,” Cas said, taking Jack’s hand.

“No, it hurt,” Jack cried, trying to pull his hand away.

“Alright, alright.” Scooping Jack up, Dean carried him over to the sink and turned on the cold water. When he held Jack’s hand under the stream, Jack squirmed, trying to get away.

“Cold!” he yelled.

“I’m trying to help, dude,” Dean told him. “This’ll make it feel better.” More startled than hurt, it seemed, Jack calmed down after a few seconds. Turning off the water, Dean studied his finger. Not even a blister, but he nodded at Cas. “Think Dada can help?”

Jack nodded and held out his finger to Cas. "Booboo.” Cas took his tiny hand and kissed his finger.

“Are you too injured to eat a pretzel?” he asked.

“No!” Jack yelled, suddenly all energy again, squirming out of Dean’s grasp. Dean set him down and he ran to the table, clambering on a chair to grab the purple/pink monstrosity of a pretzel.

“Try one,” Cas told Dean, joining Jack and pushing over the plate.

Dean grimaced, but chose the cinnamon sugar and corn flake one. Why that was even a combination was beyond him. Bracing himself, he took a bite. Okay. Dry. Pretty bland. Crunchy which was just wrong, but not horrible—wait. He took that back. Oregano and cinnamon sugar did not go well together.

"Um. Well.” He choked down the rest of the bite and set the pretzel back on the plate. “These are, uh..."

"Not good," Cas finished. He squinted at his own pretzel, then took another hesitant bite. Instantly, his face screwed up, and he shook his head, dropping the pretzel onto the plate. “It seems you were right. Soy sauce, pepper, and raisins do not mix."

“Who would’ve thought?” Dean deadpanned. Jack munched happily on his pretzel, cinnamon sugar covering his chubby cheeks. “Someone’s enjoying them, at least.”

“For Charlie,” Jack announced, pointing at one of the pretzels on the plate.

“She’ll love a day-old pretzel,” Dean told him.

“Yes, she will,” Cas said, giving Dean a look. He pushed Jack’s hair back from his face. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Jack abandoned the colorful pretzel for the chocolate chip one, then the corn flake one. True to his word, he left one untouched on the plate for Charlie. She would get a kick out of it when she visited. I knew he'd love it!! she'd responded to the photo Dean had sent her of Jack holding up a pretzel.

“This was fun,” Cas said, a smile on his face, watching Jack.

“Yeah.” Dean looked over at the mess of bowls and dishes in the sink and back at the flour streaked table. Making a fist over his open palm, he said, “Loser has to clean.”

Cas straightened, a competitive gleam in his eye. “Agreed.”

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.” Cas threw scissors and Dean threw paper.

“Dammit,” he exclaimed. “You always do rock.”

Cas grinned. “And so I conditioned you to think I’d do it now.”

“Christ, when’d you get so conniving?” He got up and asked Jack, “You wanna help your old man clean?”

“No, tank you,” Jack replied.

“‘Least he was polite,” Cas said.

“Good luck getting him down for a nap later.”

“Why’s that my job now?”

“Sorry,” Dean turned on the water to start scrubbing the bowls. “Can’t hear you over all the cleaning I’m doing.”

Cas rolled his eyes. Dean grinned when Jack offered him a bite of his pretzel and Cas had to act like he enjoyed it. Turning back to the sink, he grabbed the sponge. This was a lot of fun.

[clefairymuke]

regrets | chapter four

prev. chapter | next chapter

pairings: levi ackerman x reader / eren jaeger x reader

themes: enemies to lovers, slowburn, angst, fluff, smut

tw: violence / explicit sexual content

word count: 2574

You sat next to Jean at lunch, picking at your soup. He was retelling the story of the fight with Eren for the second time that day, each iteration with growing exaggeration of how badly he kicked Eren's ass. You weren't really listening, though. You were mostly rewatching the events of last night in your mind, like you had been since you went to bed after leaving the stables.

Every few minutes, you would feel the tingle of eyes on you across the room. Eren was glancing up at you, either to smile, mock your expression, or just to hold your eyes for a brief moment. You would barely turn up the corners of your mouth in reply, knowing your face gave away the blushing mess you really were. You replayed your own personal highlight reel in your head yet again: the sparkle in his eyes as he pressed your foreheads together; his hair tickling your cheek as he nestled his face into your shoulder; the steam rising from his back when your fingernails raked against it.

"Are you listening?" Connie asked, breaking you from your trance. You wracked your brain trying to remember what they were discussing before Eren sent you to a distracted paradise.

"Yeah, Jean kicked Eren's ass. He already told us," you tried, your eyes falling when Connie looked at you with disappointment.

"No, I was asking you how yesterday went," he said, meeting your eyes expectantly.

You looked away quickly. "Yesterday? What do you mean?" How could they already know? They would never stop making fun of you for as long as you lived. Jean was probably going to cut your head off.

"With Captain Levi?" Connie reminded you, staring at you like you had gone nuts. "Are you all there today?"

You internally sighed with relief. "Not really, honestly. I was up half the night with the horses. Levi put me on stable duty for two weeks," you answered, quickly seeing that your friends were looking at you for more. "He tried to have me clean all the superior's suites, but when I went to clean his, he said I was being disrespectful and dismissed me before I even started," you snorted, seeing the look in Levi's eyes again as you told them what happened.

"What did you say to him to make him so angry?" Ymir asked, but Eren had begun to distract you again.

"I don't even remember, honestly," you replied, your eyes floating away to meet the green ones a few tables over.

---

ODM training was one of your least favorite things about the Survey Corps. It was like Commander Erwin ignored that it was practically half of your cadet training. It had never been hard for you; doing it so repetitively made you absolutely sick of it. Levi was leading training, perched on a branch to better see everyone. Every time you glanced at him, you wanted to barf. He, on the other hand, was paying no attention to you.

You sliced through another practice pad on a stupid wooden "titan." Sure, the fake titans were cool the first time, but once you had actually been face to face with one, it was nothing but funny. Still, you used it for an outlet for your anger. The only ones in front of you were Mikasa and Reiner, the three of you hardly leaving any practice pads for those behind you. You tried to push Levi's infuriating words and Eren's inviting glances from your mind and throw yourself wholly into the exercise. For whatever stupid reason, you wanted to show Levi that you were one of the best. Perhaps it was spite.

You landed on the ground at the end of the training course, taking a seat and getting some water as you, Mikasa, and Reiner waited for your remaining comrades. Bertholdt landed soon after you, followed by Eren. You looked down at your canteen, trying your best not to look at Eren as he presumably went to stand with Mikasa. He no longer made ignoring him an option, however, when he sat next to you and opened his canteen.

"Eren," you said, looking up to meet his eyes, "I don't feel like becoming Mikasa's punching bag today." You weren't looking at her, but you knew she was looking at you.

"She's harmless, don't worry. I was just wondering if you'd be at the stables again tonight." He took a long gulp of water and looked back at you.

"I'll be at the stables every night for two weeks, thanks to Levi," you said, a frown pulling at the corners of your mouth.

"It hasn't been much of a punishment so far, has it?" he asked smugly, his proud smile pulling a laugh out of you. "I'll meet you there again tonight. Don't try to kill me again?"

"No promises." Your smile faded as Jean landed. Eren spotted him too.

"I'll see you then," he told you quietly, brushing his hand over yours inconspicuously as he got up. He walked towards a glaring Mikasa with a grin, her eyes softening as he got closer. You realized that you felt bad for her; it was a shame Eren didn't feel the same way. Your musing about Mikasa was interrupted as Jean broke the short silence.

"What did he say to you?" he asked you curiously, taking the seat Eren had been in only moments before.

You quickly thought of a lie and answered, "He was supposed to be on stable duty this week. We ran into each other last night, so I sent him back to the dorms. He was asking if I was on stables the rest of the week or if he needed to come back tonight."

Jean nodded and drank from his canteen, leaning back on one hand. "I was wondering today when we would get to visit home again. It's getting kind of boring, staying here and training all the time, don't you think?"

You thought about that for a few moments. You didn't have a home anymore, or even a family. It must have slipped Jean's mind. If the Scouts were allowed leave, you would likely be staying with him, or just staying there. "I bet you miss your mom," you finally decided to say, avoiding the question altogether. You saw a look of realization on his face, and appreciated when he decided to ignore it.

"Yeah, sometimes. I mostly just miss waking up in my own room. Being surrounded by people at all times gets suffocating, you know? It seems like the good people are getting fewer and far between." You saw the frown on his face, and knew he was likely thinking about Marco.

You nudged his shoulder with yours. "I'm not going anywhere, big guy. As much as you might want me to." He looked down at you, grinning. He already knew that.

---

When you made it to the stables, Eren was already sat in the pile of hay the two of you laid in the night before. He greeted you and patted the spot next to him, motioning for you to sit down. The two of you talked meaninglessly for a while, tender touches and chaste kisses sprinkled in between words. After a while, he asked you to tell him about yourself.

"There isn't much to tell," you said, thinking.

"Well, where are you from? What's your family like?" he asked you innocently, his fingers tracing your knuckles.

"I don't like to talk about that stuff. After Wall Maria, I was the only one left in my family. Even Jean doesn't know where I'm from, or even my mom's name. I guess it's easier to pretend it never existed." You clenched your hand into a fist under Eren's fingers, clearly uncomfortable. You looked away from him.

"Let's skip that then. What's your favorite color?"

You laughed, relaxing. "I like green. Like grass and trees." You started to get embarrassed as you realized it was also the color of his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Mine is probably blue. Like the ocean."

"What's your happiest memory?" you asked him. The two of you went back and forth like that for what seemed like hours, pausing between to change how you were sitting, or laying, or just stopping to stare at each other for a few moments.

After some minutes of silence following your last answer, you laid on his chest with your eyes closed, listening to him breathe. Finally, he said, "My mom's name was Carla. She died at Wall Maria, too."

You were quiet for a few moments, then you said, "Did you see it happen?"

"Yeah." His chest grew tense. You were sure that if you looked up you would see the beginnings of tears pricking his eyes.

"You're like me, then." You ran your fingers across his ribs, trailing circles on his stomach. His arm grew tighter around you. You looked up at him slowly, meeting his bright green eyes that cut through the intense darkness outside. He removed his hand from where it rested on your stomach to cradle the back of your head, wrapping your hair in his fingers and pulling you closer to him. He kissed you, softly at first, but with growing passion as the kiss went on. His lips tasted sweet like watermelon, the salt from his skin being the perfect complement. He pulled you on top of him so that you were straddling him, letting his hands run down your back and up again, this time under your shirt. His hands were soft. He healed too quickly for the rough callouses that covered most of the Scouts' hands.

Your own hands were placed gently on either of his cheeks as he explored your body, soft fingertips tracing your spine, collarbones, breasts, stomach, and hipbones. Your breathing hitched as his lips moved to your neck, your fingers traveling to tangle themselves in his hair. You threw your head back and let a soft moan escape your lips. Without breaking his lips' hold on your neck, he gently flipped you so that you laid on the hay under him. He kissed down your collar bones, pausing for just a moment to lift your shirt over your head. When you tugged at the hem of his, he reached back and pulled it off in a single motion.

You loved the feeling of his skin on yours as he continued his path with his mouth, from your shoulder, to your clavicle, to your left breast. His lips attached to your nipple, suckling gently and letting his teeth graze it every once in a while. Your back arched, his name escaping your mouth almost silently. He kissed down your stomach and finally made it to the waistband of your pants, looking up at you with wide eyes and swollen lips. When you nodded, he unbuttoned them slowly, sliding them down your legs and placing them gently on the hay.

He placed methodical kisses on your inner thighs as you spread your legs, trailing upwards with each lick and bite. It felt like tiny shocks of electricity each time his warm mouth took your cold skin between his teeth. When his tongue finally landed on you, you were in ecstasy. You felt it shoot upwards through your body as he gently toyed with your clit, sucking softly as your hands found his hair. You kept trying to pull him closer, your hips rolling slightly to meet the intense pleasure at the source.

He moved his tongue against you for what you wished was forever, pressure swelling inside your core. His fingers slid into you with ease, your opening completely slick. He worked at your spot relentlessly, his long fingers twisting and bending to make your experience as pleasurable as possible. After a while, he gently pulled away, causing you to whine at the loss of sensation. Everything building up inside of you seemed to fade almost completely as he rose back up level with your eyes. His mouth was wet from you, glistening in the warm light of the lantern. Still, you leaned up and kissed him with as much as you could muster, your tongues falling recklessly in each others mouths as he used one arm to prop himself and the other to unbuckle his belt shakily. You reached down and finished the job quickly, yanking the buckle apart and sliding his pants down his hips.

You took him in one of your hands, stroking him softly has you continued to kiss him passionately. You bent your knees to allow him better access as you positioned him at your entrance. He took your other hand into his, placing it next to your head and interlocking your fingers tightly as he pushed into you slowly, whimpering quietly as he buried himself completely in you.

"Eren," you gasped, shocked at your sudden fullness like you hadn't been reliving it since last night. He nestled his face into your shoulder as he started to move back and forth, leaving chaste bites on your collar bone. He smelled like vanilla and sweat. It was currently your favorite scent in the world -- he was intoxicating like this; his body surrounded you in the most comforting, gentle way. Sex with him was a side you had never seen before; he was usually so grandiose and angry, but when he was intimate like this he was anything but. He was caring and gentle. He was a giver. He whimpered and moaned where you would expect grunts and groans. He would whisper your name over and over into your ear, like he was doing then. Your body would tingle with each time he said it, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

He took his head from your shoulder and his hand from yours, pressing his lips against yours with pure desire. He hooked his arms under your knees, pulling you upwards. He created an angle that left you breathless as he thrusted into your spot relentlessly. Your fingernails found his back, leaving long scratches down either spot as steam rose and healed it almost immediately. He stifled your intense moans with his own mouth as he slipped his tongue between your teeth. He moved his lips to your neck yet again, letting your moans free as he let his own slip out. "Are you close?" he asked you, looking into your eyes for the first time since you had begun.

"Yes," you told him breathlessly, causing him to speed up and continue his assault on the most sensitive parts of your neck. All of the pressure building inside of you exploded in a second, sending volts of electricity through your whole body and his name out of your mouth with a string of expletives as you came, pulsing around him in ecstasy as his strokes became sloppy and out of rhythm. He kissed you as he pulled out of you quickly, releasing himself onto your stomach with a moan that sent vibrations across your lips.

When you managed to pull yourselves apart, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. "I came prepared this time, love," he told you blissfully, wiping you clean. He threw the cloth to the side and slid his arms around you tightly, holding your head to his chest as you both caught your breath.

Stable duty wasn't half bad, after all.

[usuallyamazinglyaverage]

Side By Side [Ethan x MC]

Hey there, ya lovely people!

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and got to celebrate the season of giving with your family and friends. To end this year properly, I’m back with a bit of writing :)

I’m not gonna lie, the two months before the holidays were really rough and I had to sort so much shit out. It just kept me from most things I love doing in my free time, including talking with my friends and writing. That’s why this one took me a while to finish.

(Nevermind the fact that I rewrote this fic like two times, but that’s a story for another day)

I’ll most likely take a break from OH oneshots for a while (unless inspiration strikes me), but I am still working on stuff, inluding one or two AUs and fics for some other fandoms. I hope a breather to get my muse back on track is alright with you all ;)

I wish you all a safe journey into the next year - let’s pray it’ll be a better one <3

As always, I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes. Please enjoy!

Summary: Big steps in a relationship are always difficult - this one is no exception.

Warnings: Just some light teasing and a bit of language - this is mostly cheesy fluff <3 (I know, I’m surprised as well)

Note: MC of the fic is Annabelle Dawson. I created the header myself, hope it’s pleasing to the eye :) This is set a few months after the end of Book 2.

Taglist:  @perriewinklenerdie @andromedasinclaire @radlovedreamer @amillionmoonsred @hopelessromantic1352 @cordoniaqueensworld @paisleylovergirl  @fangirlingmum @bucket-harrington @lu-ciq @fairyrink @princess-geek @cyb3r-kat​ @whenyourheartskipsabeat @lady-kato @queenof1000days @sunflowergirl05 @jlpplays1 @tacohead13 @the-soot-sprite  @chasingrobbie @padfoot0415 @desiree-0816 @togetherwearerapture @thisperfectmemory @furiouscloddonutpeanut @tabootheunicorn @rookie-ramsey @theroseduelist @drakewalkerfantasy @lapisreviewsstuff @jooous @aworldoffandoms @edgiestwinter @inlovewithrebels @topsyturvy-dream @cerisesayeed-ramsey @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @marywitchjane @adrianrainesworld @zodiacsign1 @silverlitskies @trappedinfandoms @sherlockedmcu @drethanramslay @awhmilkywey @htgawparksandrec @theeccentricbibliophile @mvalentine @desmaranj @schnitzelbutterfingers @colourmeshy @mal-volaris @kaavyaethanramsey @riverrune @honeyandsunfl0wers @humanpokemon @ethandaddyramsey @lilyvalentine @mrsdrakewalkerblog @openheart12 @bellcat2010 @datynasuha  @caseyvalentineramsey @ethxnrxmsey @squishywizardhq @custaroonie @beckaroo @colossalpainintheass @takemyopenheart @justanotherrookie @honeyandsunfl0wers @maurine07  @grandnachoconnoisseur @dr-ramseys-rookie @myusualnerdyself @mrs-raleighcarrera @akshara16 @wingedhairstylemusicweasel​ @alookseeblog​

Song: If You Love Her by Forest Blakk

Ethan tried very hard to not look like he was running – and was failing spectacularly.

Some of his colleagues had to dodge out of his way as he strode through the hallways, white coat fluttering behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets. Slipping into the stairwell, the attending took two steps at a time, reaching the bottom floor quickly.

The atrium was packed, lit by the bright gray sky beyond the ceiling windows - reminding him that he was supposed to be busy in his office right now. Christmas was just around the corner, and after Edenbrook’s reopening, the paperwork had simply piled up, barely giving him time to bring some distance between him and his desk.

He dreaded going back already - but there was something he had to take care of first. Something that felt pivotal for his motivation right now.

Turning his head, Ethan let his eyes wander through the spacious room, from the stairs to the entrance and back again. Finally, he spotted a mess of golden locks, tucked into the usual practical ponytail.

She was with her friends, Trinh and Varma, already dressed in her day-to-day clothes, the strap of her bag slung over one shoulder. The two other women gave her a hug, shooing her along.

Ethan couldn’t help but feel silly when her bell-like, resounding laugh made his heart lurch in his chest, lifting his mood immediately.

Anna turned on her heels with one last wave and headed towards the doors, tucking up her scarf and the lapels of her jacket to ward off the oncoming cold. He waited until her friends went back to their conversation before following her, maneuvering through the crowd and catching up with the younger doctor in the light snowdrift outside.

His hand on her shoulder coaxed a tiny yelp from her, hazel eyes looking up at him with a gratified sort of wonder.

"Ethan? What-"

The older doctor cut Anna off by directing her against the wall framing the entrance, cupping her chin and gently tilting it up for easier access. The kiss was rougher than he would have liked, muscle memory taking over as he nipped on the corner of her mouth.

His former intern, however, didn’t seem to mind, parting her lips with a soft sigh.

Sliding his hands to the back of her jaw, he drew Anna closer, the sugary taste of her dissipating the rest of his stress. He smiled when she grew boneless against him, delicate fingers twirling his tie.

Eventually, they had to come up for oxygen, both drawing away with barely audible hums. Anna’s thoroughly addled expression filled him with an odd pride, her lashes fluttering against her reddened cheeks.

"Is it my birthday?“ she breathed. "Did I accidentally invent the cure for cancer? There must be something I did to deserve this."

"Actually, I just... wanted to wish you a good day," Ethan murmured, tucking a lock behind her ear. "We barely saw each other the past few days. I feel like I can’t catch a break at the moment."

Tenderness seeped into her gaze, liquefying the color to a point where he wanted to drown in it and never come out again.

"Did this help?"

He chuckled. "More than you know."

"Well, feel free to do that anyti-"

"Anna?"

Ethan jumped away from her, whirling around.

This is what you get for leaving your office, a perfidious voice nagged at the very back of his tumbling thoughts.

The tip of his ears flushed hot and he had to force himself to not look away from the woman standing a few feet from them, a grin plastered on her face.

"Hi, gran," Anna offered weakly, pushing herself off the wall. "You, um, you remember Doctor Ramsey?"

Greta Dawson gave them both an impish wink. "Hard to forget this one, right?" She looked between the two for a moment. "You don’t call him 'doctor' usually though, do you? Not that I’m one to judge."

Jesus.

Ethan rubbed the flushed back of his neck, desperately trying to find his dignity among the thick snowflakes swirling from the sky.

He had met Anna’s pint-sized grandmother a little over a year ago, after assisting in an operation that had ultimately saved her life. She was a cheeky, terrifying force of nature, intimidating in a very specific way. Mostly because meeting her had felt substantial – even then. Greta was the only relative Anna had left and as such, the older doctor didn’t want to make a bad impression.

Which he probably just did. Wonderful.

Straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat, he offered his palm. "It’s nice to see you again, Greta." The old woman chortled, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. "Likewise, Doctor Dreamy.“

Next to him, Anna groaned, burying her face against his chest. "Please take me back to work." Despite his still burning ears, Ethan frowned down at her. "Absolutely not. You worked the longest shifts this week." The blonde answered his frown with one of her own. "Traitor."

Her pout was distracting and painfully cute, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the sight. "Go," he urged after a moment of indulgence. "Spend some time with your family.“ The jig was already up, so he leaned down to press another gentle kiss to her lips, this one far more modest than he would have liked. "I’ll see you on Monday."

"I have a better idea," Greta interrupted cheerfully, twiddling her fingers at the two doctors. "How about you join our dinner tomorrow?" Opening and closing her mouth, Anna glanced at Ethan while shuffling her feet. "I mean I... I like that thought. We're making lasagna?"

There was that coyness of hers again, making him wonder if she really didn’t know how utterly charming she was – and that there were very few things that he wouldn't do for her.

"I like that thought too,“ he said, his voice quiet but certain, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze.  “Call me when you get home?“

"I will." Anna brushed her thumb along his scruffy jaw, smiling hesitantly.

"Have fun, Rookie." His blues flicked over to her grandmother, who was watching their exchange with obvious curiosity. "And, ah, you too, Greta."

The old woman winked once again. "We’ll see you tomorrow, Ethan."

“Damn.”

Anna stared into the mirror, grimacing at the smudge of mascara, just below her left eye. Sighing, she slipped the tiny brush back into the silver tube, exchanging it for q-tip to correct the mistake.

Her fingers were still shaky.

Wiping the black from her skin, she tried not to think about the man waiting for her in the kitchen – a hard thing to do when there were reminders of him all around her.

Her toothbrush rested next to his in a tall cup on the spacious sink.

Her towel occupied a shelf next to the shower.

His cologne and her perfume both permeated the air.

Reminders of him – reminders of them. All things she never would have thought possible half a year ago. Usually, the sight of shared commitment was a beautiful, giddiness-inducing facet of their relationship for her. Tonight, she couldn't help but wonder if Ethan was feeling smothered by it all.

Dinner with her grandmother was a step Anna hadn't even considered until she had caught them red-handed yesterday. Greta knew about Ethan, knew about the chaotic circumstances that had brought them together at last, but she had never expressed the wish to meet him in an official capacity.

Just one of the many firsts that he had been a part of.

Taking a deep breath, the young doctor tossed the q-tip into the trash bin, smoothing her hands along the burgundy fabric of her casual dress and her black tights – a last effort to calm herself.

The hallway outside of the bathroom was much cooler, making Anna shiver as she made her way to the kitchen.

Ethan was leaning against the island, his crisp white oxford peeking through his unbuttoned coat. Tapping away on his phone, he uncrossed his legs, dark slacks rustling quietly. He looked a little bit unreal in the dim light. An apparition, summoned by the farthest reaches of her mind.

“You're staring,” he informed her, finally looking up and interrupting her ogling.

Anna tried her hardest not to appear embarrassed, but her traitorous face heated at the comment anyway.

“You look nice,” she muttered, casting her gaze to the ceiling for a moment before meeting his once again.

Ethan chuckled, pushing himself off the island and crossing the distance between them. “You just stole my line.” His eyes swept over the dress, the blue heavy and eager. “Though 'nice' seems very much insufficient.” Stopping a few inches away from her, he pressed a lingering kiss to Anna's cheekbone. “You're stunning.”

The warmth in his voice broke her heart just a little. Anna wrapped her arms around his waist, letting his scent wash over her. Ethan stilled, one of his hands finding the back of her neck and weaving through the loose golden curls there. He didn't say anything right away, granting this moment of respite.

“You're nervous, aren't you.”

Perceptive as ever.

She released a long breath and traced the pattern of his coat. “Not because of the dinner itself.” Lifting her head, she studied his face before pressing on. “I'm just wondering if you're alright. We've really picked up the pace.”

Surprised, Ethan raised his brows. “Are you asking me if I have cold feet?”

“I... suppose I am.”

“Anna.” There was a note of gentle admonishment in his voice, urging her to listen. “You're here every second weekend. Yesterday, I practically begged you to come over, because we're barely seeing each other at work. Does that sound like I'm questioning my decision to be with you?” His lips brushed her temple. “I'll admit that your grandmother terrifies me. But that doesn't mean I don't want to get to know her better.”

“Well, now I feel silly,” she murmured sheepishly.

Ethan huffed out a soft laugh, tickling the shell of her ear. “Maybe I like that about you.” He pulled away, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You and your busy brain.” Lacing their fingers for a brief moment, he nodded his head towards the door. “Ready to go?”

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Anna sighed, letting him help her put on her jacket and lead her out of the apartment.

The drive to her grandmother's place felt far too short.

Her leg wiggled every time they passed another green light, forcing Ethan to rest his palm on it to soothe her. He did so wordlessly, keeping it there until he shut off the motor and offering it to her when they walked up the stairs to the second floor of the apartment complex. She took it, ever grateful for his quiet support.

The blonde fumbled with her set of keys when they reached the door, almost dropping them when it opened on it's own, revealing a her apron-clad grandmother.

“Gran,” she chastised, letting the old woman pull her into a hug. “Were you waiting by the door?”

“Nonsense, dear,” Greta sniffed, rubbing her back with a little too much enthusiasm.

Anna could practically hear the lie in her affronted tone, masking her pained sigh with a small cough. “Right. A preposterous notion.”

“Just as preposterous as denying me this view for past few months.” Her grandmother gestured over to Ethan, who had watched their exchange with a subdued smile. “The women in our family did always have an eye for the finer things in life, I must say,” she mused. “Come in, you two.”

Anna couldn't help but swallow as she watched Ethan hang up his coat and enter her childhood home. The furniture, the décor and even the comforting smell of chamomile and laundry detergent was the same, reminding her of days past.

With him in the middle of it all, it felt like two separate dimensions colliding and forming something she couldn't quite name. He looked both out of place and like he belonged as they followed Greta into the kitchen.

Handing her grandmother the expensive bottle of Château Monbrison the young doctor had chosen from his wine stash a few hours ago, Ethan rubbed the side of neck. “Anna told me this is your favorite. Thank you again for the invitation.”

Greta regarded him with amusement. “That's a very sweet gesture, Ethan. Tell me, how good is your cooking?”

“I -” At a loss for words, he looked over at Anna.

“He's great,” she affirmed hastily, flushing at her choice of defense. “I mean his cooking. It's great. Very good.”

“Wonderful. How about you help me prepare the rest of the lasagna then, my boy?” Her grandmother patted Anna's shoulder. “Could you be a dear and set the table? I've already left the plates in the dining room.”

“But-”

“Snowbell.” Greta brushed a lock out of her granddaughters face. “Don't worry. You'll get him back without even one hair out of place.”

On her way out of the kitchen, Anna caught Ethan's gaze, the two doctors exchanging a small, equally nervous smile before they were separated.

In the quiet of the dining room, the blonde took a shaky breath, trying to sort her thoughts as she moved plates, glasses and silverware around.

She should have expected this.

Anna trusted and loved her grandmother, dearly, but she could be a bit much at times. Then again, she had never taken such an interest in any of her partners. In Canada, she had been too far away to truly introduce her first long-term boyfriend and once she had finally returned to Boston, the relationship was already over.

And Michael – well. Nothing good had come of being with him.

Ethan was the most complicated man she had ever met by far – but he was her future. The thought strengthened every day she spend with him, every time she looked into his eyes and every time he held her close.

It was far too soon to tell him, however.

And that was exactly why she was nervous about the prospect of her Greta and Ethan alone together.

“You've been holding that fork for quite a while now.”

Startled out of her musings, Anna turned around, almost stumbling into the older doctor. He caught her by the elbows, gently prying the silverware from her fingers and setting it down.

“You're done already?” she wondered, blinking at him.

Ethan chuckled. “It's been a little over ten minutes. Lost in thought again?”

“...Can you blame me?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it wasn't as bad as you probably imagined. You're supposed to show me your room, by the way. Something about it being the prelude to embarrassing baby pictures.”

The blonde groaned, hooking her arm around his and pulling him back into the hallway. “Fine. But you better be gentle. It hasn't been renovated since I was sixteen.”

“I thought you liked it when I'm not gentle,” Ethan teased, earning himself a smack to his chest when they entered the room on the far end.

Closing the battered wood behind them, Anna watched nervously as he moved to the middle of the room, his height dwarfing the old furniture to ridiculous proportions.

His gaze wandered over the walls, the faded teal plastered over by posters and photographs. Taking a few steps closer to the scratched up vanity next to her bed, the older doctor plucked a picture from the frame of the mirror.

She fought to urge to take it from him, mashing her lips together.

Her twenty-year-old self in this particular photo looked like a textbook nerd, much shorter locks braided into two pigtails and clutching her acceptance letter for Boston's med school, while she and Greta grinned at the camera.

Ethan reattached the picture with another chuckle. Then, his gaze fell on her nightstand - and on the book sitting on it.

More specifically, his book.

The unassuming cover was well worn, some of the pages dog-eared. Picking it up, he thumbed through it, raising a brow at Anna.

"What?" she asked a bit too forcefully, cheeks burning.

His mouth twitched, eventually losing the fight against the complacent expression overtaking his features.

"Someone’s a fan," he hummed. "Want to me to sign this one too?"

"That depends," the blonde huffed, crossing her arms. "Do I need to undertake another ridiculous task before you do it?“

Grinning, Ethan tossed the book back and crooked a finger at her. "How about you come over here and kiss me, Rookie? You can decide after if that’s asking too much."

"You’re ridiculous," she murmured, walking up to him hesitantly and slipping her hands around his neck with a pout. Something utterly triumphant twinkled in his deep blues as he craned his head down, meeting her in the middle.

The kiss was soft, slow and warm, tasting faintly of toothpaste. Ethan wrapped his arms around Anna’s waist, lifting her from her tiptoes and setting her down on the bed, his lips never leaving hers.

There was a comfort in his body covering her own, the pleasant buzz of it all coaxing a faint moan from her throat.

Eventually, they had to come up for air, Ethan’s nose nuzzling her cheek.

"You know, you're the first guy to make out with me on this bed," she said thoughtfully and brushed her knuckles over his jaw, enjoying the texture of his beard against her skin.

The attending pushed himself onto one elbow, his free fingers mapping the curve of her hip. "I'm not sure how much more information my ego can take. I'm this close to begging for mercy."

"Oh my god." Anna pulled him back to her by his hair, their laughter mingling until they were breathless once more.

Eventually, Ethan rolled off to the side, facing the younger doctor on the mattress. It was oddly soothing, having him share the tiny bed with her. A peaceful little bubble, after the start of what was bound to be an eventful afternoon.

It gave her courage to ask the question sitting at the forefront of her mind.

“What did you and my grandmother talk about?”

Ethan's jaw tensed for a brief second, his palm lifting to find her face.

“She told me about the state you were in the week after I had left for the Amazon.” His calloused thumb drew a half circle. “And to be more careful with your heart this time around.”

“Or she'll put you six-feet-under?” Anna questioned weakly.

“No.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “No, she asked me while offering me a glass of wine. She's just worried, princess. And she has every right to be.”

“Ethan...”

“I can't ever take back what I did, Anna,” he sighed. “We both know that. You forgive me so easily every time I mess up and I shouldn't take it for granted. Even your endless patience will run out eventually.”

“You're worth it. You always were.”

Hazel and blue connected, both achingly soft.

“So are you.”

Unspoken words, unspoken emotions, enriched by the dim light falling through pale curtains, drowning the space in silence and contentment.

“Should we get back?” Anna murmured, careful not to disturb the tender moment with her voice. “My grandmother is probably waiting for us.”

“In a minute.” Forehead tipping down to meet hers, Ethan dragged her close, breathing her in. “In a minute, sweetheart.”

A/N: So cheesy. Was a lot of fun to write though :3

[delldarling]

jealousy blinds | merrick

chasing truth | chapter eight male faerie x gender/body neutral reader 5320 words sfw | mild depictions of magical violence/fighting, casual intimacy (touching of hands, face), secrets chapter index? or chapter seven?

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

You’re not exactly sure that you want more of Gar’s details on what constitutes Faerie ointment. It’s mildly embarrassing, and not something you want to talk about so soon after, well, everything. And yet… If given the choice between letting him tease you both, or watching them march away from the car, intent on getting the attention of an assassin? You would rather Gar continue teasing.

“What is going on with my life,” you mutter, loathe to take your eyes off of their backs. You still need to get into the front though, and you won’t do yourself any favors trying to glue your gaze to them while clambering about the car. You climb over the center console, settling down in the front seat as quick as you can, trying to pretend you aren’t holding your breath because of the nerves. You’re half afraid that you won’t be able to see them when you look back. They were going to glamour themselves, weren’t they? And despite what they said, despite what Gar said, maybe it was all just a joke to lighten the mood. 

It isn’t a joke though.

Gar was telling the truth, because not a moment later Merrick’s wings unfurl from his skin. They cast a glittering array of patterns over the near-by people and pavement, but no one looks at him. No one seems to notice anything out of the ordinary at all. You’re a little confused about Gar though, as he doesn’t seem to be willing to expose his wings, but they had said something about being from different Courts. Maybe Gar doesn’t have them. 

You lean over the console, half into the passenger seat, so you can get a better view of them in the middle of the square. You’re not sure how long this is going to take, but both Gar and Merrick had made it seem like it would only be moments before Roran felt the use of glamour. You don’t see him anywhere, but you’re not sure how exactly he’s going to appear. Will he stride through the people, intent on immediate violence? Will he stand on a bench and shout at Merrick and Gar to grab their attention?

As far as you can see though, it’s just humans. They’re sitting on benches or walking quickly through the area. People going in and out of trendy shops and small cafes. You pause after the second run through of the square, realizing that you’ve been thinking like… You’ve been thinking like a human. You lean on the dashboard, looking up. The trees here are all too spindly to really carry any weight, and some of the shops are too tall for you to see the roof of, but you still don’t see him circling through the skies anywhere.

You look back to Merrick and Gar, but the both of them are just standing in the middle of the square, arms crossed over their chests as they talk to one another.

“What if he doesn’t show?” You wonder out loud, looking at the backseat, and your bag. It’s all too tempting to turn on your phone. To check your messages, or just to waste time, but you know better. All you can do is wait. Calling your friends won’t solve any of your problems, and it’ll create new ones for Merrick and Gar. If you say something about what they are, even accidentally?

There’s a soft noise on the roof of the car and your pulse skyrockets. 

You huddle down in your seat, lifting your head to look at the roof, half expecting some kind of blade to come slicing down through the metal. Nothing happens but a slight shift and creaking noise. You’re absolutely sure of it, though, that Roran must be up there, because it makes sense. If Gar and Merrick pulled glamour over themselves as soon as they got out, this is where the trail starts.

The car rocks, gently, and another soft noise comes down closer to the passenger side, the ceiling just barely bending where he’s standing. Shit, you can’t help thinking, hands clutching nervously at the steering wheel. What if Roran realizes that you’re here? What if he stabs that sword of his down through the top of the car or reaches around and breaks the window?

Your gaze darts to Merrick and Gar, and thank your lucky stars, both of them are turned your way now. Neither of them are looking at you though, eyes focused just a little higher than normal. Roran is most definitely on the roof. 

It wouldn’t help, but half-baked thoughts of slamming your hand on the roof or turning the car on spring to mind. You have no idea if it would scare him, or if it’d only draw his attention to you... Neither of which are really good options. 

A soft pop as his weight leaves the car makes you jump, but Roran is touching down on the ground next to the passenger side. His wings arch, cutting off your view of Merrick and Gar as he throws his hands out to either side. 

“You can still come home,” Roran says, voice carrying across the square. None of the people in the square hear him, continuing obliviously on with their lives. He’s... pleading. “I wouldn’t say anything,” he continues, taking slow, measured steps towards Merrick and Gar. Roran’s wings shudder as they catch the afternoon light, and then lay flat against his back. “Aodhfin, you know I wouldn’t. Help me finish what we set out to do!”

You can’t hear what Merrick says in response, he’s too far away, but Roran’s hands slowly fall to his sides, fingers trembling.

“The Aodhfin I know wouldn’t be fooled by this being of dirt,” Roran says, and you think he might be talking about Gar. “No. Tell me it isn’t humanity!” Roran demands, gesturing at the people walking by, completely unaware of the faeries in their midst. “Tell me you haven’t been drawn in by their lies, Aodhfin. They are frail, Quick creatures,” he spits, pointing at a child. “Whatever you feel for them is fleeting, could only ever be the ripple of a single pebble in your life. Humans age and die. If you wanted, if you wanted a pet,” Roran says, fumbling, but Merrick must interrupt him, because his back stiffens, his wings flaring out in surprise.

“You can’t be-” He starts, and then his words choke off, the way Merrick’s do when he’s trying to rephrase something. When.. when the words he’s attempting to speak would be a lie.

There’s a gleam of fast-moving color, of brightness—and then they’re gone. 

Heart in your throat, you throw yourself closer to the passenger window, pressing your face up against it to catch sight of them. A glimmer of speed in the corner of your eye has you turning right, but before you can finish moving your head, the flash is gone. It feels like a game of ping-pong, with the ball moving much too fast for you to focus. You know where they are only because there’s evidence left behind—a tree branch snaps off as it clips one of them, and the cloth awning on one of the shop windows gets torn down—seeing the workers puzzle over that one might be amusing, on any other day. 

You catch sight of Merrick more often than Gar, though it’s likely because he keeps pausing, trying to get Roran in close. Gar is nothing more than a vague brown and green blur, and Roran is simply too fast for you to spot.  

One of the trees in the square is suddenly shaken, and a large root snakes up from the ground. Gar, you tell yourself, trying not to fog the window with your fast breath. The root snaps out like a whip, and then Roran is on the ground, his face full of anger as he swipes his short sword in Gar’s direction.

Merrick lands, spreading his arms to either side, no weapon in hand and approaches just close enough that Roran can’t reach him with arm or sword. You’re enraptured by the sight, by their wings and the look of desperation on Roran’s face. So much so that you shout when Gar suddenly pulls open the driver side door, scaring you into breathlessness. 

“Get in the passenger seat,” he says, voice rough, and when you focus on him you can see the dark shadow of a bruise forming on his throat. “Elbow,” he says, when he realizes where you’re staring. “Move, we need to start driving now. Merrick will catch up, but he’s not going to be able to distract Roran from my absence for long.”

You scramble over, muttering an expletive as you do, legs getting caught awkwardly on the steering wheel. You hastily buckle up, eyes darting back to the two winged faeries still talking in the square. You can’t see Merrick’s face but his hair is a mess, and his wings are buzzing with agitation. A flash of light draws your eye back to Roran.

The sword in Roran’s hand begins to lift, and you must make some sort of noise because suddenly Roran’s wrist is snagged with another root and the sword clatters against the pavement. You whip your head back to Gar, blinking in surprise when you take in his gritted teeth and his green hand, curled into a fist and trembling with tension.

Gar releases the hold he has as soon as Merrick kicks the sword away, and then he closes the car door, coughing roughly against his forearm. 

“Plant powers?” You ask after a moment of silence. Gar ignores you for a moment, struggling as he turns the key in the ignition, split knuckles brushing against the dashboard. Your heart is still thundering in your chest, but you can’t just sit here and let your own worry drown you. You have to keep talking to hold onto some semblance of normality. “Or, wait, tree powers?” 

Gar snorts. “We’re not the X-Men,” he tells you as the car finally comes to life. He pulls back out onto the street, wincing as he looks through the windshield. “Though that’s a fun thought. But yes, I have a talent when it comes to plant life.”

“Not a gardener though?” You fish, unashamed when he gives you a narrow eyed look. 

“No. I’m not, nor have I ever been a gardener. And we’re not talking about this without Merrick, you know.” He purses his lips when you don’t respond right away. “And you know that we can’t-”

“Lie, yes. Even if Merrick hadn’t ended up telling me, I did puzzle that out eventually.” You slump back into your seat, eyes glued to the rearview mirror even though you can’t see Merrick or Roran any longer. “He’s always phrased things so oddly. Granted, I don’t know that I ever would have figured out why if we hadn’t-” You stop talking, biting at your bottom lip. Gar knows how both you and Merrick feel about one another, there isn’t actually any reason to feel nervous about it, but… It’s a little awkward, trying to find a way to phrase it. Merrick might never have told you, but you’d clued in after he’d passed out in your bed. 

Yeah, that isn’t exactly what you want to talk about with Gar.

Gar turns, driving with one hand as he rubs at his throat with the other. “Working in the Courts, it’s very likely that Merrick was on par with the best. The human realm is a bit like Alice in Wonderland to us though. Learning to live here, learning to fit in with the rules of humanity?” Gar offers you a small smile. “It’s been difficult for Merrick.” He laughs then, just as his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. “And he doesn’t like TV. That makes things harder.”

He takes it out and simply passes it over to you, unwilling to take his eyes from the road. 

“It’s... It’s not Merrick,” you murmur, turning it over so Gar can see the name on the screen. His eyes widen, and his lips part in surprise, but he makes no move to take the phone.

“Ah. Best to just, just let it go to voicemail for me,” he tells you, refusing to look your way again. “Anyway. We can’t lie,” he tells you, not even attempting to be subtle with the change of subject. “I was never the Queen’s gardener, and neither you nor Merrick need push me to admit it.”

The phone stops buzzing. Conversation ceases when you place his phone in the tray next to the cigarette light, and the silence would be overwhelming without the soft, barely-there crackle of music over the radio. You’re nearly out of town before you can bring yourself to speak.

“He hasn’t called,” you prompt as Gar finally pulls into a busy parking lot. “Should-”

“We’ll wait. It shouldn’t be much longer,” he reassures you. He said it, so he believes it, right? But the longer you both sit there in awkward silence, the more tense Gar is getting. He opens his mouth, eyebrows drawn together, but before he can speak up you wave a nervous hand at his phone. 

“If you don’t call soon, I’m going to.”

Gar nods, slowly, hesitantly, but he agrees and picks the damn thing up, putting it on speaker so you can hear. Merrick answers on the second ring.

“I’m sure you’re happy to know I’m alive and I’ve escaped Roran’s reach, but I’m leaving a few false trails before I head to you,” he says, before Gar can ask him anything. Tension vanishes from the car, and you can’t help the awkward sounding laugh that escapes you, buoyed by fierce relief. “Send me a direction, an address, and for the love of Air, have a shirt ready for me.”

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

You’re slumped in your seat when Gar slams his hands against the dashboard, making you jump. He quickly leans forward, turning his head to look up through the windshield. He squints, brown eyes narrowed against the afternoon sunshine, brow furrowing as he focuses, and then mutters: “Finally!” He jabs a green finger against the glass, tracing Merrick’s route through the sky, but by the time you untangle yourself from the seatbelt, Merrick is lighting down in the parking lot. He’s four cars down, half hidden by the bed of a large black truck with mud splattered over the wheels. His cheeks and chest are flushed pink, wings slowing and finally growing still to lay flat against his back, sweeping the area with a fierce glare. You fumble for the door handle, relief leaving you mildly dizzy, but Gar stops you with a hand on your shoulder. He turns to snag Merrick’s bag from the back seat, keeping hold of your shirt so you don’t try to get out. “He’s still glamoured,” Gar mutters, digging through Merrick’s careful packing to pull out a long sleeved gray shirt. The resulting mess he leaves behind is definitely on purpose, but he ignores the indignant look you shoot his way. “I’m going to toss him a shirt. Stay in the car.”  

The stress of the last twenty-four hours weighs down your shoulders as Gar slips out. He crosses the parking lot with the shirt held loosely, tossing it to Merrick with a sly little grin on his lips. It looks like Merrick snaps at him, but Gar doesn’t act like he’s heard, just turns on his heel and comes straight back to the car while Merrick smoothes his wings back into his skin. Merrick doesn’t follow after until his wings are nothing more than tattoos again, and his shirt is back on. He passes through the shadow cast by the truck, a barely-there gleam around him making you blink, and then both of them are sliding smoothly back into their seats, doors closing behind them.

“You do this on purpose,” Merrick grouses, and bursts into a round of quiet complaints when he sees the state of his bag.

Gar laughs, and you let the stress go as best you’re able, eyelids growing heavy as they make idle chit-chat, thankful he isn't hurt. If you close your eyes, if you just listen to the rhythm of their voices, you could almost pretend that everything is normal. You’re full up on revelations for the moment, and neither of them seem to be in any rush to talk about Roran. 

“If we’re going to be in the car for any length of time, I’m going to catch a nap,” you murmur, refusing to acknowledge Gar's growing smile. You smack away Gar’s hand when he reaches out to tug at your earlobe. 

“Tuckered out already?” Gar teases, prodding your cheek while you’re busy laying the seat back. He steadfastly ignores Merrick’s scowl. 

“As if you aren’t?” Merrick interjects, cautiously leaning against the headrest as you adjust. It’s rather difficult to find a comfortable spot, knowing that you’re trying to relax inside of a stolen vehicle. Even without that knowledge still clamoring for attention in the back of your brain, the seat is worn, and there’s a loose spring digging into your ribs as you turn. At least the seat reclines.

Your eyes don’t fall closed until Merrick strokes his hand over your forehead, fingers gently tracing over your brow. “Is this, uh,” he pauses, drawing in a slow breath and you can’t help but smile. His breath hitches when you reach up, squeezing gently at his hovering hand. “Is this okay?” He finally asks, headrest creaking as he leans a little more of his weight on your seat. You let go of his hand so he can resume stroking.

“It’s good. I don’t know if I’ll actually sleep, but the touching is nice,” you murmur, and relax a little further as Gar pulls back onto the road. Somewhere between leaving the parking lot and Gar pointing out a freeway sign, you fall into a doze, lulled by Merrick timing the stroking of his fingers with your exhales. 

Some of their conversation flies right over your head. They talk about where they’re going, and where all of you will stay for the night—you have a momentary flare of worry about work and the rest of your friends—but you can’t do anything about that right now. You lean into Merrick’s hand, his fingers gentle in your hair, around the shell of your ear, and try to sleep more deeply. 

It doesn’t work nearly as well as either of you would like. 

“We can’t keep running forever,” Gar mutters sometime later, voice pitched low. They must think you’re asleep, because Merrick’s hand slows and then stills before he carefully takes his touch away. “Not with,” and he makes a small click of a noise with his tongue, clothes shifting against his seat. Your brain is still muddled with sleep, but you get the sense they mean you. “We can’t actually disrupt-”

“Human,” Merrick says with a sigh. “I know. Sooner or later, Roran is going to catch on to our plans or just plain catch up with us. Something bad is going to happen if we can’t..” Merrick trails off, and the air grows heavy, pressing in on all sides before Merrick and Gar both speak at once.

“Kill him?”

“Convince him to-”

Silence reigns, and your heart skips. 

“You think we should kill him?” Merrick asks in barely more than a whisper. He’s tense, angry, you can feel the tension as his knees press against the back of your seat. You have to force yourself not to let your eyes fly open in response. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise you, what with him having told you what exactly he was bound to do for the Court of Air, but for Gar to suggest it?

“You’ve told me how dangerous he is. How driven. Do you really think he’s going to give you the chance to convince him to ignore orders from your King? Especially when you don’t even know all the details of what you’re defending me from?” Gar sighs and the steering wheel creaks. “I… I need to tell you about it, but I’d like to wait for-”

Merrick scoffs. “Would you really? Or are you just looking for more excuses to put it off?” He leans forward, knees digging sharply into your seat. The warmth at your side means he’s leaning on the center console, resting a hand or his elbow there so he can look at Gar’s face as he speaks. “And yes, I would like to convince him of your innocence. Whatever you did, Gar, I’ve put my trust in you. I want to stay here, and if we convince him-”

“He’ll what, Merrick? Leave you here willingly so you can spend the rest of your human lovers life here? Will he go back to the King and lie for you?”

“I never said he’d lie! I would never ask him to do that,” Merrick says, tone harsh, voice growing a little louder. Fairly soon you’re not going to be able to pretend that you’re asleep. “He was my friend before anything else, Gar-”

“Was,” Gar points out. “You’ve told me that he’s ruthless, and that no matter how often you refused, he couldn’t seem to change his mindset. He only found out you lived, found out about this,” and Gar must make some kind of motion towards you, towards himself, because you can sense it, even though you can’t see or hear it. “After he decided, or was ordered to come here and take care of me! It’s new, Merrick. He’s not going to let it go, even if you bat your pretty eyelashes and give him everything he wants!”

“Why can’t we try and give him a chance?” Merrick whispers, and his voice has gone so low that you have to strain to hear it clearly. “Gar, you trusted me. You gave me a chance.”

“Even then, even when you came for me with your blade in hand, you couldn’t stop yourself from making moon eyes at the smiling human. You gave up on a fight—one I’m not sure I would have won—just to ask for their name!” Gar laughs, like he still can’t quite believe it. “You displayed want and empathy before we even spoke, and you let all of our friends go that first night, rather than risk them in the crossfire of our fight. They were innocent of any actions I made and you allowed me to get them out of the area. Roran’s orders and his anger-”

Merrick curses, but Gar pushes onward.  

“He thinks we’ve both been ensnared by one silly human. You heard him back in the square. Roran isn’t angry because you want to keep a human and a Land Court faerie around, he’s angry because you told him you have feelings for the human. That you think of me as a friend.”

“I know,” Merrick whispers, and he sounds like his heart is caught in his throat, threatening to choke him. He has to clear it twice before he can speak again. “That’s why I want—why I need to convince him.”

“That’s why he can’t be convinced, Merrick. Emotions are dangerous for the Fae,” Gar mutters, and you risk opening your eyes to glance up at them, achingly slow. Gar’s eyes have gone golden-brown in the passing headlights. “We may as well be the pixies they talk about in that story about the Youth Spirit. We only seem to have room for one emotion at a time, and Roran? Has settled on the most dangerous.”

“Anger?” Merrick asks, and his pale curls catch your eye before he sits back with a sigh. He removes his knees from the back of your seat. 

“Jealousy,” Gar corrects. “If he was clinging to a sense of duty, I would say you should try and convince him. Anger? Maybe. But jealousy, Merrick? Jealousy kills. Jealousy blinds. I don’t know if he can see beyond it.”

Despite the ache in your head and the need for more sleep, you can’t sit here in silence any longer. You make a show of moving about, shoulder rolling to try and loosen some of the tension, and then Merrick is there. His hand strokes first over your cheek and then your shoulder, his seatbelt clicking as he leans too far forward. 

“Is our dearest Horatio hungry?” Gar asks, and the rhythmic noise of the blinker picks up. 

“Gar,” you grumble in warning, opening your eyes. He’s grinning in the driver’s seat, but Merrick is frowning, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you.

“Did I miss something?” He finally asks, when he decides the quiet has gone on long enough.

“He quoted a play at me,” you say, fighting a yawn. “And while yes, I’m hungry, I don’t-”

“If you were one of us,” Gar interrupts, his grin turning a little painful, it’s so bright, his eyes darting to you. “Then Horatio would officially be one of your names. I just want you to know that.”

“Good thing I’m not then and I don’t have to respond to it, Garrick.”

Merrick laughs, and for a moment he looks genuinely happy, eyes soft as he looks down at you. He tries to lean close for a kiss, and then jerks when the seatbelt keeps him in place. “By Air,” he snarls, and promptly tugs so hard at the seatbelt that it snaps. There’s a zip of noise that accompanies the belt as it’s sucked back behind the seat. 

The whole car is silent for all of two seconds, before all three of you are laughing hysterically. It lasts probably longer than it should, a safe way to let out pent up emotions of all kinds. If all three of you keep silently refusing to look each other in the face afterwards, steadfastly ignoring wet eyes... You’re all guilty of it. 

By the time you calm down and pull into a fast food place to grab something to eat, the tension from Gar and Merrick’s argument seems to have dissipated. They’re talking with one another like nothing ever happened, ribbing each other with elbows as they dare each other to eat unsavory looking things off of the fast food menu.

You haven’t forgotten about it though, and soon, soon: Gar is going to have to tell you and Merrick both exactly what brought him to the human realm, and why the Courts are so desperate to strike him down. It probably won’t happen until you get off of the streets to sleep though, and you can’t deny that you're a little eager for it. Both for being able to stay outside of the car, and for getting the chance to find out what brought him here.

Still, you all have to pile back into the car and head back to the freeway after you eat. Gar quietly harped on you and Merrick for taking too long to eat, but you know he’s right. You’ve lingered in one place for likely too long already, though you don’t see how Roran would have trailed you to this hole in the wall place. It looks like any number of fast food places, with a red and white sign and outdated wall art.

“You can’t honestly think Roran is going to track us there,” you say from the backseat, having willingly given it up to Merrick. “It’s dark out, and we’ve been driving for hours already. And neither of you have been using glamour, right?”

Merrick sighs, twisting in his seat to look you in the face. “Only sparingly,” he says, and you can’t help the way your heart rate skyrockets. 

“But I thought-”

“We had to keep him following us out of town. You were right about him potentially doubling back if he couldn’t find any trace of us. We’ve done it twice since you started napping, and both times one of us left the car, so the residue wouldn’t linger here.” Merrick’s mouth twists. He feels guilty. 

“I’m not angry,” you rush to say, glancing at Gar when his phone lights up and he snatches it up from underneath the radio. “It makes sense, I just... I didn’t know. Is something happening?” You finally ask, when Merrick doesn’t even acknowledge Gar’s speedy one-handed typing. 

“Place to stay,” he says, distracted. 

“You know people outside the city too?” You ask, surprised. You’d thought—well. Neither you nor Merrick know how long Gar has been on the run and it’s.. Weird to think about. What if he’d been here since you were a kid? You wrinkle your nose. 

“Hardly,” he scoffs, tossing the phone back down. “But I know how to use the internet, and Roran most definitely doesn’t.”

Merrick looks disgusted, but he typically does whenever anyone talks about technology. You’ve always assumed it had something to do with back-to-nature parents or some kind of social media mishap. 

“He’ll pick it up faster than me,” Merrick admits, reaching back around the seat to take your hand in his. 

Gar shrugs, as if that’s of little consequence. “I’m fairly well versed and I still can’t hack into things. The aversion to man made materials still makes me feel a bit ill. I doubt that Roran is going to pick up cyber tracking.”

That thought is an amusing one. Roran had been lovely, despite his frightening aura, but he hadn’t seemed to care one iota for anything human-based around him, and knowing that includes technology is a little reassuring. The thought of him surrounded by computers, with great wings tucked in tight against his back and his sword catching on desks makes you smile.

“Yeah, he didn’t quite strike me as a hacker of any kind,” you agree, hoping your smile softens the comment for Merrick’s sake. He doesn’t look angry or upset, but his jaw is tight and his eyes are far away. When neither of them pick conversation back up, you lean your head on the back of Merrick’s seat, staring down at his fingers twined with yours. 

“Are we staying somewhere cruddy?” You ask, assuming Gar set the three of you up in some kind of motel.

“Like the place Merrick was crashing at when he first came here?” Gar sticks out his tongue. “Ugh. No. I like creature comforts more than that, and I’m sure the both of you would prefer something nicer.”

“Merrick stayed—no, never mind. Where did you set us up then?”

“How about we talk about you?” Merrick quietly interrupts, and for a moment you think it might be because he’s embarrassed. When he turns to look Gar in the face though, there’s no hint of flushed cheeks or an irritated glare, as if he hadn’t heard Gar’s teasing in the first place. His jaw is set and his eyes are hard. “We’ve put this off plenty long enough, Gar. We need to know.”

It’s silent for an awkward amount of time. Long enough that you’re starting to fidget, but both Merrick and Gar seem nearly frozen in their seats. Merrick must win the stand off though, because Gar’s shoulders start to hunch around his ears. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to start,” he mutters unhappily, hands tensing around the worn steering wheel. 

“How about you tell us what you did in your Court?” You offer, letting go of Merrick’s hand purely so you can sling your arms around him and the headrest. He leans into your touch, but doesn’t take his eyes away from Gar. 

Gar sighs, lips pressed into a thin line as he considers your words, mulling over his own. Haltingly, he starts to speak.

“I was born in the Court of Land,” he says, shoulders slowly slumping as he gives in. “And all I ever wanted to do was join the Guard.”

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

...turn the page?

[my-writings-and-musings]

I was wondering if you could do something with ambulon, possibly fluff? Love the imagines btw

Thank you for giving me an excuse to love on my favorite underappreciated boy. Also, thank you, I love all the inspiration!

The chipping paint was a sore point for Ambulon, like so many other things about himself, but unlike all his other unfortunate traits it was made so much worse by the simple fact that it was impossible to hide. Having an embarrassing altmode, the true reason for his name, even his past as a Decepticon... he could cover all that up no problem. But the constantly chipping paint job? No shielding that from anyone close enough to simply see him...

It was made worse by how often bots tried to offer tips; use a primer, pay for a proper redo, try some new sealant... He knows they mean well, but none of them know what they're talking about, not really. If it was that easy, did they really think he wouldn't have fixed it by now? The Decepticon purple paint underneath was just as fragmented as the medic coded red and white on top, and that wasn't going to be fixed by anything simple.

The truth was "Flaky Paint Syndrome" could have many causes despite manifesting as a single, embarrassing result, and while most bots had poor application or easily irritated mesh to blame, his problem was rooted in something far less corporeal.

He was anxious. Every hour of every day, something had him on edge, and the constant strain on his nerves resulted in chips of paint cracking away from his always agitated frame. It was lucky really, most bots as unsettled as he was developed spark static or overheated and warped joints, his constant buzz of disquiet just made him look somewhat sloppy. Such a personality probably made his occupation seem like a bad choice, but he was content to endure the struggle for the satisfaction of saving lives, and now that he was on the relatively stable Lost Light he was managing better than he had in a long time. Thus, he hadn't had any plans on changing his status quo anytime soon.

Until you had showed up.

He hadn't even met a human before you'd joined the crew, but even if he had, he never could have expected that you'd get tangled up in his life the way you did. Something about you had just... connected with him. Maybe it was the fact that you didn't make fun of him, either for his altmode or his appearance, and also hadn't judged him for his past... Not even the reason for his silly name had made you laugh! He just liked spending time with you, even if it was to do nothing in particular.

As a result of these feelings, a desire to impress you had formed, and he'd actually made an effort to keep up with his looks for a change. Granted, that meant daily repaints completely unaided and in secret, all in his room where he twisted and turned in a ridiculous effort to look good for the person who probably only saw him as a friend. Logic didn't play much of a role in feelings, however.

Of course, it was just his luck you'd walked in on him at this most embarrassing time for the kind of friendly visit he ordinarily would have been thrilled about.

The cry of surprise that had escaped him when the doors whooshed open was impressively high pitched for a bot of his size, but you'd probably been more focused on the paint his startled jump had sent spattering in all directions, though none of it had flown far enough to hit you by some miracle.

"Ambulon, are you okay?!" You shouted in alarm, seeing the flash of red but not his paintbrush and immediately thinking of blood. Though you knew bots bled glowing pink, the instinct to offer aid at the first impulse was just too hard to ignore. Without hesitation, you hurried to get to his side, only growing more concerned as he hid his hand behind his back. Even if this wasn't how you'd wanted your visit to go you cared far too much about the medic to be concerned about such petty things. "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"

"Who? Me? Hurt?" He rushes in ongoing panic, backing up against a desk to put as much space between you and him as possible. Despite looking ridiculous backing away from someone as small as you, all he can think to do is hide his paintbrush in an effort to save his dignity. At least, what's left of his dignity as he sputters through an excuse made up on the spot. "I'm just, uh... You know..."

Painting a landscape? Applying color to his hab suite? Decorating his medical supplies!?

"Are you painting something?" You asked, moving your small body to catch a glimpse of a bot sized paintbrush in the hand he hadn't done a good enough job of hiding. You figuring out the problem actually seemed to make him panic more, and he twisted again to hide the offending object behind his back, looking down at you as if you'd just stumbled upon him burying a body.

"Of course not!" He said in a rush, lie falling apart when the thick application of bright red he'd applied to his chest dripped downwards from the force of his rapid twisting around. Cringing, he avoided your eyes like a criminal. It would be bad enough if you simply knew about his troubles in any level of detail, but to have personally seen his juvenile and ridiculous efforts to cover up his humiliating condition... Would it be too much to ask that he dissapear at this very moment?

"Ambulon, are you okay?"

Nope, he's not, he won't be ever again but it's very nice that you thought to ask-

"Seriously, look at me."

You're firm but not at all angry as you issue the command, starting to put the pieces together in a way that makes some sense. The medic has had paint troubles more or less his entire life, as you've heard, but they had started to dissapear right about when you showed up. Though you hadn't pried, it had been logical to assume he'd been fixing himself up. Regardless of the accuracy of your guess, however, you know that this bot needs help. As much as you care for him, you simply can't let him suffer needlessly. No matter how often he switches between seeking you out and avoiding you...

"I'm... I'm fine, I promise." He mumbles, feeling like a pitiful failure for not even thinking to lock his door. There's so much to be embarrassed by he doesn't even know where to begin being mortified, but it's obvious the fallout will be a spiral into further humiliation, so he still wants to stall. You'll laugh when you hear he's been fixing himself up in a ridiculous attempt to impress you, because of course it's absurd, and he'll never be able to show his face again...

"Why are you embarrassed about some paint? I figured bots touched themselves up every now and then." You said innocently, baffled as to why he'd react in such a way. Rodimus bragged about redoing his colors all the time, so you'd figured there were no issues in doing so. Was there some other reason this could be considered embarrassing? The only possible explanation required you to go on a bit of a limb, but for his sake you decided to chance it, gulping once before you hesitantly spoke up. "Did you do this for me? Have you been redoing the colors since I got here?"

Ambulon flinched, and you realized you'd hit the nail on the head.

"I'm sorry-"

"For what?" You asked incredulously, head swimming with emotions clustering to be felt first. There was surprise, giddy delight, bashfulness, and even confoundment at the idea you could be in this situation. A part of you wanted to celebrate, but there was still far too much to sort through at the moment. His look of hopelessness exemplified the problem.

"For being ridiculous! Look at me! Pretending if I touch up some rough patches, it'll actually do anything? Ha!" He said, giving voice to the unpleasant uncertainty that lurked just below the surface. Drowning in his insecurity, he frowned hard, the absurdity of what he'd been trying to do all but slapping him in the face. Forget the species difference, you were a vibrant and charming individual who deserved far better than he. What had he even been trying to do? The answer came out of him as he sunk down to the ground and let the brush fall, hugging his knees as the weight of it all pulled him down. "I wanted so badly to look good for you, I lost track of common sense..."

"But Ambulon-"

Unable to hear you, he kept right on going, lost in his own little fog of shame. "You weren't supposed to know... Nobody was supposed to know... But I blew it-"

"Ambulon!"

You couldn't take it any more. The heartbreaking sight of the bot you thought was so delightful tearing himself apart was too much. Ignoring any common sense, you put yourself out for his sake, opening up your heart in the hope that your own vulnerabilities might help him feel better. A tender hand on his own preceded a gentle expression of reasurance as you looked into his optics.

"I'm flattered you want to look your best for me, really. But it's not necessary." You said, suddenly aware that your heart was hammering as you prepared to confess. It was probably about time you cut to the chase, after spending these months bobbing along in uncertainty, but that didn't make it any less scary to be so open. Hopefully it would all end well... "I think you look fine just how you are."

Ambulon felt his processor go blank, and all that he could do was fall back on his usual attitude with a surprised retort. "But I'm a mess!"

You laughed, but not in the way he'd feared. It was a good natured, loving, laughing with him and not at him kind of sound. "I don't care about some paint chips now and then, you goof. Why do you think I'm here?" All of a sudden your fear seemed to be turning into confidence, the anxieties you'd created for yourself melting away as the truth came out. Seeing a towering alien laid low by your simple feelings definitely made it much easier to express them. "I wanted to see you, purple and red and all, because I like you."

Something clicked inside of him upon hearing those words. So much shame and fear dissolved in what felt like an instant, his optics pushing up with his cheeks as he smiled the biggest and happiest smile he could, optics brightening the whole while. It was what he'd wanted more than anything but feared he'd never receive. Unfurling his legs, he leaned down just a tad to get closer. Heedless to everything about himself that had bothered him so much, he spoke softly in return.

"I really like you too."

"I know." You replied softly, looking to the brush that had fallen to the floor and the paint still drying on his frame as an idea hatched in your head. The two of you had a lot to talk about, it seemed, and you had the perfect way to pass the time while doing so. "Now, how about I help you finish up? Don't want all this to go to waste."

Realizing what you were suggesting, he picked up a much smaller paintbrush and handed it to you, still smiling as he helped you onto his desk where the paints laid out for use.

"I'd like that."

[all-might-can-smash-me]

Memories

Aizawa Shouta x reader

Summary: Memories of your younger years bubble up and out from the lips of you and Aizawa during a late night on U.A.’s campus.

Sorry for typos

its a bit of a manga spoiler, though I relied on research because i haven’t read that far into the manga, I’m only on chapter 8 :’)

Masterlist

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The nightly bugs sang their ballads and serenaded into the summer air within their little confines of the grass that had begun to dew or upon the trees that would dance along the breeze. Upon U.A. high’s campus, the darkness could have swallowed it whole from the night if it weren’t for the persistent shine of the moon above along with it’s stars and also from one particular dormitory. From the vast windows of the common area came a flickering glow. The light that was illuminated would softly flick between different colors and dim and brighten in a random sequence. If it weren’t for you being awake and taking your final stroll around the school to make sure every door was locked and shut before heading to the teacher’s dormitory, you wouldn’t have even seen it. With a sigh, your chilled hands clutched your fuzzy nightrobe to tighten it around you as you began to tread through the fresh dew on the grass, the dampness already sinking into your shoes as you finally stepped up to the dormitory for the class 1A, pushing through the door and treading quietly into the common area.

Most of the class seemed to be piled up to together at the tv, the movie KiKi’s Delivery Service seeming to start again after resting on the title screen for far too long. The students were all wrapped up in blankets, pillows, huddled together either on the plush cushions of the couch or upon their pile of pillows thrown onto the floor, all fast asleep and snoring and muttering in their sleep peacefully.

You had begun to tread carefully through the sea of bodies, tiptoeing to the bright light of the tv, though a stirring body caught your attention from the floor as you stepped next to it.

“Mom....?” Groggily spoke out a voice nonother than Izuku who was squinting up at you through his half asleep state, which you held back a laugh as you leaned down, beckoning him to lay back down.

“Go back to sleep, kid...” you whispered out as your hands grabbed the blankets that fell off of him, gently resting them back on him. The teen didn’t need to be told twice to go back to sleep though as he was already snoring and muttering in his sleep again, adding onto the iconic ambiance of night. The whole entire scene that surrounded you threatened to make your heart explode as you successfully reached the tv, already stopping the movie and turning off the television screen.

“Glad this isn’t a school night...” came out a hushed voice behind you which startled you as you turned away from the tv. Aizawa stood on the opposite end of the sea of sleeping teenagers. He was in his own simpler sleepwear, hair messily pulled back in a ponytail. You know he didn’t even bothered to brush it, but that didn’t stop him from still being very attractive before you and make you feel stupid in your hot pink robe with your plain shorts and an old t-shirt that had begun to have holes forming in them.

“Come on...enjoy the scene Shouta....they are all pretty cute right now....kind of all look like little children, it’s hard to think that they all might be pro heroes soon with their own agencies and what not..” you spoke back in a hushed voice as you carefully manuvered around stretched out arms, legs, and bodies to stand beside Aizawa too look at the peaceful sight of class 1A. You loved those kids, you couldn’t deny that, they were like your own children, your own family. You knew Aizawa felt the same way with that little soft look that had begun to bloom within his eyes as he looked to the room filled with sleeping students. He would definitely never admit to that, but that look his casted from those kind eyes was all the confirmation you needed.

“Yeah...well they are out past the ‘quiet hours’ that were set by Nezu...” he whispered, a single blink of his eyes managing to blink away that softness and adoration he held for the students before him. You only shook your head as you quietly began to make way for the doors, Aizawa following shortly behind you to lock the doors behind the two of you once your bodies had soon been released back into the cool air of night and the ambiance of singing bugs.

“Like we would have even made the time to read the rules when we were their age......and you know, I kind of wish we had dormitories when we were here...” you spoke out as you watched the keys within his hands jingle as he pulled them from the lock of the door, watching his rough hands shove them sloppily into the pocket of his sweats. “Imagine all the fun things that we could have done, like watch a movie with the whole class, karaoke, board games...” Aizawa only let out a scoff as he listened.

“We made some pretty good memories while we were here without a glorified long term sleepover.” He said matter of fact as the two of you had began to casually walk along the cracks of the cement sidewalk maze that rested upon the campus grounds, the short cut through the fresh dewed grass not evident in your minds. The erasure hero looked confused though as you let out a snort and a hearty laugh to his conjecture.

“I never said we didn’t have good memories.” You explained as you looked over and up to him. “Those memories of me and you constantly having our ears pounded in by Yamada at karaoke clubs after school and forcing you out to get Shabu-Shabu with us when winter would hit are some of the fondest memories I have...” you said with a sigh of content as the memories played quickly through your head like a nostalgic movie of your childhood. “Oh! And the time we watched Milo and Otis and we couldn’t stop crying hysterically, so my mom made us hot chocolate while we couldn’t understand in our young minds why we were crying...” you said through your giggles at the sudden memory that had broken free from the depths of your brain that had been trapped there from long ago.

“I still don’t understand why I was crying over that movie....” A small little smile had crawled to the corners of his lips, a little laugh of his own now joining in with your uncontrollable giggles that bubbled up and away from your lips. “And then all those times us, Oboro, and Yamada would spend huddled on the front steps of the school. Just to think....I kind of actually thought we had our own cool, little posse....looking back we probably looked really lame to the rest of the school.” He said as he couldn’t help but let his face cringe, a hand rubbing over his tired eyes.

Once those tired and irritated eyes met the vibrant expression upon your face, his heart had begun to thud within the confines of his chest as he watched your laughter slowly begin to die away as you recalled all those pleasant memories that felt so very long ago. Your beauty slapped him in the face as children and teens....and it still did now as a worn out adult.

“Lame at school, probably....but only if Oboro could have seen us at our wedding reception...” you said as you facepalmed, those giggles of yours drifting in his ears like the soft melody of a wind chime in a soft breeze. “Mom kept filming everything, even filmed Yamada’s version of break dancing and then us, Yamada, and Kayama all dancing to our favorite song together while drunk out of our minds when we finished up with all the traditional aspects of it. I still need to thank Yagi for telling me how the American’s do it...” One of your hands had escaped from the warmth of the fuzzy robe pocket to grasp almost shyly onto his hand.

You don’t know why, but it kind of felt like the two of you were back in your final year of high school, back when the two of you had found yourselves in the awkward stages of crushing on each other. How you felt flustered everytime you would look to the visible parts of his face through that unruly dark hair of his even if you basically grew up looking at it. Or how he would find himself with a blank mind whenever you would ask a simple question about homework when he use to be able to do it simply years before about anything and everything. Yamada and Oboro figured it out quickly too though. The two were in your room, sprawled out on the bed or messing with things on your desk as you dug through your clothes frantically and constantly asked for their opinion on how you did your hair, makeup, and put together your outfit when before you never seemed so frantic on looking nice before heading to pick up Aizawa to all head out to eat together. The blush that tinted Shouta’s cheeks and his gaze that sat on you for a bit longer than it regularly would while eating at your little ‘posse’s’ favorite ramen shop confirmed their conspiracies as they casted their knowing glances to each other and covered their grins with slurping their noodles.

“It feels like it was all only yesterday...maybe it’s because we’ve been on this campus for far too long.” Muttered out Shouta, almost a bit disappointed as the teacher dormitories had come to his view. He didn’t know if he wanted sleep to swallow up the memories to store them away for years to come again.

“Hm...maybe you’re right.....but how about remembering that night after the reception? I think I need to remember...” You whispered out now as you had pushed open the doors to the building with your free hand, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder and at him.

“Hmm....I’m not opposed to that...the other teachers in the dorms? Eh...” he said quietly with a surpressed laugh as the two of you begun to quicken your paces to your shared room.

[brimmingwithautism]

Nail Painting for Idiot Sorcerers and Tired Lesbians

Archive Link Here

Fushiguro threw himself against the window for the third time, forcing his skinny shoulders under the frame so he could push the old hinges as high as they could go. Nobara sighed from her position on the floor, a bottle of dark green nail polish already open and fumigating the broom closet the school had given her as a room.

“Itadori will be here in a minute, he can brute force his way through,” she said as her teammate once again slumped over in defeat. It’s not even that she minded the smell of acetone so much, but she doubted Fushiguro would stick around if they couldn’t get any amount of fresh air in. Well, she thought with a vicious little smirk, he might if Itadori asked him to. 

As if sensing her thoughts, Fushiguro twisted his neck around to glare at her. “I still don’t understand why we aren’t training.” He had his uniform on even though it was the weekend, shoes laced tight and muscles tensed. As far as Nobara could figure, her teammate never relaxed, something that had only gotten worse after Itadori died, then came back, then nearly died again in the exchange event with Kyoto. 

But Nobara had also picked up on the fact that Fushiguro had been involved in the world of sorcery and curses for years, maybe most of his life. It was her solemn duty to teach him how to chillax once in a goddamn while, regardless of how grumpy he got. And he could get pretty grumpy, a fun fact she was learning day by day. 

She didn’t say any of that, though, because she didn’t just go around spilling her feelings like that to teenage boys who couldn’t even understand their own moods. She stuck her tongue out instead and started the first careful pull of the brush over her pinkie finger. Her hands were rough, of course, and getting rougher every day in Tokyo. She knew this. She allowed this.

But she also wanted them to be beautiful. Nobara was getting better at the balancing act since coming to Tokyo: making the decisions she could and dealing with the ones she couldn’t. She had a black eye given to her from Panda yesterday that she couldn’t control but the hammer she had swung at his wrist in retaliation was something she could give back in return.

Plusses and minuses. Choices and sacrifices. Pretty nails and a stinky room - Nobara was learning. 

The window opened with a deafening screech by the time she had started on her middle finger. Fushiguro gave a pleased grunt. She put down the bottle in her unpainted hand long enough to give off a couple victory snaps that were only half-sarcastic. It was impressive he got it open at all considering Gojou-sensei had told her that he himself glued the windows down years ago as a prank on another student.

“Can I get back to training now?” he asked even as he sat down on the floor next to her. Nobara didn’t want to sit on the floor, but she knew it would be easier than trying to convince her teammates to get on the bed with her - and she couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling that once they did get on the bed Gojou-sensei would pop through the window to accuse them of youthful troublemaking. She just assumed he really had nothing better to do.

For Gojou-sensei it would be a coat of white polish, she thinks, or maybe bright blue with a sparkling silver accent nail. She knew she wouldn’t find a color to match his eyes, though, something that would frustrate her. 

Fushiguro was an easy choice: black. It’s the only thing she could even get near his hands without him scuttling away and it went well with his whole “I’ve been in my goth phase for years now” look. Even still, pushing the bottle of jet black polish towards him only garnered a huff and a set of shifty eyes. It didn’t matter - she still had a secret weapon.

For a while they sat in silence, the only sound the wind as she went down her left hand and started on her right. Nobara had never really had male friends before, honestly didn’t think they were worth more than the time it took to bully them off the swings at recess, but she liked Fushiguro.

He was quiet, which was always nice, but he wasn’t scared of noise, which was practical. He took Itadori’s brash personality and Nobara’s absolutely charming personality in stride, content to let them fill the space around him. He was quiet with his kindness as well, but it was there in the way he made the meatballs Itadori taught him, the way he saved her life in that cursed domain all those weeks ago.

Nobara wasn’t nice like that, she knew. But she could paint nails.

When Itadori eventually did bother to show up it was through her now-open window, thirty minutes late. He practically leapt through, landing hard on her floor before rapidly crawling under her bed. His sudden entrance surprised her enough that her brush went wide and painted her cuticles more than her fingernail. Fushiguro dragged himself so he could poke his head up enough to see through the window while Itadori seemed to be trying to claw Nobara’s duvet off her bed for another layer of protection. 

She nailed him in the eye with her comb, prompting the most dignified yelp she’d heard in her life, but the sound of Fushiguro hitting the desk was enough to make her turn. Eyes wide, he only had to whisper one word to send her diving along with Itadori under the bed: Panda.

If he saw them, it didn’t matter how many days they had already trained this week  —  they were training again. Ears straining, eyes wide, Nobara shook her hands as frantically and silently as possible in case she ended up needing to fight with only the base layer on. It wasn’t fair, they were barely even dried yet!

There was a shadow cast on the floor through the open window as a lumbering form wandered past the building, calling out Itadori’s name. Fushiguro became one with the floor as he silently slid under the bed as well; he was smart enough to drag the nail polish with him. 

The shadow grew ever larger until Nobara could see the white head of Panda peering through the window, sniffing experimentally. “Inumaki, it looks like they finally managed to get the window open!” 

Another tuft of white hair poked its way through the window with a muttered “Salmon,” before withdrawing once again. Panda left a few seconds later, swiping at his nose and complaining about the smell of nail polish.

Nobara, now unfortunately squeezed in the narrow space under her bed with both her teammates and a duvet, gave the quietest sigh of relief that she could before trying to maneuver her body down and out. It was slow going given her unwillingness to touch anything with her hands and mostly left her wriggling around like a worm on a hot sidewalk as Itadori giggled into his scarf. 

“Shut up!” she hissed, hitting him with her wrist. 

“Oh, that’s a pretty color!” he exclaimed, grabbing her hand. “Did you do it to match Maki-san’s hair?” 

The headlock she put him into was a purely instinctual response and therefore NOT her fault, even if it did manage to get the wet polish on her right hand all over Itadori’s cheek. It ended with Fushiguro divebombing them with the duvet to muffle the choking sounds, leading to an uncomfortable tangle of limbs that ended with both boys blushing and Nobara lamenting her ruined paint job. 

Getting out from under the bed was an exercise in frustration and more worm-like movements that Nobara would take to her grave. Fushiguro took lookout once more, but after a thumbs up all three of them managed to wrangle themselves to a circle on the floor with the nail polish once again.

“So!” Nobara started, because it was her idea, “Fushiguro is getting black nails and Itadori can have pink. It should match with your dye job.” The bottle she held up to his head wasn’t perfect, but she thought it was pretty enough. Itadori confirmed this when he snatched it from her hands with a wide grin.

Her other teammate pouted but took the bottle of black polish as well, falling to a combination of Nobara’s fearless leadership and Itadori’s enthusiasm. 

The way they were so obviously crushing on each other made Nobara feel better about her choice in polish - Maki-san wouldn’t think it was creepy, right? It was just a nice color, really, and it didn’t have to be any deeper than that. 

She methodically wiped away any mess off her hands and began once again to paint her nails, paying close attention to making them neat. Itadori didn’t seem to mind the mess he made on his hands, and Nobara was glad she had plenty of remover on hand. Her other teammate managed to paint his nails perfectly on the first try, but Nobara was resolved to not even look at him so she wouldn’t get angry about it. She mostly succeeded.

“But Kugisaki, won’t we all mess up our nails tomorrow in training anyway?” Itadori asked after about five minutes of blissful silence. 

Nobara gave another paranoid peek out the window as she considered the question. “We can put on a top coat to protect it some, but it’ll probably get dirty, yeah.” She inspected her left hand in the light, tilting it from side to side before blowing on her fingers lightly. It looked better than it did before.

Fushiguro, fed up with the disaster next to him, grabbed the pink polish and started painting Itadori’s right hand, entirely oblivious to the violent blush that stained Itadori’s face. “Then why,” he asked, moving his canvas into a better position, “Are we bothering to put in on in the first place?’

“Because I like it when my nails look good.” And you need a break. And Itadori needs to be around people again. And we need to do something other than train and fight for a day. “And you guys desperately need my fashion advice.”

Right hand finished, she thought with satisfaction. Time to dry and then put on another layer. She was debating about trying to do additional details or designs but she knew Fushiguro was right - they would be destroyed in training tomorrow.

And she would do it again. And again. She made the decision, she painted the nails, she fucked them up later trying to avoid Maki-san’s endless arsenal of weaponry. 

Itadori bounced his knees up and down as he sat criss-cross waiting for his hand back. He always had energy with whatever he did. Nobara had never seen him still, not really; she was still lying unconscious in the car when they picked his body up and she had never gone to see him in the morgue. It didn’t feel right considering that they had barely known each other. Considering Nobara hadn’t been able to help him at all.

His finger on her nose pulled her from her thoughts. “Hey, Kugisaki, is liking Fushiguro’s cousin breaking the bro code or not?” 

“I am not your bro!” she shouted with enough presence of mind to lash out with her feet instead of her hands. Her kick to his abdomen did nothing, unfortunately, his stupid abs absorbing the blow without even having the hand that was being painted shake.

Fushiguro huffed. “Can we not talk about your crush on Maki while I”m still here?”

“Would you rather talk about your crush?” she retorted. Again, both her teammates turned beet red, and again, both her teammates were completely oblivious. The only reason she hadn’t gone right out and said anything was because their entire situation was too funny to cut short prematurely. 

She picked up her bottle of polish with a grin and began the second coat. Itadori started to furiously blow on his fingers in the background, though Nobara thought that the heat still coming off his face was enough to dry his hands in seconds. 

“Are you doing a second layer?” she asked Fushiguro as he sat still, not moving to leave but not moving to continue painting either. 

“Kugisaki-san,” he mumbled, looking off to the side. It was uncharacteristic for him to look embarrassed like that considering Nobara had seen him say the stupidest things with the straightest face, so she didn’t interrupt. “Maki doesn’t paint her nails.”

Oh, she thought.

He really is kind.

Pinky finger done, then the ring finger. “Whether or not I have a crush on Maki-”

“But you do,” Itadori sang gleefully.

“Shut up! Whether or not I have a crush on Maki-san is immaterial - I’m painting my nails because I want to.” She grinned at her teammates before deflating again. “The color is just a coincidence.”

Itadori made another little crow of victory at her admission. “You’re really cool, Kugisaki!” 

“Watch your nails!”

The next half hour or so managed to actually be some measure of peaceful as Fushiguro and Nobara traded off painting their own nails and Itadori’s. Panda never came around again, and if she thought she saw a flash of white hair pass by the window, she didn’t say anything. And neither did Inumaki-san. 

Itadori complained enough about not being able to use the nail polish himself so she let him apply the clear topcoat to her fingers, confident enough that he couldn’t stain her work with that. When he grabbed her hands, twisting her wrist to look at the callouses on her palms, she didn’t stop him, just raised her eyebrows. 

She knew he wasn’t hitting on her, a comfort she didn’t take for granted. As much as she denied her crush on Maki-san (It was just because her senior was cool!), it was still surprising every time she heard her teammates joke about it in a kind manner. 

“Kugisaki,” he eventually said after about five seconds of solemn reflection, “When did you learn to fight curses?”

Nobara opened her mouth automatically before closing it again, letting herself think about the answer. Fushiguro was also looking at her, head tilted in the way that meant he was absorbing every single word to an uncomfortable degree. 

“I was young,” she eventually said. She drew her story together in her head as Itadori resumed painting her nails, trying to decide what would matter to her teammates and what wouldn’t.

“There was a curse on the swingset of my school, one that only I could see. I wasn’t scared, really, mostly annoyed that it was interrupting recess.” She blinked and could almost see the shape of it crawling on her dresser: a long spindly mess of mulch-brown legs and protruding eyes. It carried itself over all the equipment, tripping or pushing children along the way. “The teachers didn’t believe me but my dad did. My aunt lived with us and she was a sorcerer, B-Grade, but she was on a job at the time so he told me to just read inside during recess so I could avoid it.”

Itadori laughed at that. “You tried to beat it up, didn’t you?”

“Of course! My aunt used throwing knives in a technique almost like mine - I didn’t know it at the time. All I knew was my dad worked as a carpenter and he had a mallet in his toolshed that was light enough to swing around.

“I carried it in my backpack the next day and after school, I went to the playground and beat that ugly little curse’s face in. It was beyond weak, thankfully, but at the time I felt like I was a superhero. When my aunt came home the next day I told her everything and demanded she start training me, so she did.”

She freed her hands from Itadori and gave them to Fushiguro to clean up all the excess topcoat that was hanging around her cuticles. “She painted her nails before and after every mission and she let me pick the colors.”

She stopped there. She had answered the question in full, told Itadori and Fushiguro more about herself than she knew about them, but she still wanted to go on.

Her aunt was gone a lot, traveling around all the country towns exorcising the curses that no one else noticed. But she raised Nobara when she could, not a mom but a mentor. An idol, almost, with the way Nobara used to look at her. She had always been so cool: short hair, leather jackets, heavy work boots that matched her father’s construction shoes perfectly. And her nails were always bright and colorful and fun.

Her aunt wanted to be an exorcist so she was. She didn’t want to get married so she stayed single. And on a job that should have been routine, she made the choice to save a family and then she didn’t come home. 

Nobara, who was barely able to land her nails with precision at the time, had been too numb to cry when her father had told her. Saori had already gone by then, a wound Nobara had been stubbornly ignoring, but this was an absence that was too wide to even think about.

What made up a life? What made up Nobara when everyone was gone, leaving her in a town that drove away anyone it didn’t understand? Her aunt had never minded, had been too strong to mind the sneers that followed her when she stuck around between jobs, but Nobara wasn’t strong like that yet.

Nobara was eleven.

Or, she was. 

But now she was older and her attacks always landed and she made her own choices exactly like her aunt did. 

Nobara didn’t need to say this though. She needed to finish painting Itadori’s nails so they could sneak out to dinner in order to avoid more evening training with the second years.

Fushiguro finished applying the topcoat to his own nails with a bemused look, like he still couldn’t believe he bothered painting them at all. 

“Hey Itadori,” she whispered as loudly as possible, “Fushiguro kinda looks like one of his dogs right now.”

Itadori did a perfect imitation head tilt in response that had both of them rolling on the floor and Fushiguro did his best to seem grumpy. The fact that he was still hanging out with them ruined the effect a bit. Her plan to make them calm down was going perfectly! Next was a nice dinner out (that she would make them pay for) and maybe some retail thera-

“Oi!” came a call from out the window. 

Itadori fell completely flat on the floor out of instinct and Fushiguro wasn’t moving, so it was up to Nobara to make her way over. In the four steps it took to reach the window she mourned her dreams of Tokyo sushi and late-night shopping: Maki-san was standing three feet away and staring directly at her.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey,” she said, poking her head out and leaning on the windowsill. Maki-san wasn’t wearing her jersey, at least, but the glint in her eye told Nobara that Maki-san knew she had been hiding. It wasn’t fair how put together she still looked after what was probably a full day of training: Maki-san really was the worst kind of jock.

“Let me see your nails,” Maki-san said with a snap, causing Nobara to reel backward in surprise and almost trip over her duvet which the boys had left on the floor. She saved herself though - letting her senior see her fall over like that after all the training they had already gone through would be a nightmare. 

Maki-san laughed, tilting her head back (in a way that was completely unfair!). “If you first-years are going to skip training so you can all paint your nails together, I at least want to see if you did a good job.”

Nobara blushed, or maybe she had been blushing the entire time, but dutifully stuck her hands out for Maki-san to see. She was seriously regretting the color choice now, but she had to be brave! It was her decision to use the color so it was her decision to be completely embarrassed in front of the coolest girl Nobara had ever met.

Cool hands grabbed her own, pulling her forward so Maki-san could get a better look at all three of them’s combined efforts. Nobara turned away so she wouldn't have to look at Maki-san’s only to find her room empty, Fushiguro and Itadori apparently having fled like the traitors they are. All that was left was a small note on the ground with the phrase “Good luck!” and a grinning Itadori with a thumbs up. For a second she let herself be impressed with how quickly he drew the picture. 

She still made the choice to kill her teammates the next time she saw them.

“Ah, Maki-san, well, Fushiguto and Itadori needed the break, you know? And they were too dumb to know it so I had to take charge. And it was team bonding, which is actually a kind of training!” Nobara was very much not noticing that Maki-san was still holding her hand. In fact, Nobara was noticing everything else in the world. Was this what Gojou-sensei felt like?

“I like the color,” Maki-san said, after an excruciating fifteen seconds of study. “Do you have more?”

…

(She could never make fun of Fushiguro and Itadori again.)

“YES!” she screamed and then stopped. “Yes,” she repeated at a normal human volume. “Would you like me to paint your nails?”

Maki-san stepped forward, closer and closer until Nobara had to back up as once again someone came through her window, though Maki-san did it with much more grace than Itadori.

Nobara, with the UTMOST grace and poise, did her best to discreetly kick her fallen duvet over the note and Maki-san was too kind to say anything about it. 

Instead she grinned, mouth sharp and eyes bright, a cocky set to her hips and shoulders that Nobara couldn’t help but admire. “If you’re offering, sure, but I’m thinking of a different color.”

Maki-san sat on the bed, confident to the last, so Nobara picked up all her polish bottles from the floor and followed. “If you want black I should warn you that you’re going to match Fushiguro.” 

Maki-san patted the seat next to her and laughed. “Nah,” she said, holding up her own calloused hands to the light, “I was wondering if maybe you had an orange. Something that matches your hair.”

[aphroditestummyrolls]

Tagged by: @rhubarbdreams @cactusdragon517 @morallygreywaren and @ceraunos (I’m so sorry this took so long! Thank you for thinking of me, it is so flattering <3)

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

This was SO FUN. It was so nice to go through my old stories... I’m really proud of my writing. That’s something I never thought I’d say, and it’s something I’ve decided I’m going to do unabashedly from now on. <3 Happy almost April, everyone! 

Gaining Heart (Spartacus) 

The days following the defeat of Glaber had been a flurry of activity.

Agron found himself not only leading on field of battle, but leading organization and defensive strategy. Those fucking Romans had moved into the temple as if it was their own home, claiming all that they saw— but they had also brought much of their own. Food, wine, supplies— it was a gift from the fucking gods, and needed proper inventory.

Agron knew not how to do that. Nasir and Naevia were invaluable, cleaning each chamber of any evidence of battle, cataloguing lists and categorizing everything from barrels of grain to rolls of bandages.

Tangles and Roots (The Old Guard)

He was covering Andy.

The hangar was dark, shadowed by the last of the night while dawn crept up over the skyline outside. The plane was set to land any minute now, and Nicky’s eyes flicked from corner to corner, finger on the trigger of his gun and his jaw grinding hard. He could swear he saw shapes moving along the roof— the banks of high windows above them left eerie patches of weak blue light, flickering with little flashes of darkness.

It was probably just birds. He was out of practice— they had done nothing but sit around in the six months since Merrick, trying to heal the deep wounds left in their minds… and bodies, in Andy’s case.

Nicky swallowed, stepping that much closer to his friend’s side as they took their places in the shadows.

Still Awake? (The Old Guard)

He pretended to sleep. His eyes were closed, and his muscles were stiff, tying themselves into knots where he laid in his cot between Andy’s empty bedroll and Joe and Nicky’s snuggled up bodies. Booker refused to be comfortable— he refused to rest. The day had been rough, and the fighting had left a bone deep ache inside him, even while the physical wounds had healed.

All the Time in the World (The Old Guard) 

The first time Nicolo and Yusuf bathed together, it was by the river— he wasn’t sure which river. It had probably changed names and countries a hundred times by now. All he remembered was that, by the time they heard the steady rush of water and cleared the brush and trees to the bank, he was half mad with annoyance.

If that man made one more grumbled complaint— one more clearly telegraphed grimace— about the supposed smell of him, Nicoló might have to break their truce and run the bastard through.

Kissed by an Angel (The Old Guard)

Nicky felt his lips flicker into a private smile, setting the pot on the stove to simmer and turning to look out the window into the garden. Joe’s garden.

He was humming to himself— Nicky couldn’t quite hear it, but he could tell by the set of the other man’s jaw under his beard and the purse of his lips as he concentrated. The weeds wouldn’t rip themselves, the overgrown shrubs wouldn’t miraculously be already pruned and waiting for them.

They were finally back in Valletta. Finally home.

Patron Saint of Satisfaction (The Old Guard)

It had been a long, long few weeks.

Joe’s shoulders were tense and knotted, and his whole body still ached from the train ride he and Nicky had taken all that day. There was a stifling, choked sensation in his gut that would rise in waves, up his throat to the tip of his tongue until he was ready to scream. The whole way to their safehouse, he brushed shoulders with his lover— practically leaning on him— and let himself take refuge in the feeling of Nicky’s warm hand entwining their fingers.

Waking Dreams (The Old Guard)

At first, they could’ve been anywhere for all Joe knew.

There was nothing in the world but Nicky— his scent, his body, his quiet sleeping breaths. Joe felt himself hover on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, the familiar thrum of pleasure making up the backdrop of his thoughts.

He nuzzled into his Nico’s neck, pressing sloppy, half asleep kisses to the back of his neck.

Here There Be Monsters (The Old Guard) 

The morning had been blustery and hot. The scent of ozone made the sea air thick as it blew through his hair where they all stood, crowded around the lower deck. They all squinted against the bright sunshine, but Joe knew better than to trust the blue sky.

”If I’m getting in, I’ve gotta do it soon—“ he spoke up, cutting into some conversation that he hadn’t been listening to, “There’s a storm coming in from the East.”

Nile— still so young, so far from the American Midwest, and in her first field season— raised an eyebrow at him from behind her sunglasses.

He smiled at her bemused look, shooting his gaze over to Andy. Andy smirked, huffing a laugh. “If anybody knows, Joe knows.”

In Loving Memory (The Old Guard)

The wind whipped up off the water, cold and salty despite the way the sun beat down on them. It was alright, honestly— refreshing after all those stuffy hours in the car.

These immortals were highly resistant to normal modes of transport. Like a plane— a real passenger plane, not a Russian cargo plane full of drugs. It was all cars and boats and trains, low to the ground, literally under the radar.

Nile understood why. She didn’t want to end up strapped down to a lab table like the one they escaped all those months ago. She’d just rather take a nice plane from the closest airport to Provence and get to Valletta in a matter of hours, rather than drive through three countries and all the way down the Italian boot, just to bribe a fishing boat.

Feed My Soul (The Old Guard) 

Malta looked good on Nicolò.

Joe leaned on the railing of their balcony, looking down into their old, old walled garden where his Nico shuffled around in the herbs. He was looking for something particular, the bridge of his nose scrunching as he peered at the mess of overgrown pots.

Joe beamed, the familiar, all-encompassing warmth of loving that man filling him up and making him feel expansive and bright. There was a cathedral ceiling in his chest, airy and golden with the light of dawn through its tall, jeweled windows. There was a house of worship where his heart should be, and he traced the lines of the other man’s body like he was devoting a painting to him.

Sono Qui (The Old Guard)

Andy left Booker on the beach.

She felt his gaze follow her, but couldn’t bring herself to look back.

It wasn’t as if they had never separated before— as if the four of them had been constantly attached from the time they finally found the Frenchman, even after months and months of dreaming and searching. There were plenty of times where they spent months, or sometimes years apart. They took breaks from each other, they traveled. Just a year ago, Andy had declared that she needed a break— was that last year of being alone the thing that led Booker to betray them? Maybe they should’ve stayed together. She never should have left him. She understood how it felt to be alone in the world… to lose someone so precious that life loses its color.

Andy had left Booker plenty of times. It wasn’t something she liked to think about now, but she had… She had assumed he was handling it like her. Somber and drunk, wishing for some type of release. They’d talked about it enough times. But not like this.

Brother of My Heart  (The Old Guard)

Joe clenched his hands on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers to feel the stretch in the tendons, even though any injuries from the fighting had long since healed.

While driving away from the ruins of Merrick’s car, the adrenaline was still rushing in his veins, and all his self control was devoted to staying reasonably within the speed limit. The last thing they needed was to get stopped by some bobby cop while covered in blood and dust, with a bullet through Andy’s stomach.

Right now, they needed to blend in. So, Joe didn’t press the gas pedal into the floor.

Care and Feeding (The Old Guard) 

Nile couldn’t ever remember liking the cold.

Even at home in Chicago. Sure, her memories of warm Christmas masses, bright lights on the tree, and gently falling snow outside the kitchen window made her throat dry with that familiar, wistful grief. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to seeing pine trees or twinkle lights without thinking of her mom’s mac n cheese, or how early her brother would wake her up on Christmas morning.

But loving Christmas, and loving snow? Those were two completely different things.

Going Underground (Star Wars) 

Poe wasn’t sure what it was like when they broke through the atmosphere into Yavin IV. He didn’t watch through the Falcon’s wide front window as the familiar jungles passed by in a blur of green underneath them, and he couldn’t pick out the roof of home from the surrounding grasses as they came in for a landing.

The first thing he saw as he came to, bleary and aching, was Finn. They’d fallen asleep right where they were, pressed shoulder to shoulder at the holochess table, Poe’s head on Finn’s shoulder. It took him a sluggish moment to recall why his hand had its own throbbing pulse, and why Finn’s soft, dark skin was pockmarked with strange cuts, glistening with bacta.

The second thing he saw, swallowing against the rush of memories filling his fuzzy mind, must have been a hallucination.

STAR WARS VIII: The Battle of the Force (Star Wars) 

“General, I don’t know how much longer we can hold ‘em off—”

Poe’s voice crackled from the shoddy reception, nearly engulfed by the constant bombardment in the background.

“Commander, the Resistance depends on taking down this dreadnought.” Leia kept her voice steady and strong “Stand your ground.”

Beyond What We Can See (Star Wars) 

If he was being honest with himself, he supposed that he’d been feeling the Force his whole life. He’d always just brushed it off as basic intuition— he thought everybody felt this way. It wasn’t until he started seeing the way the Force was treated in the First Order—as a myth, a fearful, distant thing—that he realized how much he needed to keep his head down. Even though he only felt it in small ways, he was different. He buried the feelings, tried to ignore the nagging dread that said that he didn’t belong there in his platoon. That none of them did.

But that wasn’t something he was allowed to feel. The Force wasn’t supposed to be something any of the troops knew firsthand.

Like She Always Did (Star Wars) 

The first time she left was barely a memory. More of a dream. He didn’t remember the fight they had, but he knew in hindsight that they must’ve had it for much longer than the tail end that he saw. Maybe it was what got his little feet out of bed in the first place. Daddy’s eyes were rimmed with red and Mama was pacing out her anger into the sitting room rug. Poe’s eyes were wide as he watched from the threshold to the hall, his little hand gripping onto the pillow that he’d tugged along with him from his room.

Love Will Help You Heal (Star Wars) 

Every inch of him throbbed, the last dregs of whatever the interrogation droid had injected him with still pumping through his bloodstream. He was so tired. How long had it even been? Getting captured on Jakku felt like a hazy dream, as if it was weeks ago.

No one was coming for him. He knew that much—he’d probably be mad if they endangered the resources to try—but he couldn’t help but wish anyway. Death seemed so close, like a cold hand on his shoulder, by his side in the recirculated air of the Star Destroyer.

He wished they’d just hurry up. His drug-addled, sleep deprived mind didn’t know if he was asking for rescue or death. Maybe they were the same thing now.

Dying a martyr. At least it suited the image—Poe Dameron, Poster Boy of the Resistance.

Ghosts of Future and Past (MCU/Captain America) 

His head was throbbing. His back ached. Everything in him pulsed with agony like he’d been hit by a train.

A train. Bucky.

“Bucky is alive.” 

He could feel the winter cold at the memory, his eyes snapping open as the past few moments came flooding back to him.

There had been another Steve. Even without the mask, he’d looked just like him. It must have been Loki playing tricks again, it had to be.

Sweet as Honey, Gold Like the Sun (Stranger Things) 

Steve was drifting after high school graduation. He drifted right out of the halls of Hawkins High and into a desk job at his dad’s office. If he was being honest, he’d been drifting since the Gate closed— maybe even since Nancy broke it off.

He wasn’t mad. She was his best friend. He and Jonathan were even friends now. No, he hadn’t been mad for a long time— but he was lost. The kids were going to high school. Dustin would be getting his license one of these days, and Steve’s last function to his little gaggle of brats would become all but useless.

The idea of not serving a purpose left the bitter tang of anxiety in his throat. Once the kids didn’t need him— and Joyce and Hopper and even Nancy— Steve would be left behind. Again.

Okay... Some of these may have been more than just what is considered “Opening Lines”, but I can’t just leave something feeling unfinished, and I’m a little tipsy, which means I am bending the rules <3

**EDIT** i forgot to look for patterns and pick my favorite! I mean, I think all storytelling/creative expression (anything from developing a recipe to composing a painting to writing a story) follows a distinct formula. And the best way to establish the story is by starting it with the most important element front and center— I almost always start with my main character. A thought or a feeling, a situation or a sensation. They’re the focal point from which everything ripples out. Those first ripples (the 2nd, 3rd or 4th lines) are usually about building the setting. It’s an equation that works so well for me, and though I sometimes shake it up by adding immediate dialogue or flipping the positions of setting and main character, it has served me well ❤️ i think my favorite has to be Brother of My Heart. It’s the first really, immediately big story Ive ever had. So many comments, so much warmth, so many kind people— it grew my confidence and helped me make friends. It reminds me of how truly wonderful fandom can be, even just with the first few lines.

I’m going to continue to bend the rules by not tagging anyone immediately-- it’s giving me weird anxiety levels, so I’m gonna wait and do it later maybe. If, in the meantime, you see this and want to do it, write me down as the one who tagged you! <3 Feel frrrreeeeeeee! 

[jay-and-dean]

Become That Girl  Part 1/2

Dean x reader

Summary : Y/n never was his type. She is the buddy type ; sexy and glamorous are just not her. It’s time to try to change that... To change everything about herself. And maybe, just maybe, this flirty smile will be for her next time...

Warning : Swearing. Suffering and mentions of unhealthy behaviors. Smut. Unprotected sex (you’re smarter than this). Kinda rough sex. ANGST.

Words : 7.7 k

Author note : This was supposed to be a one shot, but there will be a part 2. I will publish it this week (tuesday I hope).

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

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            Dean's hand brushes that girl's palm and those adorable wrinkles appear on his eyes for her, he gives her these sweet eyes I saw only in these circumstances; his head slightly bending on the side. His flirty smile.

"It's ridiculous" I grunt, taking a sip of my beer.

"Yeah" Sam chuckles.

But I struggle to swallow. The truth is I would give my life, my soul and everything else for Dean Winchester looking at me like this just once. For him to touch my hand that way. For whatever is to come with that girl. The idea of him sinking inside her is like a stab in my chest, but I'm used to that pain.

           I know I will never taste his lips, because I'm not that girl, not even close.

           I'm the kind of girl guys love because they can be themselves with her, I'm the buddy type. And along the way, I became Dean Winchester's friend. He gives me drinks and teases me all the time on my tastes in music, on my tastes in food, in men... If only he knew.

           It was quick for me to fall in love with him. I have never been in love before, not for real ; so I didn't really know what was happening to me at first. I never was the kind of girl that forces to laugh at men's joke, that wear pink or try to look like society wants women to be. I never faked a smile, but Dean, he makes me giggle like an idiot, and everything he says actually interests me. I'm fascinated by him.

           He's beautiful, but that's not even what I like the most about him. It's like I just could read him, his soul, the way he hides pain, the way his humor is way darker than people think, that incredible ability he has to be himself, that fake harshness and the size of his noble heart...

           He bends to catch the girl's lips and I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back the whine of pain coming up my spine.

           My stomach contracts at how empty I feel and I look down at my hands. That void I feel each time I come to the full conscience that I will never feel him on and inside me, it hurts way too much. It’s beyond craving, it’s like a part of me was missing.

"Are you okay ?" Sam asks, probably reading the sorrow on my face.

"Of course" I state. "I'm just tired, that hunt was a bitch."

           I want to drink too much, drown my stupid brain in fucking alcohol. The puking and hangover are way better than being able to imagine him with her, his hands on her hair, his tongue around her nipples...

           I get up and go to the bar, avoiding to get too close to Dean and her, I don't need to know her smell or voice, my brain would turn it into torture.

"Whiskey please, leave the bottle" I tell the bartender.

He doesn't look at me when he hands me the bottle, not even checking my age or my eyes. He is looking at Dean's conquest and that desire, almost envy, on his face catches my attention despite my will not to look at her.

           Taking the bottle, I glance at that woman everyone seems to admire. Dean's back is toward me so I can see half her face, behind his silhouette. She's pretty. A wide smile on her face, bright eyes, sulky hair and makeup ; she doesn't have scars, or bruises like me and her only wrinkles are just highlighting her smile, like she had never worried or frown.

           I pour whisky in my own glass and empty it, then do it again. I go back to my table to join Sam, my empty glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, it didn't even pay, but when the bartender will be back on Earth, maybe he'll ask me. Meanwhile, fuck him.

"I'm not holding your hair tonight Y/n" Sam sighs.

"Yeah... don't worry Sammy" I shrug.

 ***

           "Oh... fuck…" I grunt opening my eyes. "Oh ! Fuck !" I gasp before I run to the toilets to empty my stomach in the bowl.

Sam pushes the door and rubs his eyes.

"Y/n ?"

"Shut up..." I whine, pushing my hair out of my sweaty face.

I flush the toilets and get up stumbling, I start undressing, knowing Sammy will just not watch, and he turns his back on me to pee. When I enter the shower, I grunt at the warm water.

"Coffee ?" he asks.

"Yes please, with aspirin in it... What is that ?" I look at my very sore hand and see it's all purple and blue. "Sammy why is my hand all bruised ?"

He chuckles and when he washes his hands the water of the shower suddenly becomes cold for a minute.

"A guy called you babydoll and touched your ass" I hear the smile in his voice. "You broke his face before I could move."

Shit... I bet if someone had done that to Dean's pretty girl, she would have needed a prince in shining armor. Me, I just break faces. I grunt and put my head on the tiles, I'm just not a lady, maybe that's why Dean doesn't want me, even for a quick fuck...

           I'm in my jeans and bra when Sam comes back with coffee. He gives it to me and hands me aspirin. He slept in my motel room, that means Dean brought his girl in theirs. I frown and grunt, my eyes still barely open. Sam offers me an amused dimple smile.

"When you're around, it's like having another Dean" he mocks.

My heart breaks.

           I know it was not meant to be mean and being anything like Dean can only be a good think but... Am I really so far from being a girly girl ?

           I get up and take my clothes, my too long and worn out Led Zeppelin t-shirt and black rangers. I sigh. Yeah well maybe I don't dress like a princess too... Fuck !

           The door opens and Dean enters the room with cups of coffee in his hands. Each time that man comes near, something happens, like the colors were brighter, like my blood was warmer… He turns to me and raises his eyebrows, probably seeing what a mess I am, my wet hair all messy, the cuts and bruises on my arms, face and hands.

"You look like shit" he says and a new kind of stab hits my gut. "What did you do last night ? Did you see someone ?"

"Haha ! She met a guy !" Sam mocks and I grunt.

"Really ?" Dean frowns like it was beyond surprising.

"She may have broken his jaw" Sam chuckles and Dean comes closer.

"Did you fight again ?" he sighs, taking my hand to check on it.

He still smells like this girl’s perfume and I'm nauseous. I take my fingers back and show him I can move them fine with an annoyed look. Then I take the coffee of his hand and thank him.

"Hey !" he calls me when I'm about to take my bag to leave.

So I turn around and put a light kiss on his cheek like I do every morning, making him smile like a child. I stare for a little too long at his proud face and walk pass him.

           In the car I take my shoes off to put my feet on the backseat, Dean is mumbling the Metallica song, his beautiful strong fingers dancing on the rhythm against the wheel. And before I can look away, I have this vision of him sinking this amazing middle finger inside her core.

Shit... I'm nauseous again.

I guess in this world of blood and violence, coming deep inside a soft sweet angel-like princess must be a relief. I can’t enjoy one night stands anymore, but he can, good for him. It's not his fault if sex makes me feel dirty since I know him, like I was cheating...

           Stupid.

I just wish it would happen to me once... Having him. I know how dumb this sounds because I'd probably be dead with grief once he turns to a better girl again, but I would give anything to spend a night with him. I have to stop dreaming, he doesn't even see me as a woman.

           I frown and put my head back on the window.

"Hey Y/n ?" he says, looking at me in the rear-view mirror. "Now the hunt is over, we finally have a little time together. We could do our horror movies marathon ? I can't wait to see your face when we wa..."

"You're the one hiding against me Winchester" I state with my usual a mocking grin.

It's not even a lie and he rolls his eyes, glancing at Sam who's still listening to some conference in his headphone.

"I just can't wait to eat all those candies we hid in your room, without Sam lecturing us" he smiles with his teeth showing and my heart melts.

           What if I tried...

What if I tried to be the kind of girls he likes ? I mean, I'm nothing special but with a little efforts I could at least become a girl in his eyes... Would he still be able to just stuff his mouth with sugar when he's so close to me in my bed, if he saw me as a real lady ?

           I look down at myself and sigh. I will have to change absolutely everything... But maybe this could work.

 ***

           It's only been a few hours since we got back, Dean went to take a shower and Sam went running, which doesn’t make fucking sense after a hunt so rough.

Taking a huge bite of that big double chocolate brownie, I stare at my laptop, watching stupid videos of makeover, style, makeup and how to do your hair ; and if I wasn't thinking of if Dean would like this thing or not... I would probably have died of boredom already.

           I should try to work on my attitude too. Swear less, sit straighter, be less loud, spontaneous, stop saying when I need to pee, drink less and try those stupid sweet cocktails when I do, let men defend me. I don't get to skip wax day anymore, I have to look sexy or eventually childishly cute, but not at all like I do right now. Boy !Being a “girl” is no fun at all.

           I look at the Pinterest and Instagram pictures of those pretty girls and put my brownie down watching my belly, a diet wouldn't hurt either.

           A knock on my door, Dean enters with a cute smile, his hair still wet. I close my laptop and throw the brownie in the trash, sitting straighter already, I pull my stomach slightly in.

"I bought beer" he says and sits on my bed, opening one for me but I shake my head. "Still too hangover ?" he asks and I nod.

           During the whole movie, I try to watch my attitude, not spreading my legs to put bowls of candies between them, not making fun of him when he jumps. And when he falls asleep beside me, I just stare at him thinking of how many things I would sacrifice for him. I dare touching his hair and leans to my touch, coming closer in his sleep. I want more.

I need more.

 ***

           I barely slept tonight, half stressed, half exited by my project.

As usual, Dean left in the middle of the night, kissing my forehead to say goodnight. I get up, eat fruits and shit instead of cereals and go running, drinking water, more water than what I usually drink in a week. I read coffee makes teeth become yellow and gives shadows under the eyes, so I will stop it too.

When I take my car to go fucking shopping -I always hated shopping-, I try my best to smile, looking on the mirrors of the car. Sweet and open Y/n...

           I manage to hold back my middle finger when a jerk takes the parking lot I wanted. I'm hungry but my body needs to learn to shut up. If I want Dean Winchester to consider kissing me, I have to be perfect. There is no compromise.

I try clothes and I feel like I'm wearing a costume, with those bruises and all, it's stupid anyway. So I decide to go one step at a time. I'll wear normal size shirts instead of oversized and a nice jacket first, I'm not ready for dresses or too colorful for now.

           I buy lace panties and push up bras then decide to throw away my other underwear to make sure I wear them, because they're so uncomfortable I will be tempted to go back... I keep drinking water when I buy makeup and nail polish, trying my best to both pull my stomach in and ignore the heavy perfume smell and the employees trying to sell me way too many things. I need girly shampoo and all, because I usually just use Dean's.

           Then I lock myself in my room for hours, fighting with my body, waxing with incredible care, putting sticky things on my hair to make them shiny, cream on my skin to make it soft, mascara to make my eyes bigger… I even pierce my own ears.

           But the more I try, the more I feel ugly. I always tied my hair in buns-easier to fight, run and look like an FBI agent- but now it’s down, and I look at these models,it seems dull… Same for every inch of my body. Why do girls do that to themselves ! Or maybe I’m the one that is a problem, maybe I’m just disgusting and avoided to see it for years. No wonder why Dean never looked at me.

           I stare at myself and sigh. Fuck. Even doing all that, there is about zero chance Dean would ever want me one day, even just for a night. It’s going to hurt way more than hunger and wax, but I have to go further, I have to pay attention when he’s with a woman…

 ***

             “MOTHERFUCKING BITCH !” I yell throwing the stupid scale against the wall.

It’s been three months and I haven’t lost a pound. I’m hungry all the time, from morning to the next morning, it’s even waking me at night. I only eat salad and drink water… I mean, my hands are shaking for Christ sake !

           Three months of trying so hard to act like a sweet fragile angel with a weakness for sin : cute and sexy. But I’m still swearing like a sailor when I don’t pay attention and I’m still fat. Hunts are becoming more difficult because I’m weak, and fun times with my friends are more rare, because they only do what I can’t : drink beers, eat burgers, make fun of horror movies, play whiskey poker… I used to love whiskey poker so much ; the night Dean invented it, we were beyond drunk but it was one of my best memories, he ended cutting my hair and it was bad, but I didn’t care at all.

“Are you okay ?” Sam says, opening the door but I close it brutally.

“Sam ! I’m a girl you know ! You and your brother can’t just enter the bathroom when I’m in it !” I yell through the door, hurt that they keep treating me as if I was the third Winchester brother, and worried they would see my ugly fat body...

“Sorry Y/n, I didn’t know you were naked” he states.

“Naked or not, Sam !”

“What’s the problem ?” I hear Dean ask his brother, and put my head on the door.

“She’s just grumpy again…” Sam sighs and I frown.

I do argue with them more often… I didn’t noticed that.

“Sweetheart ?” Dean calls though the door and tries to push it.

“Are you serious !” I cry out pushing the door. “Stop forgetting I’m a girl, you don’t get free access on the bathroom when I’m in it !”

“Okay” Dean just says and he leaves.

           I never forbid them to enter, and I have great memories of watching Dean brushing his teeth while I dried my hair, of his intimacy only hidden by a white towel around his waist while I joined him in the hot steam his shower made to talk about anything.

           My Dean and I used to be awesome… But in a buddy way. I feel tears fill my eyes but try to hold them back because I really don’t want to do my makeup again. I caught him staring at my cleavage yesterday, and he said lipstick suited me last week. I have to be strong, if Dean gives me that flirty eyes, I would be worth it.

           But we don’t talk that much either and… I really miss him in every way, I miss my friend and I feel lost and lonely. The sadness these thoughts bring, mixed with the exhaustion of hunger, and the pain of that unrequited love finally makes me fully burst in tears. My hand on my mouth I muffle the sounds of my sobs, realizing I will never have him, and probably fucked up the only good thing I had : That pure and loving friendship with the Winchesters.

 ***

             I take a bite of my salad and hold back a gag. Not that I don’t like salad, but eating only that is becoming really sickening. Dean looks at me and there is no kind expression on his face, that tender smile I used to see everyday faded along the weeks.

“Take a bite” he says, handing me his burger, cheese dripping on his fingers.

“What ? No…” I shrug. “I’m not super hungry.”

I’m not an idiot, at least not completely : I knew my best friends would notice a change in my behavior. I mean, Dean seeing a change is the all point, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying so hard. So lately I’ve been putting empty pizza boxes on the table from time to time. And my outfits were replaced slowly…

           But they’re not idiots either.

“I just want to check something” he says.

I can’t, after all these efforts, if I bite in that thing, I will become even fatter than I am, I can’t afford that…

“I don’t want to, Dean.”

“I made it myself” he insists, practically putting the food on my lips and the smell is becoming too tempting.

“Dean ! No ! I’m sure it’s delicious because your homemade burgers are always a success but it’s a no !” I push him wiping the ketchup that fell on my shirt. “What is wrong with you…”

“What is wrong with me !” his harsh tone surprises me. “I’m super worried, that’s what is wrong ! Do you have eating disorder now or something ?”

“What ? No ! Of course not, you know me !”

“Yeah… Do I ?” he asks before getting up, leaving his plate barely touched in front of me.

“Dean ?” I call but too low, he can’t hear me…

 ***

           I didn’t come out of my room. Not once, since Dean looked at me that way, a sad way, like I had betrayed him or something, just because of a burger…

           Who am I kidding ? It’s not because of a burger, my best friend just doesn’t recognize me. I can’t be that girl, I’m just not enough. Curling in my bed, I take a deep shaky breath, I’m really tired of crying so I just stare at the wall, thinking about what Dean must think of me. He must be disappointed, and that’s the worst I can imagine. Dean, my Dean, thinking low of me, annoyed or hurt because of me.

           A knock on the door. I lift my eyes to the red numbers in the dark : 10:18 pm. Usually, when one of the brothers knock on my door, they start talking to me through it and if I don’t yell that I’m naked, they just enter. Not this time. The knock is discreet and followed by a heavy silence.

           Surprised by that unusual quiet, I get up, arranging the top I was wearing because it went up my stomach. I open the door and my pupils grow, I can almost feel it, seeing Dean’s beautiful eyes in the lights of the corridor.

“Y/n…” he says with his deep voice, his right hand on his pocket. “I’m sorry I was a drag earlier. You need space from us, I get it… Living with guys…” his tone is a little sad but very kind, I don’t know what to say. “Just, don’t change who you are, please. You can eat what you want and wear what you want sweetheart, okay ?”

“I do” I nod to close the subject and ease that worrying on his handsome face.

He bends and slowly crushes the plumb of his lips on my forehead like he always does when he’s worried about me, after hunts, before hunts… when I’m sick or tired or anything. I close my eyes, trying to enjoy this without ruining it with the pain of that stupid unrequited love.

“I just miss my friend” he says low. “I promise I won’t bother you more and knock and all, but could we spend a night together at the bar ? With Sammy ? Like we used too ? I miss that.”

The look on his face is like his brother’s puppy eyes and I feel both relieved and terrified. I miss him like crazy and just want to say yes and follow him running ; but if he leaves with a girl… It might kill me this time.

“Yeah… Okay” I sigh. If he gets with a woman, I’ll just try to observe her. “Can I just have a little time to get ready ?”

“Of course sweetheart” he nods, letting go of me. “Take your time.”

           After a few minutes trying to recover from Dean being so adorable, I finally managed to go to the bathroom. Tonight I will really try to look like one of Dean’s conquest, so I stare at it : the only dress I own.

           I bought it after I saw Dean glance at a girl in the street during the last hunt. It is the kind of dress I thought I'd never wear, I actually never even thought of wearing one in my life. The dress the girl wore was a little too sexy according to me, even slutty. Women should dress like they want to, but I wasn't ready for that super short red bustier dress, with boobs everywhere calling for attention.

           Yet, I have to become that girl, that's the whole point. If Dean likes his women bundled up in skinny dresses, so be it.

           I sight, looking at the girdle I have to wear to put that dress on, I empty my lungs and compress my stomach the more I can. Taking the dress, I hesitate, maybe this is too much.... But this is the prize to pay if I want any chance that Dean would look at me ; tonight I'm going to be that girl.

           The dress is simple but very sexy. Black taut fabric hugging me tight, with a cleavage like a bra, and straight straps, useless because the dress is so tight it holds me. I look at myself in the mirror and sigh, I'm not enough.

           I put makeup, just mascara and lipstick, and right now I have trouble thinking I don't look like a whore, but I try to remember those girls Dean likes wear more makeup and even sexier closes, so...

           A knock.

"Y/n ?" Sam says. "If you don't get out of this bathroom, Dean will be drunk before we reach the bar.

           Shit, the short dress is so tight that my panties are showing.

"Yeah, go to the car, I'm ready !" I state through the door, taking off my panties.

I have no underwear that would be good with this dress... It is short, but not too much, and it's tight, so no one will see anything when I sit. I look at myself in the mirror and decide I just won't wear panties. I take my black leather jacket and leave the bathroom trying to hide I'm shaking.

 ***

           When I enter the garage, Sam and Dean are sitting on the edge of Baby, with Led Zeppelin playing. The girdle is hurting me but I stay straight, trying to look casual.

           The two men's eyes widen and I have no idea how I am supposed to understand their look but I try not to think of it. I give them a shy smile, like I was begging them not to judge. I was waiting for a comment or anything, but they just stay totally silent.

           In the car I don't know how to sit, I always put my feet on the seat but there is no way I can do that now, so I just stay there, held upright by this awful prison compressing my ribs and stomach.

           Dean checks on me on the rear-view mirror, his face totally neutral, like he was hiding whatever he is thinking... A few months ago, I would have made fun of him, I would have asked him what was wrong with me, I would have told him to look at the road -I always did that when I caught him staring at me in the mirror-, but now, I just look down.

           Being sexy is also feeling sexy, the woman on the video said. I'm not really the kind of woman that feels sexy, but I could try. The problem is, each time I try to focus on sexy things to make this work, I end up thinking of Dean, of when his beautiful hands land on me, of his smell and his shoulders, of his mouth... And in the end, I'm felling more horny than sexy. I guess not wearing panties is kind of sexy...

 ***

           The bar is not too crowded but loud, the sound of pool balls shocking on each others, and the manly laughs of men drinking alcohol. Tugging at my dress, I look around to see if any girl could catch Dean's attention : maybe that girl at the bar, but she seems to be with a man. People are looking at me, I'm not used to it, I feel like my lack of underwear is written on my face.

           When he passes behind me, Dean puts a hand on my back, sending a shiver all along my spine. He always does that, but I'm usually wearing real clothes.

"What do you want to drink sweetheart ?" he says and I hesitate.

Alcohol is caloric, I can't really afford to drink it. After a long hesitation, I decide a whiskey would make me forget all those eyes on me.

           Taking the first sip of the amber liquid, I close my eyes. This taste reminds me of some good memories when Dean and I stayed in the kitchen to talk, slowly sipping and smiling at each other.

"Pool ?" Sam asks pointing the other side of the bar with his beer bottle.

"Yeah I don't know" Dean looks down, making me wonder... He always loved pool.

"Come on Dean !" I smile raising up, the evening is supposed to be about saving my friendship with him.

He frowns like something was hurting him, his beautiful mouth forming a pout, his dark green eyes searching my face. I can't read him. He doesn't look at me like he always did, but not like he looks at those girls either. My smile fades and the air becomes thick.

           He gets up slowly and brushes past me when he walks to the pool.

"Okay, but you stay with me" he grunts.

I follow him and notice eyes are moving with me. I know what's happening : I must be embarrassing him, that’s why he acts weird. I swallow hard and watch him take cues, the muscles of his jaw are clenched.

"So Y/n... This dress..." Sam whispers close to my ear. "Is it just to make Dean mad or is there a guy you want to go home with ?"

My heart stops.

"Dean ?" I just say searching his eyes, but he laughs. "Why..."

I can't finish my sentence because Dean gets close to me to give me the cue he prepared. His handsome face still pretty stern, he offers me to start.

           The air is still thick and Sam's words turn in my head, bouncing in every directions, banging in my head like a lost bat. What does that even mean ? Dean must be disappointed in me, maybe little a big brother wouldn't want to see his sister wear a slutty dress... Maybe what he meant was that, as Dean wanted a friendship night, dressing like I'm waiting to leave them for a one-night stand is annoying. I don’t know who I am anymore, or how I am supposed to behave.

"Y/n..." Dean calls me from the other side of the pool. "You never lose at this game, even against me... Are you okay ?"

"Yes I..."

Pretty girls don't win against the man they want, they make them feel strong and all those bullshit that polluted my brain. I'm distracted and I have no idea what to think again. Right now, I just dream of becoming the old me again, slap his ass when I win just to mock him, make him pout, drink like him, swear and get rid of that awful pain on my ribs.

"I just need another drink" I finally chose to answer. "Whiskey ?"

He nods in a frown and I leave toward the bar.

           When I order a drink, this time, the bartender looks at me, and even if it's not the same place and the same man, I can't help but think it has something to do with how I look tonight.

"There sweetheart" he smiles and I shiver at the nickname I only heard from Dean's mouth. "Tell me... Those guys ?" he points his chin to Sam and Dean.

"What ?" I glower, completely forgetting the have-a-flirty-smile-all-the-fucking-time rule.

"You know… are you with one of them ?" he says with an actually kind corner smile.

"No" I state and his grin spread to his whole mouth.

He is cute, dimples on his soft face, dark caramel-colored skin, warm black eyes highlighted by thick black curled lashes. And the softness on his features finally make me give him back a smile.

"Good because I couldn't fight any of them" he chuckles with a hint of shyness.

I chortle lightly at how right he is without knowing it. I search his face; he seems sincere and kind, there is something calming about him, no violence, no pretention.

"Hi" a man appears behind me. "Can I buy you a drink ?"

I turn to him, confused, and see in the corner of my eyes that the bartender is looking down.

"No" I smile. "Thank you but I already have a drink."

The man sighs and leaves, muttering something that I probably would hate to hear ; and a few months ago I would have made him repeat.

"Daryll" the bartender says.

"Y/n" I state.

"Let me offer you this drink..." his charming dimples appear again. "It's rare enough to see a beautiful young woman ordering whiskey.”

For the first time in a very long time, I could actually picture myself spending a night with that guy and just this feeling is already amazing : It’s like I was free, my heart belongs to Dean but, if he doesn’t want me, maybe I could at least lend my body to a kind man. I look down at my glass and forget that he hits on me just because of the dress for an instant. Daryll is really cute and smiling to him is not an effort.

"Are they your brothers or something ?" he asks, putting his arms crossed on the counter.

"No..." I turn and catch Dean's eyes but look down. "Friends."

"Oh..." he says with a pained look. "One of them is an ex or a crush ?"

I give him a sad smile, not knowing what to answer.

"Okay... Maybe you want me to leave you alone" he sighs but I shake my head, taking a sip of alcohol to swallow the lump in my throat.

“No” I give him a reassuring smile. “It’s not new… Don’t worry.”

But his eyes leave mine to look behind me with a strange expression, something weirdly close to submission.

"Y/n" Dean's voice calls me from behind and I freeze. "Can I just... Talk to you ?"

I take a deep painful breath and turn slowly to see him, his sweltering charisma emanating of him, and just like that, my calming feeling of being able to see myself kiss -or more- Daryll fades. Dean eclipsing the entire world.

"Talk ?" I raise my eyebrows.

He just nods so I glance at the cute bartender.

"I... I'll be back" I say with no joy and he gives me a polite but disappointed smile.

           Dean starts to walk and I follow, looking at his shoulders, afraid of the discussion coming. He doesn't stop anywhere in the bar and leads me outside. It’s still warm ; I look up to see the stars shining behind the feeble lamppost light.

“Y/n” he turns around to face me, his bow legs lightly spread like he needed to be hitched to the floor. “What is that ?”

I can’t read his body language.

“What is what ?” I mutter, ready for reproaches.

“You know every man here is trying to find a plan to bring you home…” he grunts.

“Well each time you go somewhere, it’s the same…”

He crosses he arms looking up while he takes a deep inhale. An overwhelming urge to cry strangles me and I decide to leave, opening my purse, I start looking at my phone to call a cab and walk toward the side of the bar.

           Dean grabs my arm firmly.

“Where are you going ?” he asks, still pretty stern.

“I just want to go home, De…”

But I can’t finish my sentence because he pushes me against the wall, both hands making sure my shoulder touches the concrete. And before I can register any of what’s happening, his lips meet mine.

           Taking a deep inhale by his nose, he crushes those plumb lips made of dream on mine and my body reacts in a thousand ways. Pure electricity roam my skin and muscles, my heart seems to grow twice his size and his beatings fasten so hard my own blood is making me high ; every erogenous part of my body takes fire and a hot slick drips between my thighs instantly.

           I don’t move but Dean cups my face and kisses my mouth again, gently taking my upper lip between his. Parting my lips slightly, I feel his tongue graze me. I close my eyes and let him kiss me, he bends his head on the side a little and invades my mouth like he could only breathe through me.

           I could stay like this my whole life, completely lost in the perfect feeling of his face so close, in the taste of him… But he’s eager and his hands leave my cheeks to rub my shoulders and down my arms. I didn’t know my body could feel so intensely…

           A moan escapes me and his lips leave my mouth suddenly, letting it wet and swollen, open and burning. His nose grazes my ear, sending shivers run all over me, and he starts leaving open mouth kisses along my throat.

           By the time his hands reach my waist, I’m shaking. His fingers are like conquerors, winning every battle, pushing boundaries. They go down my ass and squeeze it strongly, crushing me to his own waist.

This is happening.

           My inner walls clench at this thought and my head falls back, only held by the concrete. He goes lower, catching the hem of my dress, slowly pulling it up, his nails scratching the back of my thighs. Another moan.

           When my dress is just under my intimacy, he harshly grabs my legs and carries me easily, encouraging me to wrap them around his waist. I do.

           He doesn’t take us far, just turning on the side of the bar, where the light of the lamppost doesn’t go, pushing me against the wall, his hips eagerly crushing his erection against me. His lips claim me again and, when they do, my body finally allows me to move.

           I grab his neck and scratch the back of his head, rolling my hips against him. That craving I endure since I know him finally about to be satisfied. He groans in my mouth.

“Fuck…” he bites my lip, his hips joining the movement of mine, and through the rough fabric of my dress and his jean, his hard length press on my sensible clit.

“Anh!” I cry out, clinging to him. “Oh… God” I inhale, the girdle blocking my lungs in a pain my brain just registers as pleasure, because each of my cell is illuminated with it for now.

“Y/n…” he whines, his teeth teasing my pulse point.

           My hands dare going lower, slipping inside his collar to feel the intoxicating move of his upper back muscles. The circle movements of my hips makes my dress slip higher and when my folds come into contact directly with his crotch, sweat breaks through my skin.

“Oh fuck…” I moan, my hips starting to shake.

His hands grab my ass to rub me more against him and I can notice his fingers searching my panties.

“No panties Y/n…” he states in a growl, bending to bite the part of my boobs accessible on my cleavage. “You’re soaking my jeans sweetheart.”

I nod and tug at his hair to dig my tongue between his perfect lips again. His hand falls between us and scrape my inner thigh, at the closeness of his fingers, my walls clench again, like it was trying to catch him. His fingers finally reach my folds and slip between.

“Dean !” I cry out. “Dean… Dean… God… Dean !”

My legs are spread wide to cling to him, so when his thumb find my clit, his middle finger encounter no trouble to reach my entrance, caressing it and pushing on it.

“Pleeease…” escapes my lips in a wail and he smiles in the kiss.

           Torturing me, his finger keeps pushing on my entrance without really entering me and I have never felt so empty. I’m pathetically trying to come closer, but that’s impossible.

           The tip of his middle finger finally pushes inside me and my pussy flutters. His free hand come up to grab my hair, I gasp but he doesn’t hurt me, he just tugs firmly but slowly at it to have access to my throat. He sucks a hickey on the side of it, and I let him mark me like I was his. I am, really.

           His strong finger enters me in one go, making me choke in ecstasy. He doesn’t wait and slips another, grunting when he pushes deep.

           I have dreamed of Dean since forever, I have pushed my own fingers inside of me thinking of him… But nothing could have prepared me for this. I’m soaking his hand, nothing ever made me that wet ; and when he crushes his hips on me in a low moan, making his digits go deeper, I can’t help but come.

           I’m silent, my lungs crushed by their prison, my blood burning in my head and cleavage. Gasping for air, I feel my walls crush him and electricity shocks my whole body.

           A deep growl vibrates inside him. He takes his hand off of me a little too fast and I hiss. His trembling hand attacks his belt but it's too slippery so he changes hand, putting the wet one on the wall behind me, and the other between us to free is aching cock.

           When he pushes his clothes down a bit, I can’t help but look down, biting my lips. Here it is, what I crave inside of me all the time, precum nonchalantly dripping of it, red and swollen. Beautiful.

“Dean… Take me” I plead.

“Yes” he groans. “Yes…” he repeats for himself.

           He lines his length with my entrance and I can’t help but moan and pant, still looking down to see his length disappear slowly inside me. When he pushes in, it’s harsh and faster than I had anticipated. A sharp pained pleasure makes me cry out loud.

           The hand on the wall finds my mouth and crushes on it to silence me. In the deep inhale I take through my nose, I can smell myself.

           He’s big. For a second my heart panics, like I couldn’t take him, but my walls flutter and while he doesn’t move, I have time to adjust to him.

“Are you okay ?” he pants in my ear, tickling me with his breath.

I nod despite his strong hand holding my face.

           He doesn’t wait longer, withdrawing almost completely before he powerfully pushes in again, making my eyes roll in my skull. A loud scream is muffled by his large palm taking half my face.

“Fuck… Y/n… How can you be so…” but he doesn’t finish his sentence.

Grunting like a wild beast, he starts thrusting in me like he had waited for it as much as me. His powerful body carrying me like I weighted nothing. My ribs hurt but I don’t care at all because it can almost feel his cock between them. It’s like he was everywhere.

I love you, I think loud. Just because I’m used to say that when I think of him.

“Y/n…” he moans, and the hand on my face becomes so strong I think it could bruise my jaw.

I can feel his own pleasure, the sweat on his forehead, the shakes on his chest, the pleas in his groans, and the throbs of his cock deep inside of me. I grab his ass, slipping my hand inside his jeans to dig my nails in it, encouraging him to take me harder, even if I don’t know if I can take harder, simply because I never had it.

           When his thrusts turn to hard beats of his hips, I scream in his hand and my toes curl in my shoes.

“Fuck ! F-Fuck ! Fff…” his voice is intoxicating.

Fireworks explode everywhere in my body and I’m quite sure this is an orgasm until the real thing strikes like a lightning.

           My stomach contracts like I had a cramp and my thighs squeeze him stronger than I thought possible, my walls milk him and my head is spinning. I have never felt a pleasure so intense and tears soak my face.

“Oh G-G-GOD !” he cries out like he hadn’t anticipated the intensity of my orgasm at all.

           He stills deep inside of me and empties himself in a wail, grabbing my jaw brutally and clumsily to crush his lips on mine. His hips start to thrust lazily after he had stilled totally and his behavior changes. He wipes my tears, gently kisses my cheeks and rubs my neck like he was trying to erase the marks his body roughly let on me.

           My brain starts to register what’s happening and I look at him, amazed by his beauty and the feeling of him. I didn’t think it would be possible to love him more…

But, when I can’t help but smile to him, the look on his face hits me like a hundred punches in the guts.

He already fucking regrets.

No flirty smile. Not even a kiss.

Regret.

What was I thinking ?

           After Heaven, it’s like I was thrown in Hell. I push on his lower stomach to make him withdraw, and he does, my feet reach the floor again. Not looking at me, he puts his now soft cock back in his pants, closing his belt in a disapproving shake of his head.

           I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I can taste blood in my mouth. The world is spinning. His cum is dripping out of me, along my thighs and I look down to see it. Grabbing my purse on the floor, I take a tissue from it and wipe my thighs, an intense feeling of shame making me nauseous.

           He watches me struggle with it and offers me to take the tissue to throw it away with a movement of his hand. I’m so stupidly in love with him, I have the paranoid feeling he just wants to take that back from me… I give him the tissue and he wipes his thumb when cum reaches his skin.

“Are you okay ?” he asks, like I could be.

I nod looking down, tugging at my dress to hide this body I now definitely hate.

“I didn’t hurt you sweetheart ?” he insists.

“No Dean…” I find my voice.

“Good” he states with that serious low voice of him.

“I want to go home” I say faking a casual tone.

“Sure” he nods. “Let me get Sam and your jacket…”

He gets closer and puts one of those usual friendly kisses on my temple.

I did it. I made Dean want me. But this victory just really doesn’t feel like one…

(To be continued...)

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[paperskinned-writing]

First attempt at smut. I've read some here and there and used to be an amateur writer before. So enjoy it with a grain of salt if it's not quite good.

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Anyways, it's a bit of maid and master play with Kali and Ilia (RWBY) in some scenario where the Belladonnas have rebuilt their house and Ilia is a maid because she feels bad about the last one. Nothing extreme about this one but who knows. I might make a sequel if people like it enough.

Again, enjoy.

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The bottle crashed down from the highest shelf in the room. Silence, followed by soft sniffles eventually made their way across the room to Kali's ears.

The little maid stood in the puddle of what was a full bottle of bourbon. The white frills and apron of her uniform, stained with splatters, were clenched in dainty fists. Her previously white stockings were now the same golden hue as the aftermath on the hardwood floor.

Kali rose from her plush leather chair she had been reading in while observing her personal maid. And immediately strode across the room to Ilia and put her arms around her. While not much taller than the girl, she did embrace tight enough that her motherly chest pushed itself up into a magenta face.

"I-I'm so sorry, ma'am," Ilia stammered, lowering her head further into cleavage, clearly ashamed of the mess she'd made and the concern her mistress had for her. The maid's magenta was giving way to deeper shades of blush, probably due to her particular Faunus trait. Kali sighed.

She wasn't angry or anything. However, it was a repetitive routine. Ilia, though currently buried in her chest, had insisted on being a maid after the previous estate went up in flames. The Belladonnas kindly told her it wasn't necessary but the former White Fang thug was trying to make amends. Kali was of course sympathetic to someone trying, and convinced her reluctant but soft beast of a husband to allow it.

A bit of buyer's remorse she supposed was settling in. While she had fun dressing Ilia in various maid outfits and watching the girl enthusiastically do her bidding, Mrs. Belladonna was starting to regret it. So many items were broken in the first week, she had to cover for Ilia to keep her husband from throwing her out. Two weeks later, the frequency had let up. However, each later item seemed to be more expensive than the last. And this was even after she had the regular staff essentially baby proof the mansion.

She stroked the maid's long ponytail, tracing it all the way out to it's curly end, repeating slowly. It seemed to calm Ilia down, or at least her colors were back into the normal complexion range.

"I'm sorry." The little one straightened up. "I'll clean this up right away."

Kali held her embrace firm for one last stroke of silky hair and let the maid exit. Though even that was a small struggle when Ilia had ended up catching her outfit in the door when she closed it behind her. Kali sighed again. Again, not angry. Just wondering what her help was actually helping.

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Ilia returned with cleaning equipment in hand. Struggling through the door to the room, she began gathering glass and tossing it away. Kali resumed her half-hearted attempt to read to the ambient noise of the room. After some time, sloshing noises caught her attention and she glanced back up.

The tiny maid had hiked her almost knee-length skirt up and under her stained apron. Then she proceeded to get down on the floor to hand scrub the mess away, using a rag and a plastic bucket to do so.

Her attire wasn't skimpy. Frilly and loose standard really. The only real form fitting aspect to it was her sash around her waist that cinched the outfit about her waist. But this was the first time the lady of the house had taken a notice of the girl's figure since she had forced Ilia to wear it.

While the girl was currently faced the other way towards the door, her rear was pointed at Kali. The unstained tops of white stockings grabbed into shapely tan thighs. Straps from a garter belt led away from there up to the skirt that just barely hid the bottom of Ilia's cheeks. Annoyingly, the frilly hem obscured a peek of what might be underneath. Kali had only given her stockings to wear and never told her lingerie was a part of the outfit. Now there was a curiosity to unravel, unlike the mystery in her novel she was hardly reading anyway.

The tiny maid was oblivious to the stares from across the room. She continued scrubbing, her ass swaying slightly as she went. It truly grabbed the feline's attention, the curiosity gnawing at her.

What would a young lady wear under her uniform? Why bother? Maybe it was just personal taste? Maybe she liked the outfit too much? Her mind puzzled over the intentions behind the lingerie.

.

Eventually Ilia finished her cleaning and Kali still burned with a longing for answers. The maid stood up and started to adjust her skirt back to its normal. The bourbon stains on her apron and hems had dried for the most part. She tugged the edges down and shimmied until the folds of fabric hit their full length.

The mistress had been absentmindedly tapping her bottom lip with the tip of her finger. Her gaze hadn't changed in spite of Ilia now being fully dressed. Her fixation on the servant's thighs and hips eventually travelled up to the obscured bust before suddenly locking her amber eyes on a pair of grey ones. Staring bashfully right back into hers. Kali blushed at her blatant ogling.

"Are you done, Ilia?" she asked, trying to shake herself from her curiosity streak.

"Yes, ma'am." The reply was rather meek. The grey eyes were still widened a bit. "Is there something you wanted to ask me, Ms. Belladonna?"

Kali bit her lip. She'd been tapping absentmindedly on her chin before in her pondering.

The woman had always been a sucker for a submissive toy. She herself was a switch and Ghira, bless him, was her man. He was in charge in the bedroom: as rough as he wanted, as long as he needed. She loved it just as much as he, but she did occasionally feel that familiar ache. The need to dominate something like he did to her. That carnal need to gain pleasure at the expense of another. Ghira knew this and he cautiously welcomed her to exorcise it, lest it get out of control.

As long as it's not another man, he told her, he'd look the other way.

And here before her was a good little girl. Bright eyed. Tan. Beautiful. Eager to please. So, maybe a bit of a tease? Enough to satisfy her curiosity and maybe vent a bit of her pent up frustration with the source of it all? Maybe add in a touch of blackmail for fun? Kali cleared her throat and sat back in her plush chair. The leather softly creaking around her head as it cradled her feline ears atop.

"I'm curious to know what a maid wears under her attire."

After some silence, Ilia shifted in her shoes but never broke the gaze between them. Her fingers flexed tentatively.

"Did I do something wrong, ma'am?"

Kali's ears twitched slightly at the innocence in Ilia's whisper. It was genuine, yet, it felt like there was a yearning intertwined.

"No! Not at all. I just couldn't help but notice something when you were down on all fours. I saw something that piqued my interest."

The mistress licked her lips, her gaze grew hungry. It still locked with the other's.

"Care to show me what a maid wears under her uniform?"

Finally, the grey eyes broke contact. They glanced downwards at their owner's feet. Then the hands trembled to the edges of the frilly skirt and pulled it up.

Slowly up the stained stockings, slower up the white straps of the garter belt over the tan flesh. And a slight pause before the grey eyes turned upwards to resume their gaze.

Truthfully, the blue striped panties were cute but not what made Kali feel a deep tingling in her loins. It was actually the fact that Ilia submitted so easily. So exactly. It exhilarated her domme side, the beastial side of her that rarely got out.

Sure, she had a few flings with Sienna, but it was mostly a contest between the two, both being switches meant one never really submitted to the other to a satisfying degree. But that was that. A literal master and servant relationship? Only in other people's fantasies did this happen. And here, in front of her, Kali had a fantasy coming true.

"Come closer," she required. She was too invested in the heat of the moment to let Ilia get away now. She had boundaries to push. Limits to test.

Ilia quietly obeyed, keeping her skirt lifted as the maid slowly walked towards her mistress. Her mary janes clicking on the hardwood as she proceeded.

Kali slowly uncrossed her legs to sit up higher in her chair to allow her servant to come closer. Ilia stepped up toe to toe with her, not in a defiant manner. She was still wide eyed and blushing but every bit as invested as the lady of the house. The little lesbian waited.

"Even closer," came the next sultry command.

Kali's lightly tanned thighs rubbed against Ilia's knees as the latter brushed past to place her toes directly under her mistress's chair. She could go no further.

Lifting her well-manicured hands from the armrests, Kali's fingers traced down her own waist and trailed across her thighs until they resided on the maid's knees. The girl shuddered at the touch. It wasn't out of fear. It was her eagerness. A subtle invitation for more.

"You have to tell me. With your words."

The grey eyes winced slightly, glanced down then returned again like before.

"You can touch me, Ms. Belladonna," came a whisper.

Kali tisked. "Try again."

"I...want. I want you to touch me."

"Please?"

"Please."

"Mistress?"

"Yes. Please, Mistress."

"Say it properly then," purred Kali.

"Mistress, please. I... I want you t-to touch me," the small lesbian requested. "I need it."

At an achingly slow pace, the resting palms tugged and transcended their way up the shapely thighs. Fingers slid to the backside, the palms massaged the outsides, and the thumbs rubbed across the front. Like walking up a long flight of stairs, the mistress worked her hands further and further upwards. Back to side, side to front and up a smidge further to repeat.

Reaching the tops of the stockings, Kali laced her fingers under the fabric and traced around the hem. The direct skin to skin contact sent waves of small shivers up Ilia. A soft moaning cry escaped the maids lips. Kali's eyes never left her face, but Ilia was shutting hers, opening them again, staring back, glancing down. Her tired arms quaked as they clung to the skirt in a death grip. It was probably out of the fear her mistress would stop if she disobeyed in showing her attire that the girl didn't dare let it fall.

The woman felt the heat emanating from between those light brown thighs. She was careful not to go between them, allowing the tension to build in her little toy. She resumed her back to front pattern from before, taking care to trace underneath the front and rear straps as she traversed up past the halfway mark.

A slight tiptoe motion came from the maid when a finger traced the bottom-most edge of her ass. It earned a wicked grin from her master. Leaning a bit more forward, Kali cupped her ass, sliding her hands under the striped fabric clinging to the flesh. She kneaded and grabbed with increased force as she sank her grip into tender meat. Kali pulled the cheeks apart and pushed them back together as she massaged them roughly with her paws. Occasionally dragging her nails across their entirety earned hip thrusts.

Squeals of pleasure and heavy panting filled the room. The tension from the invasive hands pulled Ilia's panties taught across her clit and they dug deep into her soaked crotch. The kneading gave a sawing motion to it all and the poor servant girl couldn't hold any longer.

With a sorrowful whimper the skirt slipped from her hands and covered up the whole exhibit. And, as if it were a cue, Kali immediately stopped everything and sat back in her chair. A stern look about her as her hands laced together under her chin.

"Mistress! I-" Ilia struggled, "I'm sorry! But I-I'mmm… I was soooooo close!"

"I know I didn't say to hold this-" Kali said as she put a knee into the girls groin, "the whole time. But how am I to do anything if I don't get to at least see it with my own eyes?" Her amber orbs unsympathetically returning the gaze from the pleading grey eyes upon her.

"H-how can I make it right with you? Mistress? Please tell me!"

Kali tapped her toe for a short while, pretending or maybe not to make up her mind on what to do. For that while, Ilia did her best to stand at the ready but the quakey stance gave away that under her skirt she was rubbing her thighs together to keep herself stimulated. Kali couldn't see it but there was certainly another puddle on her hardwood floors at this point.

"Lift your skirt again."

Obediently the order was followed. And upon doing so, two well-manicured hands produced cat-like claws. They turned over, palm up, and slipped under the front of the garter belt. Then they looped under the soaked fabric of Ilia's panties.

In a swift motion that slightly startled the maid, Kali cut the underwear away. The stripes clung for a moment due to the soaking they concealed, but with a gentle push on the inside of either thigh, the sticky sheet fell away, leaving a servant bare to her master's eyes. The garter belt's straps framed the prize. Goosebumps crossed the tanned skin, both from excitement and the sudden chill.

The mistress retracted her claws and traced the faint pressure marks where the elastic had been. Then she ran a single finger across from hip bone to hip bone. It resulted in extremely tight clenching between the thighs as Ilia grew somehow more excited with anticipation. Still, the tan girl held her posture otherwise.

She was perfectly smooth save for a small patch above. When petting the soft fuzz with her thumb, the maid doubled over while almost headbutting her mistress in the process. Her tongue briefly licked Kali's neck as she rested her head on one shoulder. Still holding the skirt high around her sides, Ilia was pushed back into standing as close as she could. Turning her other hand palm up again, Kali sank her middle finger into the love tunnel.

A shrill but satisfying moan deafened the feline. Ilia had to be a near virgin for how tight she gripped that one digit. It was only the first phalanx and her mistress could barely keep pushing. She used her thumb on the clit to stimulate her even more before her palm filled with sticky nectar.

The maid collapsed to the ground. Her legs gave out from the sheer weight of her climax. She saw stars in a pair of amber eyes. Those eyes seemed to move away for a moment before Ilia felt like she was falling forward.

Kali wrapped a leg around the back of her servant's neck, careful to grab the silky ponytail out of the way as she reclined again. Resting her black hair against the leather, she was ready. Using her calf to draw the starry eyed lesbian into her now dripping love patch. As the feline pulled her own lacey panties aside, Ilia seemed to come to terms with the situation.

A slimy tongue rolled lazily out and began to service. Kali wasn't as hairless as her younger counterpart but she was trimmed. She wrenched the ponytail in her hand around as a rudder. Her juices smeared all across the girl's face. The maid was enthralled by it more and more, even as she was coming down from her own climax. Ilia reached under the grappling thigh to get a hold of some womanly hip with one hand. The other found itself furiously working her up to another star-studded high.

A deep purr in Kali's chest resonated out loud. As Ilia was gaining more conscious, she only got more enthusiastic. Her sticky tongue kissed every crease and fold, her lips sucked up any juice that the mistress had to offer. Pure. Fucking. Bliss.

Ilia had what seemed like a normal tongue (other than the tacky, gooey quality it possessed) until she buried her nose deep into Kali's muff and her tongue reached deeper than anyone had ever done.

The mistress nearly rolled her eyes back as a result while she groaned out loud. It wasn't that hard, throbbing meat slab her husband would slam in her but it reached almost as far. The slimy member nearly kissed her womb. But that wasn't enough. She had to have more.

Raising her ass slightly, she bucked her hips against her maid's open mouth. Kali began to facefuck her servant but it wasn't unwelcomed. The tiny brunette took it as a command to work harder and did. She slurped harder, wriggling her tongue as much as it would allow. Occasionally she pulled it out completely and snaked it down between the feline's glorious cheeks, sending tangible shivers up her mistress's back when she reinserted into the love tunnel.

Climax for Kali nearly tore off Ilia's ponytail. She held her maid's head with her thighs and the sheer lifting power in her forearms as her body went rigid. As she did, the brunette worked herself up to the finale, using the asphyxiation induced by her mistress to send herself over again.

.

Eventually, Kali let Ilia have her hair back. Her death grip lessened and the suffocated servant slowly parted from her nether region with a small kiss before sitting back on her ankles. The maid kissed the inside of one thigh as she parted. Then shakily, climbed to her feet using the armrests for support.

The little lesbian didn't bother wiping her sloppy face. Instead, she wore a fairly confident smile with a liberal amount of blush in her cheeks. The smile was returned by her mistress, more out of a sense of satisfaction than one of confidence.

"I suppose you should change out of that outfit. There's more than one kind of stain on it now," purred a tired sounding comment. Kali shifted to a more upright position. "Don't worry about the floor for now. Just tell anyone who might need me that I've taken a nap in here."

"Yes, mistress."

Ilia walked across the room and exited. This time she was careful enough to not close the door on her skirt.

Kali let out a small sigh and leaned forward again. Holding her face in both hands and stamping her feet on the ground, Kali wore a stupid grin on her face now. Ilia had gone to clean herself up and now she was in here relishing in the afterglow. How much fun could she have with this new maid? They'd gone so far but she still hadn't seen it all. She hadn't truly explored what her body was like. Hadn't truly controlled her.

Grabbing the still sopping wet cloth on the ground, Kali settled again into her seat. She could smell the juices as she rolled the former panties in her hand. It'd be rude of her to not return these later. Right?

Perhaps it wasn't buyer's remorse, the woman supposed. She was merely making an investment before and now it was paying dividends. How exciting.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Put Me In a Movie

Keanu Reeves x reader (A/n- The past week has been hectic and tough, but we made it! Anyways, this may be the last update for this one for a couple weeks. Maybe. Finals are staring tomorrow, so I’ll only be posting things that I’ve managed to complete over the past two weeks or so. However, the exams are online and open book this semester, with way more time to complete them, so maybeeeee, I’ll sneak something in)

Summary Prologue  1   2   3  4  5  6

Warnings- Very, very slight smut

Chapter 7- Behind The Scenes

"And cut!" Jackson yelled, and after a minute of delay, Y/n along with everyone else in the scene stopped, some breathing sighs of relief, others diving straight into conversation. She'd been fretting against bindings on her arms and legs, though, upon his call, Y/n's muscles relaxed and a small group came to help out of the restraints that bound her to an old iron chair, which in actuality wasn't that old, in an abandoned warehouse, which really happened to be a section of the studio decked to look differently. 

From the minute the last of the rope was undone, Y/n stood, stretching her muscles. She'd been sitting in the same position for an hour. Just then, Keanu came over, wide grin plastered on his ruggedly handsome features, "Don't tell me I missed you being bound and gagged?" He teased, low enough so they wouldn't be discovered. While she'd been tied up, much like your typical kidnap victim, Keanu had been in the thick of his fight scene just a few feet off.

"Just by a bit," Y/n teased playfully. She was about to say more when Jackson approached them, his hair a wild, disheveled mess as it usually was and his grey button up was wrinkled to match his skittish, eccentric persona.

"There are my stars," he grabbed their shoulders, "I just wanted to let you two know, whatever’s changed between you two, I’m loving it. The chemistry is fantastic! Keep going like this and people will start thinking that you’re actually a couple!” As usual, Jackson seemed to completely forget about social cues, walking off before either of them could respond.

“Its….almost….like we’re actually a couple,” Y/n cocked her head to the side, a teasing glimmer twinkling in her bright eyes. Slowly, they started towards the entrance, close enough so her shoulder would occasionally brush Keanu’s arm, though not touching intentionally.

“I know,” Keanu scoffed, shaking his head, “It’s wild,” he chuckled, holding the door open so Y/n could exit first. The minute they were both outside, Keanu took a quick look around, before hastily shifting until he’d had Y/n backed up into the outer, grey painted wall of the studio, his front pressed firmly to hers. He looked down at her, feeling himself react to her coy, sultry grin, “I mean think about it; a girl like you, and I get to do this,” Keanu’s hands skimmed up her thighs, slow enough so his touch would send tingles up her spine as it made his way to her hips, slipping beneath the hem of her tattered, light blue blouse.

“I know right,” Y/n giggled, standing on her toes, “A guy like you, and I get to do this,” her fingers tangled in the ends of his soft, dark locks, twirling them between her fingers as she reached up to capture his lips in a kiss that quickly became heated. “We’re gonna get caught,” Y/n mumbled against his lips when he reached for the button of her jeans.

“You started it,” Keanu accused, pressing his denim clad hard on into her.

“Well,” Y/n giggled between passionate pecks, “Why don’t we finish this in my trailer?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“So,” they were huddled on the sofa, basking in the afterglow of their pleasure, "We're gonna be off for a month from next week. Got anything planned?" That was actually Keanu's way of asking Y/n if she'd be spending any time with him. It was illogical, but some part of his mind was worried that what they were doing was exclusive only to Chicago.

They weren't calling it a relationship. At least not yet. It was as if they were scared to.

Y/n shrugged in his embrace, absently tracing circles into Keanu's chest. "I don't really know yet," she thought for a moment more, "I'm definitely gonna spend some time with my dad, maybe I'll fly out to see my aunt," chuckling quietly, she eventually added, "And I'm dating this guy, he’s probably gonna want me to spend some time with him too.”

“Sounds needy,” Keanu played along, his fingers tangled in the ends of her hair, his other hand splayed on Y/n’s back.

Y/n made a little sound of disagreement, “He’s more of a control freak, especially in the bedroom,” she shifted so Keanu could see when she rolled her eyes, the gesture completely exaggerated, and when Keanu smacked her ass, Y/n yelped in surprise, “Ow!”  Her shoulders shook as she erupted in a fit of giggles.

“What about your mom?” Keanu probed when the mood settled as they lapsed into yet another somber bout. Up until then, Y/n never talked about her mother, she’d mentioned her father a couple times, never by name and only briefly. But never her mother.

Y/n didn’t make any move to respond immediately and Keanu was beginning to think that she hadn’t heard him. Or perhaps she’d wanted nothing to do with the question. Though, Y/n eventually gave in, feeling the weight of her silence press down on them, “What about her?”

“You aren’t going to see her too?” Really, it probably wasn’t his business, Keanu was mostly sure that Y/n would tell him about her family life if she wanted too.

Shrugging again, Y/n maintained her facade of indifference and if there was any turmoil swirling beneath her exterior, Keanu couldn’t readily identify it. Of all the women he’d met, all the women he could never figure out, Y/n was by far the most difficult. She was an enigma of sorts. Maybe that was what had made her so alluring. She was so quiet and reserved that an air of mystery followed her like plumes of smoke signaled fire and her demure disposition was perfectly enticing, her obvious innocence making Keanu want to show her things. Ruin her even. But only in the best ways. 

Y/n was the embodiment of a paradox, the thought; the more she told him, the less he knew. And her silences were typically quite telling. Much like the one she’d just sunk into. Her relationship with her mother was clearly a sore subject, and Keanu was about to remind her that she didn’t need to tell him more than she wanted to when Y/n spoke up, “I’m not, we haven’t spoken since I was fifteen.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, cuddling Y/n closer. Again, he wanted to know more. Yet, he didn’t know if it was even his place to prod around; Y/n didn’t exactly come across as the type that wanted to open just out of the blue like that. Still, he felt compelled to put it out there, “You can talk about it, if you want ”

On his chest, Y/n folded her arms, propping her chin there so she could almost meet his gaze, “I don’t want,” she rejected, already disinterested in the topic, “So, what about you; what are you doing with the time off. Any hot girls to keep you busy?”

Chortling quietly, Keanu let his rough palms inch lower, reaching her thighs and urging her legs open, “Oh,” he cocked a devilish grin, “Just one.”

It had been a while since she’d been there, but still, Y/n knew the place like the back of her hand. Her father’s beachfront home on the Malibu stretch was the perfect reflection of contemporary luxury; thirty two hundred square feet of modern architecture situated on thick round posts, holding the house nearly four feet off the pale sand. When tides were high, water would invade the space beneath the house, and unless you were willing to wade through a foot worth of ocean, then you’d be stuck there until the water receded. 

Inside, large panes of glass, lightly colored hardwood and white marble dominated. Natural lighting filtered in from several places, though transparent walls and awning windows, negating the need for bulbs during the day and the view from the living room was spectacular; the vast blue was straight ahead, just past an infinity pool that hung daringly over the shore. 

An open floor plan allowed one to still see the sparkling water even from the small kitchen, which was nearer to the front door. Y/n and Roger had spent most of their evening there, preparing dinner together. Or course, it might have been easier to order in or maybe even let one of the house keepers do it for them, but cooking together was something they enjoyed. It made Y/n feel normal; in the kitchen she wasn’t a rising actress and her father wasn’t an acclaimed director. It was just a father and his daughter, most of the time floundering around a recipe that was far too complicated for their sub par talents put together. 

That night, Y/n was on pasta duty while her father sauteed scallops in a white wine sauce, both often referring to the recipes on their phones. “I think I’m doing this wrong,” he eventually admitted, when for some reason beyond comprehension, the sauce started to dry down without the shellfish taking on the golden color it was supposed to.

“Maybe you didn’t put in enough liquid?” It was no doubt more of a question than sage advice, and Y/n was too busy trying to finely chop a handful of parsley to pay attention to whatever Roger’s troubles were anyway.

“You’re right,” he hummed, grabbing the bottle of Pinot Gris next to the stove, pouring a generous amount into the pot, “Wine makes everything better,” he chuckled. Y/n just shook her head, rolling her eyes absently at his ridiculous quip. “So,” Roger began once he seemed to get everything under control, just as Y/n finished draining a potful of al dente penne pasta, “How are things in Chicago?”

What he really meant was; did you ever work things out with Luke and he who had never been named?

“They’re good,” Y/n started up her own sauce, trying to follow every direction to the letter, unlike like her father, who usually preferred to add his own touch, even if his culinary skill set was next to nil, “Filming has been lots of fun, I’ve been…..hanging out with….people,” just one person really.

“You’ve been hanging out?” Roger seemed surprised, if he knew his daughter as well as he thought he did, and without fail, he really did, he knew for a fact that Y/n wasn’t the ‘hanging out’ type. She’d always been more reserved, keeping an alarmingly small friend circle and almost everyone at an arm's length. There was only a privileged few that had seen her for the sweet girl she really was, with an overly sensitive heart and an open mind. Most people, the ones that didn’t really know her often, though she was stand-offish and too prissy to hold them in conversation. “Are these people real?”

Y/n’s dismay came in the form of a huff, contained in her throat and an annoyed rendition of the classic, “Dad!” Huffing again, she continued the task as hand, measuring out the right amounts of stock before pouring it into the pasta, following that up with a generous handful of basil.

“Can you blame me?” Roger took a lengthy sip from his beer, proceeding to lower the lower the flame on his burner, letting their entree simmer. When Y/n just scoffed, he continued, determined to wean what he wanted out of her, “So, did you ever work things out with Luke?”

For a minute, Y/n considered pretending to not hear him, but there weren’t really any disruptive noises, unless you counted the crashing of waves muffled by the walls. Besides, she’d just feel guilty about ignoring him anyway. “No,” she breathed reluctantly.

Roger nodded slowly, regarding Y/n curiously, “But you’re seeing someone, aren’t you?” 

Why’d he have to know her so well?

Well, there was no point in lying anyway. “Yeah, we’ve been going out for about two months now. He’s nice.”

“Yeah? Nice enough for me to like him?” Of course her father would want to meet that man she was dating. Curse him for being so involved! 

Y/n just shook her shoulders, wishing that there was a way for her to just slither out of that conversation. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of dating Keanu or anything like that, but she still wasn’t really sure of what they were doing. He’d never called himself her boyfriend, and she had even considered that she might be his girlfriend. It felt even juvenile to have to think about something as frivolous as labels, but for the first time, Y/n understood Luke’s desire to have them. Labels were easy and unambiguous. There was no toeing around the subject or wondering where you stood. 

But on the flip side, Y/n wasn’t even sure if she wanted Keanu to be her boyfriend. He was a little confusing, serious most of the time but humorous at others and she constantly felt like he was holding out on her, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. And worst yet, Y/n didn’t think she’d exactly call herself ‘girlfriend material’, she was a little too self-concerned sometimes and found that she couldn’t always empathize when she was stuck in her own thoughts and feelings. Who wanted that for a partner? 

“Well?” Roger probed, awaiting an answer. Why was it so confusing? Because despite both their obvious flaws and incompatibilities, Y/n wanted things to work with Keanu. She thought she could want them to work in the forever kind of way, even if he didn’t seem like the kind of man interested in forever, even if part of her knew that she probably shouldn’t. 

“I don’t think we’re ready for that yet,” the mood changed and Y/n gave the pasta one last stir before turning the stove off, “We’re just…..”

“Seeing where things go?” He chuckled quietly, shaking his head, getting a couple dishes out of the overhead cabinet mounted to the wall over the sink, “Why are you young people always doing that? Seeing where things go? When I was your age, people dated for a future, for marriage.” Which was probably how he’d ended up with her mother.

At a loss for words, Y/n just raised her brows in unspoken annoyance as she took a generous swing from her own tinted bottle. She didn't really want to broach the whole ‘Keanu wasn't really her age’ part of her answer, "I don't know what to tell you dad. I'm just not looking for that right now," she shrugged, helping him with plating their dinner. Afterwards, he grabbed a couple of stemless wine glasses and Y/n grabbed a bottle of white from the refrigerator, following her father out to the balcony where they'd be having dinner.

 "What about him?" Their talk was starting to feel like an interrogation.

"What about him?" Y/n shook her shoulders, using the toe of her black ballet pump to shove the screen door open. When she saw the warning eye, scolding her sass, coming from her father's direction, Y/n sighed internally, relenting, "He's not looking for anything too serious either."

Y/n could see the worry in his gaze, nearly boring into the side of her head. Maybe it was the turmoil of her parents' marriage, maybe it was just her nature, but Y/n was proving to be repellent to stable relationships, not wanting to get too serious or go the whole mile. She knew that he'd probably blame himself for part of it, but she wouldn't. She'd cut that offender out of her life the second she could. They set everything down at the table that looked over the infinity pool and the ocean beyond. "Well, who is he?"

Ugh

Y/n was growing tired of the conversation. The less she gave, the more Roger wanted to know. Even if he hadn't been around a lot when she was younger, he always tried to be involved. Usually Y/n didn't mind, he was her go to for parental advice and a listening ear, but as of then, her dating life was a complicated mess and the last thing she wanted was for dad to give her a lecture on why she shouldn't be with Keanu. "It's the guy from Chicago," she evaded, "The one I told you about."

"I thought he didn't feel the same way?" He quoted. 

Pushing some food around with her fork, she shrugged childishly, staring at her glass, the chill of the wine fogging it over, "I guess I was wrong."

"You don't want to talk about this," he finally assessed, "But you know I don't mean to be overbearing, I just don't want you to get hurt again."

"I know," she nodded, "I won't," it was a baseless promise, Y/n had no idea on where things were going with Keanu, and it was likely to end badly, even if she was hoping for the best. 

Their silence stretched on for a while, but when Y/n broke it, she was adamant on shifting gears and getting them to talk about something else. "So, are you reading any new scripts?"

After a lengthy conversation about her confusing dating life, Y/n and her dad had spent the rest of their dinner talking about work. She'd left his place at around nine that Friday night, and after nearly three months of not driving on an actual street, she drove back to her place, a cushy condo in West Hollywood. 

Keanu had called and they'd talked for about an hour, in the end deciding that he'd come to her place that Saturday evening, just after sunset. And, as promised, he'd showed up at around seven, "Hey," he cocked a crooked grin, his motorcycle helmet chucked under his arm and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark jeans and his leather jacket zipped up. 

"Hi," Y/n pulled one of the heavy doors open a bit wider, wordlessly inviting him in through one side of the double entryway. The minute she closed the door and turned the lock, Keanu discarded his helmet on the counter of her moderately sized kitchen, just a few feet off from the entrance, laying his hands on her hips. He pressed a searing kiss to her lips, letting one arm circle her waist. 

"I missed you," he mumbled against her lips, his salt and pepper scruff rough and ticklish on her skin. As they lingered like that, Keanu tilted his head again, his calloused touch inching beneath the hem of her loose, cotton tank top. 

Y/n giggled softly, the musical sound muffled by his lips smooshed on hers, "We saw each other two days ago."

"Two days too long," he growled, tugging her closer that Y/n thought was possible. Really, he was right; in Chicago they saw each other every day, they had sex everyday. 

Y/n's hands skimmed the cool leather of his coat, sliding them upwards until her fingers were tangled in his ends of his shaggy, dark locks, tangling them around her little fingers, “You really missed me, didn’t you?” Y/n teasingly rubbed against his jean clad erection, smiling at how he hissed appreciatively. 

“Baby,” his husky voice was low and rich, the simple word making her feel things, “You have no idea.” Kissing her again, heated and hungry, Keanu pushed Y/n deeper into her apartment, just past a thick rectangular post, where the electronic fireplace was embedded and the television mounted above it. There was an armchair near the unlit fireplace, with soft white upholstering, complemented by black accent pillows, and as they reached it, Keanu slid his palms down the curve of her ass, hoisting her up in his arms. As he sank down into the chair, Y/n straddled him, eager to undo the zipper of his jacket before pushing it off, unabashedly moving on to undo the fastenings on his jeans. 

Groping her ass one last time, Keanu’s hands resumed their former task, traveling up the inside of her worn, grey top, his touch igniting shocks. His lips ravished her neck, probably leaving behind purplish bites and beard burn. Y/n ground in Keanu’s lap, moaning eagerly when he reached around to fondle her unrestrained breasts. Clumsily, she reached between them to free his hardened cock, when a startled obscenity erupting from near the kitchen interrupted them. 

Keanu’s hold on her boobs was still firm as sirens went off in Y/n’s head. “Dad!” Y/n shrieked, more horrified than she’d ever been.

“What?” Keanu furrowed his brows, confused at her alarm, and why she’d stopped. Turning and craning his head to see who she was seeing, his eyes went wide, his jaw hanging slack. Just when he thought a situation couldn’t get much worse than sleeping with a woman and then having brunch with her and her boyfriend, Keanu was reminded that it always could. An uncomfortable and awkward brunch was certainly better than getting caught with his hands up the top of an old friend’s daughter. “Roger?”

“Keanu?” Needless to say, Y/n wasn’t the only one absolutely mortified with the situation. Almost immediately after, though still not nearly soon enough, Keanu dropped his hands, not really sure of where they should go from there on. 

It took another minute or two, but eventually, Y/n was scurrying out of Keanu’s lap, tugging at her tank top and loose, grey booty shorts. So much for hiding her somewhat complicated relationship from her father. Though, that wasn’t the issue hot on Y/n’s frazzled mind, “You two know each other?”

Red in face, Y/n stood, barefoot on the fluffy, off-white rug, unconsciously curling her toes into the fabric. Neither of the men made a move to answer and the sheer horror of the moment seemed to be mirrored three ways. Everyone was at a loss for words and tension was on a continuous rise; embarrassment, awkwardness and bubbling anger from at least one person. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it actually was, and though there was at least ten feet and one piece of furniture between Keanu and Roger, anyone could tell that whatever friendship was shared between them, wasn’t going to be there much longer. 

As seconds ticked by, and everyone processed what had just happened, it felt like time was passing too slowly for anything to make sense. Though, when the kettle finally whistled, the noise was piercing and what happened next was not what Y/n was hoping for. 

His face was beet read with anger and his fists were clenched at his side as Roger strode up to Keanu in long steps, “You’re fucking my daughter!”

“Dad!” Y/n screamed, and the rest of it was a blur.  

*****

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