#i can’t believe i slept on this ship for a month

[deadpcnned]

Sealed by the Storm (jj.m)

chapter six

pairing: jj maybank x reader; marriage of convenience

content warning(s): references to abuse (luke)

author's note: i don't really love how this chapter came out, but it was needed to keep the story progressing :/ on a happier note, i've been getting more fun asks about sealed and i got one that i loved smmmm. i basically made an unofficial playlist for this series, if you wanna read that post

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To you, the lapping of waves against the hull of the boat is like the rock of a cradle for a nursing child. You had spent a large chunk of your formative years on ships where nautical turbulence was the norm. You can still remember those first few months when you’d joined Terrance’s crew, thinking there would never come a time you would accept it, let alone find comfort in it. 

It comforts you now, too. The surrounding water has much less impact, considering you’re floating over a lake, not an ocean– waves replaced by ripples– but you can still feel that subtle shift in movement when you focus on it. You’re focusing on it now, trying to pass the time while you're cooped up in the cabin bedroom. 

One ground rule you and JJ set was that during the day, you’d either stay on the boat or off until sunset to avoid getting caught. It has been a week since the night he brought you here, and your recent status of being unemployed has made your lack of a schedule painfully obvious. You spend most of your hours texting Cleo, but her responses come slow since she’s been taking shifts at Heyward’s shop. 

You’ve been awake for over an hour but haven’t left the bedroom in fear of running into JJ. After the two of you had unpacked your backpacks that first night, the air between you had changed. The awkward energy between you was palpable as you tried to learn how to exist in each other’s space. With the limited square footage and your fractured relationship, you worry that any misstep could end with you stepping on his toes. You know it’s no way to live– hiding in the bedroom and wasting your morning– but it’s comfortable. 

You sigh as you get up, accepting your fate and preparing to face it. After you’ve made your bed and brushed your teeth in the detached restroom, you take a few more steps and enter the lounge area. JJ’s there, lying face-down on the leather couch, and while you can’t believe he’s knocked out at half past noon, you also feel an immense amount of pity wash over you. He’s curled into himself– trying to make himself smaller to fit on the narrow cushion that curves around a table– but his legs are still too long to fit. His arm is bent under his head as a makeshift pillow. You don’t need to imagine how wildly uncomfortable he must be. 

Trying to be quiet, you reach for an apple and a knife, which Sarah had kindly dropped off along with a few other essentials. You can tell the knife is from the set Rafe keeps in the apartment, but you appreciate it the same. Cringing at the taps of the knife against the counter, you try your best to complete the task more quietly. You slow your actions, but it’s to no avail because you hear a groaning sound behind you after a moment. 

“Mmm,” Placing the knife on the black granite, you turn to see JJ stretching, his face set in a displeased expression. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” you reply, returning your attention to the apple. “You sleep alright?”

“Uh,” You can tell from the sound of shuffling and his voice he’s coming closer. “Yeah, slept good.” You know he’s lying. There’s no way a man of his height and build could sleep comfortably on what is essentially a glorified rock. You let him lie.

JJ clears his throat, indicating that you should make space before he reaches his arm out in front of you to grab one of the two glasses in the corner. The limited counter space makes his hip rub against yours as he moves, the warmth of his touch bleeding into you. He flicks the sink faucet, filling his cup with water– downing it in two gulps. He goes to fill the glass again, and you’re about to snap at him to let you finish cutting your apple when he extends the glass out towards you. 

“Drink up,” He instructs, his tone casual. You pause, looking up at him to see what he’s getting at, but his expression is so neutral you can’t make heads or tails of it. You take the glass from his hands while he remains silent. Without any gloating or taunting, he heads to the restroom. 

You drop the knife on the counter too harshly, your fingers curling tightly around the glass. It’s irrational how deep those simple words bury themselves under your skin. You can’t be mad at him for being in your shared space. You can’t be mad at him for using the cups you share. Yet, you are.  

“Drink up,” you mimic in a much higher pitch than JJ had spoken. You down the water in quick gulps, not registering the sound of the restroom door opening and closing. 

“That supposed to be me?” The only reason you don’t jump at JJ’s voice is years of practice hiding your surprise. You remain silent, turning back to face your half-cut apples. You feel him then, inching closer. The minimal space highlights how close he really is with each step he takes. When his fingers pull at your forearm, you don’t respond, making him apply just a little more pressure to get you to face him.

He towers over you, his face mere inches from yours and an ever-growing smirk coloring his lips. “You know,” he starts, and his drawled words crawl further under your skin. “For someone who hates being told what to do,” his eyes shift to the blue glass for only a second before returning to yours. “You sure took that water without a fight.” 

You’re holding your breath as he reaches past you to grab a slice of the apple, chewing on it slowly as he studies you. His bites twist around a smirk as his blue eyes study something intently. 

“Interesting,” He hums, reaching for another slice and stepping back. That does it. That single, seemingly innocent word infuriates you because what could he possibly be putting together that you aren’t? 

JJ sits on the lounge couch, resting his arms against the table as he swipes through his phone. An empty table. Because there’s no money to put food on it. Just like that, you find your jackpot. 

“You need to get a job,” You all but bark at him. JJ looks up from his device, his brows furrowing. You walk closer to him, abandoning your breakfast, and cross your arms across your chest. “Waking up in the afternoon and sitting on your phone isn’t going to keep us out of any more trouble.”

JJ just watches you quietly as if he’s deciding how serious you are. His expression shifts, and then a despondent sigh escapes between his lips. You watch as he shakes his head, casting his eyes down at the table, making you both more angry and want to hide. 

“Did you hear me?” You ask.

“I heard you just fine,” JJ’s voice is as sharp as yours, but he doesn’t raise it. “What job have you got, again?”

“I’ve been looking for one,” You tell him. You have. You’ve been calling numbers on listings in the paper– like this is the 1900s– for jobs you may be a good fit for, but the paper you’ve been using is a little outdated, and every job you’ve called for has been filled. “You’re not even trying.” 

“Who said I’m not trying?” There’s an unreadable look in JJ’s eyes. He gets up, walks through the cabin door, and leaves you alone. You’re fuming at his audacity to leave you in the middle of what you’d consider a conversation when he returns, his fist tightly wound around a paper. He drops it on the table and leaves again. This time, you wait a few minutes, and when he doesn’t return, you lean over the table to look at what he’s left there. 

JJ closes his eyes and lets himself slip back in time. He’s sixteen again. The HMS Pogue is rocking gently, the air thick with salt and laughter. He sees Kie sitting at the boat's bow, teasing Pope about his meager alcohol intake in the name of a history test. Pope reminds her – as he always does – that he plans to make it out of this town. John B is sitting behind JJ at the wheel. His mind’s only half on the task at hand, a palm resting lazily against the wheel, too focused on finding the perfect opportunity to add his own quips to Kie and Pope’s argument. The argument has branched into a tangent about whether college is necessary, and Kie calls Pope classist while Pope argues he can’t be because he’s the working class. 

JJ’s lying smack dab in the middle of it all, his head propped against the edge of the boat, rolling a blunt between his fingers. The sun’s harsh against his skin, and he doesn’t have sunscreen on, but he likes to think his skin has grown accustomed to the UV rays the island offers at this time of year. He can hear birds in the background, their choice of music today since Pope forgot the speaker he got for Christmas four years ago. 

JJ isn’t thinking about the problems waiting for him on land. The chaos of home and the weight of never having enough are forgotten on this sacred vessel. He knows his life outside the HMS Pogue is waiting patiently for him to return and deal with reality, but he’s not worried about that. His biggest concern is whether Kie will agree to bake them some special brownies since her parents have a fancy ass oven (‘the bigger the oven, the bigger the batch, Kie!’). 

In his mind’s eye, nothing happens next. They become frozen like this – sixteen, careless, clueless, even after everything they’ve already seen. They don’t move forward. They don’t break.

JJ didn’t used to think he was happy. He was always searching for the key to that emotion, thinking it was locked away with a shitload of money. He’d been so eager to find the gold and leave that life behind, but he guesses what they say is true– hindsight really is 20/20. Because he’d already been the closest to happiness he was ever going to get and hadn’t even realized it.

Sarah and Cleo aren’t in his mental image. He doesn’t mean for it to be that way. The sentimental part of him he usually tucks away around the others likes to think that you’d all have found your way to each other somehow. 

You aren’t there either. You’re here. Behind the door that he’s slumped against to remain hidden from wandering eyes. When he opens his blue eyes, it’s dizzying that the surroundings all look the same as the fond memory, but the people aren’t there. 

Those times of never going a day without seeing each other are gone. Somehow, he’s gotten lucky and stretched that lifestyle a few years longer than most childhood friends. College didn’t tear them apart like he used to hold his breath for. Neither did getting his ass thrown in jail. 

Nothing was keeping you guys apart. It’s a choice. Sarah and John B are choosing to prioritize the start of their family. Pope is prioritizing polishing his now muddied resume for a chance at college admissions. Cleo is prioritizing learning the ropes of running a business from Heyward. Kie is (suddenly) prioritizing her relationship with her parents. 

You’re the only one who doesn’t have something that takes precedence over JJ. The remaining piece of the puzzle that’s been undone. The problem is, you can’t stand to be around him. He hasn’t missed how you run off to the bedroom each time you’re in the lounge together or how you hold your breath when he passes by you closely, an inevitable byproduct of the size of your “home.”

 He thought you were making progress, starting to get along after the months-long drought your friendship endured. You were laughing at his jokes again, trusting him with secrets. Trusting him with the boat. The boat was huge. It was the first time JJ felt you’d put aside his mistakes and were willing to move forward. Now, it all felt like a trick of the light, and with one step to the left, the illusion vanished. He should be used to it; people not wanting to stick around. 

His entire life has been about people not wanting to stick around. Luke, Groff. God, he really should be the poster child for Daddy Issues. 

He figures he should be grateful Groff didn’t stick around this time either, but his absence does nothing to put his worries to rest. JJ hadn’t seen Groff around, and he’d heard through Sarah that Groff had apparently been a part of some pyramid scheme Rafe fell victim to and skipped town. If that intel is correct, Groff must be furthering his search for the crown, which means he’d be distracted from returning for JJ. JJ doesn’t know if Groff will come back after finding the crown, but Groff has to know the police found the body, so maybe that means he’ll never come back to the Outer Banks. JJ — maybe for the first time in his life — really hopes Groff will be one of the people who doesn’t come back. The further away Groff stays from the island, the further away the stench of Lightner's body will be from you. And him. 

Throughout his life, JJ has tended to compare himself to Luke. He was so entranced by the concept of nature vs. nurture. He’d thought Luke was his blood, half his DNA. At the end of every internal debate, he’d come to the conclusion that it didn’t matter whether nature outweighed nurture in making a person who they were or not because all he’d ever known was Luke. If Luke’s blood was in his veins and Luke’s hand was the one that raised him, he had no choice but to turn into his father eventually. 

That all is changing now. Luke’s genetics hadn’t played any part in creating him, but he had raised him — raised maybe wasn’t how most would describe it, but it was Luke all the same. So, now, what won? Nature or Nurture? Was he Groff, or was he Luke? Was he both? 

Was his future going to be him constantly jumping between being a drunk and a con artist? Maybe he and Groff aren’t all that different. He’d known he was lying that day on the back road. JJ noticed how Groff talked faster when he told JJ he had locked JJ in to protect his son. He’d helped Groff anyway. Did that make him just as bad? 

 JJ, at sixteen, had been willing to go to any length to get any treasure they could. He’d been at the forefront of it all, leading the Pogues into this nightmare. He’d convinced Pope to abandon his academic dreams, which JJ knew were his only chance at stability. He’d let Kiara’s already contentious relationship with her parents worsen instead of letting them figure out their way over the bump of teenagehood. He’d let John B lose his father again. That rapacity seemed just as strong in Groff. 

Could JJ ever kill for money? He hadn’t thought he could. He’d tried being that man. The one who totes around guns and threatens dangerous men. In the end, he couldn’t follow through. But maybe there’d been a teenage version of Groff who hadn’t been able to follow through either. Then, somewhere along the way, maybe Groff had placed his finger against the trigger and finally pulled it. That could be JJ one day. 

Would life on The Cut, always in trouble and always full of want, turn him into a murderer. Could JJ kill his wife for money? JJ had pieced it together by now. The fact that Larissa Genrette’s death wasn’t the tragic but faultless result of a bad storm. His mother had been murdered. By his father. JJ used to wonder what his mom was like – the girlfriend Luke claimed skipped town when it got too much to take care of him. Now, the truth was settling into his bones, weighing him down more than ever. She hadn’t gotten tired of caring for him. She hadn’t looked at his face one last time and decided she’d had enough. 

She was taken from him by the man who was supposed to love him and love her but loved money more. JJ felt sick every time he thought of it, every time he imagined his mother’s decaying body in that tomb. Had she been in love with Groff? JJ has never been in love but wonders if he will someday be. Would he hurt that woman like Groff hurt his mother? 

A shiver runs up his spine as he realizes that you are his wife despite the unusual circumstances that have brought him to this point. It’s a borrowed title, not his to keep for you, but his for now. He doesn’t think he could put money above you. He’d promised you he was done with the treasure. After three years of being led by his thirst for more, he finally put down the glass, and it was in your name. In part, it’s because the reality of how dangerous this was was catching up to him, even if it was a few years too late. But mostly, it’s because that day, after he’d burned the knife, he’d been moved by the look on your face. Never in the past two years had he seen you so… rattled, helpless. Destroying the weapon Groff used had brought something out or maybe suppressed something in you, and you’d been turning to him for comfort. He can’t explain what it is that’s put a deep-seated desire to grant you that comfort, but he finds himself letting it take over. He let that need to protect you take him to the metaphorical altar, and he let it cause a rift between him and his best friend since kindergarten. 

Even now, when he’s having one of those rare moments where his anger is justified, he wants to go back in and keep the job search going. He wants to put your mind at ease. Be the kind of man who protects, provides, and does all the other domestic bullshit he knows he’s not cut out for. It terrifies him how easily he could slip into this part – the part of a doting husband – if he let himself. 

Realistically, he knows you both need jobs. He’s been trying to land something, but his reputation on the island’s never been too good, and the past few years have only made that worse. Every call he makes is met with the line being cut before he can say his last name or hesitant apologies – the latter are few and far between. He hasn’t even been able to lock down lawn-mowing gigs. Embarrassingly, he’d called the one listing searching for a dog walker and had also been rejected for that. It didn’t look like he could find a job, and he didn’t know how to tell you. 

Sighing, JJ takes out his phone from its spot in his back pocket to check the time. He’d been out here for an hour and a half without realizing it. He decides it’s time to bite the bullet and stands — careful not to stand to his full height in case anyone passes by the dock. When he enters through the door, he doesn’t expect you to still be sitting in the lounge area. But there you are — sitting on the rounded couch, your finger trailing down the page of the paper he’d left for you to find. You’re holding your phone in your right hand — an old iPhone 7 Kiara had lying around and had given you to use when you’d moved here. 

When he closes the door behind him, you flick your head up. Your eyes greet him with a flood of questions and something softer that he can’t place. 

JJ lifts his hands. “I was just outside the door. No one saw.” 

He watches your face fall a bit and wants to make his tone a little less irritated, but he’s always had a hard time not wearing his heart on his sleeve. Whatever he feels, always makes itself known. 

“Okay,” you reply quietly. You avert your gaze from JJ and return to the list in front of you. You don't say anything else, and JJ decides he should go wash up — anything to avoid being in this cage of awkward tension with you. 

Just as he’s turning, he hears you speak again, “JJ?”

JJ waits wordlessly for you to continue. 

“Do you want to go through these listings with me?” It’s not an apology. It’s not even an acknowledgment. It’s your emotionally suppressed version of an olive branch, though, and he wants to take it. If you’re stuck in this living arrangement for the unforeseeable future, you’ll have to be able to get along, or it’s going to be hell. 

JJ sits across from you, the table between you feeling like a safety net for potential fallout. You push the paper between you as you say, “I called the first five, and they’ve already been filled. Isn’t it weird that people actually respond to these listings?” 

JJ shrugs, knitting his brows together. “Not really. Pogues kinda survive off these things.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “Well, that explains why I’ve had no luck.” 

You and JJ start splitting up the listings, alternating between who takes each one unless you find one that seems like a perfect fit for the other. The process leaves you both in silence longer, only the occasional sound of the paper being pushed between you. But you break the stillness when you find an opening for a private surf instructor. 

You scoot around the couch, closing the space between JJ and you until your arm presses into his. You speak with your hands moving in a flurry, excitement seeping into your voice. 

“This is perfect for you,” You say, nudging your knee against his and tapping a spot on the paper. Your voice holds a note of confidence in him that almost makes him believe it, too. Almost. 

JJ hasn’t mentioned that he’s gone through almost the entire list and got turned away from this position the second they heard his name.

JJ doesn’t want to burst your bubble and watch your expression change if he tells you now. He’s worried it’ll only prove to you that JJ is poisonous and his reputation has not been left unscathed. Before he can explain why that position may not be the best fit, you’re already dialing the number and putting the phone on speaker. When the voice rings through the opposite end of the line, you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to introduce himself. You jostle his shoulder when he doesn’t say anything before giving him a funny look and speaking on his behalf. 

“Hi! My name is Y/N, and I was calling for your ad in the paper. The one for the private surfing instructor? Is it still open?”

He watches as you wait with bated breath like this one might be the one that sticks. Your anticipation makes his chest feel tight. He’d told you once, in passing, that he used to win free surfing competitions the OBX hosted when he was a kid. It was the only thing the Kooks who knew him ever gave him credit for. It never made them care about the boy behind the borrowed and battered board, but the brief applause he’d received made him feel like he was on top of the world. It’s why he still loved to surf as often as he could. It was one of the few things he knew he was good at. He was a great surfer, if not the greatest on the island. That just wasn’t enough right now.

“Ah, yes. Yes, it is. Are you interested?” The voice on the other end of the line belongs to a woman JJ’s never met but apparently knows him far too well. “My son Eric's in a bit of a phase but refuses to attend group lessons. If you’re willing, we can arrange a meeting and discuss everything.” 

“I am interested!” You remark and then correct, “Well, not for me. I have a friend who would be perfect for the job. You may have heard of him. JJ May—” 

“Absolutely not.” 

You pull the phone back from you, looking up at him with a confused pout that he tries not to pay too much attention to amid this chaos. “JJ Maybank? He’s a really great surfer. Won multiple competitions—”

“I already told your friend I will not give him this position. If he tries to reach me again, I will call the police.” With that, the line cuts, and you look up at him, your eyes full of confusion and a hint of something like remorse. JJ can’t look at you, so he turns back to the paper and clears his throat. He’s dialing another number, not sure exactly what it’s for, when your hand rests against his, pushing the phone out of the way. 

“How many of these people have you already called?” You ask. JJ considers lying and claiming the woman has no idea what she’s talking about, but he knows he’s lost any footing to make it believable. 

“Um,” JJ clears his throat again, shrugging. “All of them except the last three.” 

You’re quiet, then. He keeps his eyes trained on the table, still too ashamed to meet your eye. He wonders if you’ll be pissed he made you waste all this time. 

“Gross, why would you willingly talk to those assholes again?” JJ’s head snaps up, and your face is morphed into a comical expression of disgust. 

“Need a job,” JJ shrugs, not ready to test the waters of humor you seem to be threading, just in case he says the wrong thing. 

You nod then, “Not with people like that.” 

JJ’s never heard that before. As Pogues, there’s no being picky. There’s no sticking up for yourself. He’s always been taught to keep his head down and do as he’s told. He’s horrible at it, but that’s the advice he’s always been given. You’re the last person he’d expect to go against that type of thinking. Not only because you’re a Pogue like him but because you place survival above everything else. It’s like the mode you're permanently set to. There’s no place for pride and principles when a person’s just trying to get to the next day. 

“What choice do we have?” JJ lets his head fall back against the stiff leather of the couch, getting reminders of how uncomfortably he’s slept the past couple of nights. You mirror his actions, resting your head against the unforgiving surface only to pull your head back up with a wince. That makes JJ smile.  

“What’d you wanna be when you were younger?” You catch JJ off guard with your question. His fingers, which had been idly tapping against the table, still as he raises a brow at you. You’re waiting for an answer, your attention entirely on him, and he takes a moment to consider his reply. 

“Not really sure, if I’m honest. Never really had the chance to dream like that,” JJ tells you.

“Oh, come on,” You push, not buying his answer. You tilt your head as if that’ll do something to make him reconsider. “Every kid has dreams.”

There’s an earnestness in your eyes that reaches out towards JJ and squeezes his heart. He’s never admitted this to anyone, not flat out, but he finds himself wanting to tell you. “The shop, I guess. Since I was twelve. I used to sketch out pictures of how it would look in my textbooks and everything.” 

Your eyes gloss over, a film of sorrow that he knows matches his own, replacing the playful glint in your eyes. It still doesn’t feel real that you’ve lost the land. He watches as you reach out, and he squeezes it when you take hold of his hand. Despite any animosity, this pain is yours to share. 

“It was one hell of a dream.”

“Yeah,” JJ nods, shooting you a sad smile. “It was.”

A moment passes with the two of you sitting just like that, gazing at each other. Then, JJ asks, “What about you? What’s your dream?”

You look down, your lips bashfully turning up at the sides as if embarrassed by your answer. “I wanted to be a CEO.”

JJ lets out a laugh before he can stop himself, and your smile mirrors his, though you add an unimpressed roll of your eyes. “I’m being serious!”

“Oh, I’m sure. Making money off bossing people around? Checks out,” You scoff, but don’t deny it, and JJ knows you couldn’t even if you tried. “What kind of company would you run? I can’t see you in, like, fashion.”

You scoff again, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you say,  “Cause that’s the only thing girls can be in charge of?” 

“I don’t know. What else do little girls dream of?” 

“Oil and gas.” JJ stills at that, his mouth falling agape slightly. 

“What? Oil and gas? That’s some Kook shit if I’ve ever heard it. How’d you land on that?” JJ’s too caught up in how unlikely your answer is to catch when your expression shifts back to serious, but he sees the moment you try to pretend it didn’t happen. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“Family business,” You say. JJ stills then, not exactly understanding what to make of your words. Family business, as in your family’s business? The one JJ knew nothing about. If your family was in an industry like that, that would make you… not the kind of Pogue he’d thought. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, breaking the silence he’s letting stretch over you two.

JJ shakes his head, “Like what?”

“Like, I’m not who you thought I was.” Your voice is more melancholic than JJ has ever heard, more than he ever thought it could be. You’ve never opened up about your past with JJ, not anything before you met Cleo. Your stories revolved strictly around that time, and he hadn’t even considered what came before that. It’s hard not to let it catch him off guard, but he doesn’t want to lose this moment to learn more about you. To learn you. 

“I, uh, it's just surprising, is all,” JJ clarifies. Then, in an effort to keep you talking, he asks, “Your parents were in oil and gas?”

“Y-yeah,” You hesitate, your fingers fussing with the edge of your shirt, a nervous habit JJ’s picked up on. “My dad’s side. It was a generational thing. My great grandfather, I think.” You chuckle, though it’s entirely humorless. “I used to say I’d be the first girl to take over the company.”

“How…” JJ wants to ask you how someone goes from that to this. How’d you end up with Terrance? Why didn’t you take over the company? But you're begging with your eyes for him not to finish that question, and he doesn’t want to see that forlorn look any longer. Instead, he settles on, “I can’t believe you’re a Kook.”

You give a half-hearted laugh. JJ searches his mind for anything else he can say, but he’s drawing a blank. The best he can come up with is, “So, like, were you the country club kind of Kook?”

You sigh and bite your lip. “Worse. So much worse.”

JJ shifts towards you, leaning in and genuinely interested in what you have to say. “Give it to me. I can handle it.” 

“I…” You give him a side eye that makes him want to laugh in this moment of faux seriousness. “I was in training to be the next season’s most sought-after debutant.” 

JJ blinks slowly, then lets out a disbelieving laugh, and you shove your shoulder against his. “No way. You?” Without thinking, he throws his arm out and rests it against the cushioned seat behind you. He’s still laughing at your displeasure as he says, “I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine it. I mean, I’ve seen you punch grown men. I can’t line that up with dresses and tiaras.” 

Your laugh is soft, but JJ catches the way your eyes flicker like you’re shuffling through those memories. He’s watching you, trying to find the puzzle pieces he’s been missing. He always thought that if he had a life like that – full of money and stability – he’d never know what worrying meant. But you had that, and now you’re sitting here, sharing this cramped space with him. Something had to have gone horribly wrong for you to give up a life like that and end up here. 

“So, tell me, what were you like then? Did you actually enjoy that stuff?” JJ asks.

“Mmm, some of it. I liked wearing the dresses. Thought they made me look like a princess.” Your nose crinkles, like you feel silly admitting it. JJ had never seen you in a dress until the day of the wedding. Your style isn’t exactly edgy – mostly just plain, cropped shirts and well-fitted jeans – but it also didn’t scream hyper-feminine in a way JJ associated dresses with. “The other stuff�� It's complicated.”

“How so?” JJ ventures to ask. He’s not sure you’ll answer with how evasive you’re being, but he still tries. 

“I guess,” You stop for a moment, and he can see you analyzing every possible choice of words before you speak them. Then you shake your head and say, “The dresses could get itchy sometimes.”

You’re deflecting, using humor to throw him off the scent of what you want to say. You’re not as okay as you’re trying to present yourself to be in this moment, but he won’t push. He won’t make you relive something you’ve clearly tried so hard to forget. For now, he’ll give you a little piece of him that he’s scared to let go of. A piece of honesty that he’s trying to bury. 

“You know, uh,” JJ starts, his fingers tapping against the cushion. “I’ve been thinking about it recently. What my life would’ve been like if I'd grown up a Genrette. Or, Groff, I guess.” 

You tilt your head as you say, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” JJ nods. “Like, would I have met John B? I can’t imagine my life not being defined by him. It’s always kind of been like before him and after him.” 

“Wow,” you say, breathlessly. “That’s like really fucking beautiful, JJ.” 

JJ gives you a lopsided grin because he knows it sounds dramatic, but it’s also what he truly feels. Before John B, JJ was a seven-year-old left to his own devices too often for them to be considered safe. After John B, safety still wasn’t a facet of his life, but at least he wasn’t wandering alone. 

“I kind of feel that way about Cleo,” you offer. “I know what was before her, but after that, everything’s defined by her. I would’ve never followed Sarah and John B if she hadn’t decided it was best for us.”

“How can you find it in yourself to trust her so much?” 

You lean the side of your head against the cushion, but JJ hasn’t moved his arm, so you’re resting against him. You don’t move your head away, and JJ doesn’t move his arm away. JJ’s feet are firm against the boat floor, but his torso is twisted towards you. Sometime in the midst of this conversation, you’ve brought your legs up and tucked them beneath you, making your knees brush against his upper thighs. The two of you are so close to each other, wholly invested in what the other has to say, as the baton of vulnerability passes from one to the other. 

“Easy. I realized one day that her choices never ended badly for us. I trust her because she doesn’t give me the chance not to.”

JJ swallows thickly, his hand, which was resting against the cushion, now brushing against the top of your hair. He’s unsure where he gets the audacity, but he doesn’t take away his touch. 

“That’s kind of a high bar,” he says, trying to keep his vulnerability at bay and away from his voice. “Only trusting someone who gets it right every time.” 

“It’s the best I can do. I can’t afford to make mistakes.” 

There’s a thread of hope that JJ didn’t realize he had left that frays at that moment. Any chance of you ever learning to trust him seems to go out the small rectangular window above the lounge table. As long as JJ is precisely who he’s always been, you’ll never be able to trust him. 

Even with this reminder, he doesn’t find it in himself to want to pull back and put some distance between you. Instead, he stays right there, his fingers still deftly playing with the hair at the crown of your head. 

You shake your head, making your hair tickle JJ’s palm. “It’s not about getting it right every time.”

“No?” JJ asks. 

You shake your head again. “It’s about knowing that the mistakes won't ruin everything. That we’ll still be here after. Together.”

Your voice breaks at the last word, and JJ feels the crack extend into his heart. He doesn’t know if you’re doing it on purpose or if you’re so caught up in being honest that you don’t realize, but you explain exactly why you haven’t been able to tolerate JJ. Until the property hearing, all of this felt like his fault. Bidding all that money at the auction and then betting the rest at the enduro? It was exactly what had proven to you that he didn’t deserve your trust. 

But you’re still together. Even if it’s just you two on this boat, it’s still a part of your family that hasn’t been taken away from you yet. He might be the last one you want. Maybe you don’t want him at all. But he could be the one to bring the rest of the pieces together. He doesn’t know what he can do, but he decides at this moment that he’ll figure it out and do whatever it takes. 

“Look, I—” JJ’s attempt at making you a promise he thinks you need to hear is cut short by the melodic ring of your phone. Your heads snap to the phone that lies forgotten on the table. You're getting a FaceTime call, Cleo’s name written in bold text across the top. 

As you pick up your phone, JJ expects you to get up and take the call in your room like you have every other day this week. Instead, you shift your body to face the table and pick up the call, but don’t move from your spot next to him. You swipe the answer button to the right, pushing the phone back so you’re both in the frame, and Cleo pops up on the screen. 

Cleo is lying her head against a red shirt he recognizes as Pope’s, and when she registers that JJ's there, too, she pulls back the screen so Pope is visible. 

“Woah-ho-ho,” Cleo sings. “Rudeboy, what’s up, man?” 

Despite the tense moment that JJ is still coming off of, he smiles at the nickname Cleo gave him. He’ll admit he kind of loves it. 

“Nothin’ much,” JJ replies. “What’s up with y’all?” 

“Just chillin’,” Pope adds, resting his head atop Cleo’s. “Didn’t think we’d catch you both in the same room.” 

You scoff next to him. “We live together. Why would we not be in the same room?”

Pope just hums and says,  “Y’all look cozy.” 

A warm flush of embarrassment creeps up JJ’s neck as he registers Pope’s words and your position. JJ badly wants to reach through the screen and slap the smirk off Pope's face. He considers moving his arm from behind you but then decides against it. Instead, he relaxes further into the seat, relishing how you press further into his touch just the slightest bit. It’s not enough for Pope and Cleo to notice through the camera, but he notices how your skin pushes further into his palm. 

“We were looking through job listings,” You tell them. 

“Hm, sounds boring,” Cleo says. 

“But necessary.”

“And necessary.”

You and Pope laugh at your synchronized speech. JJ’s head falls back with a dramatic sigh. 

“Great,” He groans. “Now, I’m stuck with two Popes.”

“How's the boat been?” Pope asks, his tone a little more serious.

“It’s been… manageable,” You say, looking up at JJ. “I’m glad we found it.”

 JJ easily understands the real meaning of your words. It’s your way of saying thank you. He gives you a gentle smile, and you return it with a subtler one. 

“Ooo, Kiara is pissed, by the way,” Cleo’s quip catches JJ’s attention pulling it away from you. He gathers she’s said something she isn’t supposed to by the way Pope quietly whispers ‘babe’ through the side of his mouth.  “What, it’s true!”

JJ doesn’t have to ask what she’s referring to because he already knows. You, on the other hand, likely have no clue why Kie’s upset. 

“At me? Why? What happened?” You ask, and JJ feels at fault yet again for something going wrong in your life. 

“Oh…” Cleo trails off. “Cause JJ said he didn’t want to stay on the boat? When she suggested it for the two of them?”  Cleo has always been a bit too blunt, but right now it’s really bothering JJ. 

“Huh?” You ask, but your attention is trained on JJ. “She wanted to come with us?”

“Uh, not exactly,” JJ mumbles, side-eyeing Pope and Cleo on the video call. “ That’s not what happened.” 

“Alright, well, I’m exhausted.” Pope is clearly finding an excuse to leave because it’s only five in the evening, but JJ lets it go, bidding the couple goodbye. Once the line clicks, JJ gets up from the couch, suddenly wanting to move his legs. 

“JJ?”

“Hm,” He hums.

“Why’s Kiara mad?” 

JJ sighs because he genuinely does not want to hash this out with you or anyone for that matter. Kiara’s anger – whether justified or not – has been something he’s been trying to ignore for the past week. He pushed it to the further corner of his mind, and it was easy until now. Everyone was so busy settling into their new places that he hadn’t seen her since the day she’d walked away from him. She’d suggested something he couldn’t bring himself to do, and his inability to follow through had severed something between them. Whatever existed between them, he felt it snap and morph into something much uglier at that moment outside their old house.  

“She…” JJ huffs out a breath of annoyance. At what he’s not sure. Himself, maybe.  “She suggested that we come to this boat. Like, just me and her. Before we found out about Sarah.” 

Your brows furrow as you consider this. “Like, instead of you going to Sarah’s?”

“Yeah.” JJ stops his pacing – the three-step shuffle he's been doing because the walls of this boat are so damn close. “She said it’d be… simpler.”

“Ah.”

“But I said no because… I don't know,” JJ lies.

 He told Kie that day, in the shadow of their old house, that he didn’t want to come back to this boat. The boat wasn’t just a way he made a quick buck when he was younger, but it’s where he’d seek refuge when things got especially bad with Luke. When the drunken insults were too much to swallow or the beatings seemed endless, he’d run away and seek shelter here. It was where he’d hide when the Chateau wasn’t an option—when Big John and John B were out of town or when the damage was so bad he couldn’t let anyone see him. Kie knew about it because sometimes, her or John B would find him here after he went AWOL for a couple days. 

But when he’d found out Sarah was pregnant, this was the first place he thought of. He thought he’d put the days of hiding out in this boat behind him, but for you he didn’t think twice about returning to this haunted cabin. 

“Ah,” You murmur again. You stand up but lean against the table, maintaining the distance he’s put between you two. “She can still come.”

JJ just looks at you in disbelief at your impossible suggestion. The boat is hard to manage between the two of you; adding a third person would be unmanageable.

“I can take the couch–”

“Y/N.”

“And you guys can–”

“There’s no–”

“Take the room. Then, when we start working–”

After you've thrown enough nonsense out, JJ crosses the space between you in one swift step, takes hold of your hands, and pulls you towards him. The sudden motion throws you off balance, and your eyes widen in surprise.

“Would you shut up?” Your look of shock from his abruptness changes to an indignant expression.

“Excuse me–”

“Kie’s not coming to stay with us,” JJ says firmly, unwilling to go down this line of thinking with you. 

“I don’t want to come between you both,” You say, your eyes shifting away from him awkwardly. It’s a conversation you both haven’t had yet. One he's been actively avoiding like he usually does with most challenging stuff. JJ’s not sure what he’d say if you did. He doesn’t exactly know where he stands with Kie or where he wants to stand with her, so he wouldn’t know where to begin explaining the situation to you. “She’s my friend.” 

“She’s my friend, too, " he concurs. "But our space isn’t big enough, and right now, I need to keep my focus on you.” 

The second the words leave his mouth, JJ wants to take them back. This isn't the first time he's expressed that he has your back in all of this, but this time it feels different. Heavier and bigger in a way than he's ready for. He can't describe the tug in his chest when he's looking at you like this - eyes tilted up at him in wait. It's different from the panicked knot he gets when spiraling, which usually makes him unravel. This tug feels like a call to action. And it's telling him to not let anything bad happen to you anymore.   

JJ knows he should say something to make his words seem like they mean less, but his brain short-circuits. For some reason, he doesn't feel as afraid as he should about wanting to be the one who keeps you safe. 

"Okay," you say, sparing him from finding the right words. 

"Okay." He repeats. He's not sure exactly what you're agreeing on. That Kie can't come? Or the fact that he needs you in his line of sight? But he knows he'll have to have that dreadful conversation with Kie soon. After that he'll have to figure out why when you step away from him, taking your touch with you, it feels wrong. 

taglist: @thxtmarvelchick @theater-bitch @ayy1234567 @tpwkyarely @lovesanimals0000 @b3rryb3t @mvaldez7821 @ummmmokaynotme @chloemaybank @sandaltoesocks @thexplosivegirl  @marleymarleymarleymarley @awurtzx06 @yumwhy @rudypankowisbae @agnxstic @otra-chica-0 @velyssaraptor @kanpaeki @rinaarii @kaisgirlie @loophole3 @flourelle @xobeautifulfaith @brooklyn789 @jjscoquette @mariaenchanted @enchantedstarfish @outerbankslover888 @rachaelann18 @beyondtheselegsonlythoughts  @bee-43 @imsiriuslyreal

[mmilkbreadd]

—oh my god, they were roommates—

Previous || Masterlist

╰┈➤ when is my heart going to stop beating fast every time i see them?

╰┈➤ someone help me PLEASE.

╰┈➤ call a medic.

notes: tsukishima can’t handle his feelings like a big boy [yes, i ended this fic three years later, so?]

word count: 3.2k

[third and last part]

It’s been three months since the lights went out —when Tsukishima discovered your eyes were stars burning brightly in the night.

Three months where you hadn’t even exchanged anything but a few glances here and there.

Three months where he had definitely been avoiding you.

The three most uncomfortable months of your entire life (and it wasn’t because of the apartment that you were living in; in fact, it was by far the loveliest and calmest place you had ever slept in).

Yet, why was sharing an apartment such a difficult relationship?

But still, did you even have a relationship? A friendship, at least?

Companionship…?

You weren’t even sure what that word meant! But it certainly wasn’t what your ‘rommate-ship’ was about. Besides, you couldn’t point out when it had changed —the ‘lights out incident’ was just a funny anecdote to you: a way to remember some of your first days at your new home.

On the contrary, to Tsukishima, it was as his life had taken a huge turn: a wave of feelings had suddenly hit his heart. His emotions fluttered as he was a hormonal teenager in love. But Kei was never one of the popular jocks who had every person falling for him —he had a few students following him around during his high school days, but they were never that serious—, therefore he had never felt what having feelings for someone meant.

He felt weird around you, like he was making a fool out of himself every time you shared the same air, the same room, the same bathroom! He was out of words whenever you asked him how his day had been.

Him! The Tsukishima Kei! Who would’ve thought? Not even Yamaguchi Tadashi would’ve, to be honest.

Tsukishima didn’t know what to do anymore. His palms were always sweaty, his minds constantly occupied with thoughts about you —he used to be so serious about volleyball practice, but it was completely difficult to concentrate when he knew that he would have to come back to meet you in the apartment! He made so many mistakes during matches that his coach even thought about benching him for a few games afterwards.

So, three months after the lights went out, he made a decision: he was moving in with Tadashi for a few days until his heart calmed down.

His best friend’s apartment was too tiny to fit them both. But a place on the couch had Tsukishima’s name in it and he didn’t bother sleeping on it —even if it was half his size.

And there he was: bag at his feet; baseball cap on his head; mobile phone with three missing calls from his pretty roommate; and his right index finger was pressing the doorbell, repeatedly.

The door opened only to show Yamaguchi wearing his baby blue pajamas; his hair, a tangled mess.

“It’s six in the morning,” he stated the obvious. “What’s going on?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Tsukishima simply said as his best friend moved to the left to let him in.

“So, you decided to pack a bag and just… come over?” Yamaguchi asked after closing the door behind him. “I’m sorry, Tsukki, but I just don’t believe you at all.”

Tsukishima slowly made his way to the small green couch in the center of the living room area. He sat on the left side as his eyes took in his newest home.

A big plasma T.V stood in front of him, along with a coffee table cluttered with magazines, video game controllers, and a few empty snack wrappers. Yamaguchi's apartment was cozy but undeniably lived-in, unlike the sterile cleanliness of Tsukishima’s place.

Yamaguchi sighed, rubbing his eyes before sitting down next to Tsukishima. “Alright, spill it. What’s really going on?”

Tsukishima hesitated, looking down at his hands. He wasn’t good at this—talking about feelings. But he needed to get this off his chest. “It’s my roommate.”

Yamaguchi raised an eyebrow. “The one you’ve barely talked about? What’s wrong with them?”

Tsukishima took a deep breath. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. It’s just… every time I’m around them, I feel like I can’t think straight. It’s affecting everything, even volleyball.”

Yamaguchi leaned back, a small smile forming on his lips. “Ah, I see. You like them.”

Tsukishima’s head shot up, eyes wide. “What? No, that's not—

“Tsukki, you’re not fooling anyone. Not even yourself,” Yamaguchi interrupted gently. “It's written all over your face. You like them, and it’s driving you crazy.”

Tsukishima groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I don't know what to do, Tadashi. I can't keep living like this.”

Yamaguchi patted his friend's shoulder. “You need to talk to them. Maybe they feel the same way.”

“I can’t," Tsukishima said firmly. “I don't want to make things awkward. It’s bad enough as it is.”

“Then you need to find a way to deal with it,” Yamaguchi said. “Running away isn’t going to help.”

Tsukishima knew he was right. But the thought of confronting his feelings, and you, was terrifying. “I just need some time away. To clear my head.”

Yamaguchi nodded. “Alright, you can stay here for a few days. But promise me you’ll talk to them eventually. You can't avoid this forever.”

“Yeah,” Tsukishima muttered, though he wasn't sure he believed it himself. For now, he just wanted to escape the turmoil inside him, even if it was only temporary.

As he settled onto the couch, Tsukishima couldn't help but wonder what you were doing right now. Were you worried about him? Angry? Did you even notice he was gone? He pushed the thoughts away, closing his eyes and trying to find some semblance of peace in the midst of his chaotic emotions.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, you were pacing the living room, your phone clutched tightly in your hand. You had noticed Tsukishima’s absence immediately. It was hard not to when the apartment felt so empty without him.

You had called him three times already, each time more frantic than the last. Where could he have gone so early in the morning? And why hadn't he told you?

The morning stretched into afternoon, and Tsukishima remained at Yamaguchi’s apartment, wrestling with his thoughts while Yamaguchi went about his daily routines. The quiet hum of the television played in the background as Tsukishima sat on the couch, lost in contemplation.

Then the afternoon became night, then morning again. And suddenly, two days passed without further notice.

You sat down on the couch, staring at your phone. Maybe you were overreacting. Maybe he just needed some space. But you couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Three months had passed since the ‘lights out’ incident, and in that time, you had grown accustomed to Tsukishima's presence, even if he was distant and aloof. There was something comforting about knowing he was there, in the next room or sharing a meal in the kitchen.

You had tried to break through his walls, to get to know the person behind the cold exterior. But it seemed like every time you made progress, he would retreat even further. It was frustrating, but you were determined to be patient.

As you sat there, you realized just how much you missed him. His snarky comments, his occasional smirks, even the awkward silences. It was all part of the strange, complicated dynamic that had formed between you.

Taking a deep breath, you decided that when Tsukishima returned, you would confront him. You would tell him how you felt and hope that he would finally open up to you.

“What if something happened to him?” you muttered to yourself, biting your lip anxiously. You knew Tsukishima was independent and capable, but the fear of the unknown nagged at you.

Finally, unable to sit still any longer, you grabbed your keys and rushed out the door. Maybe he had gone for a walk to clear his head, or perhaps he was at a nearby cafe. You had to find him, to make sure he was okay.

As you walked down the familiar streets, you replayed your interactions with Tsukishima in your mind. Despite his aloofness and occasional sharp words, you had noticed glimpses of something more beneath his tough exterior. There were moments when his guard seemed to lower, when he would share a small smile or a thoughtful comment.

But now, faced with his sudden disappearance, you wondered if you had missed something important. Had you pushed too hard, too fast? Were you the reason he had left?

Lost in your thoughts, you almost missed the familiar figure sitting alone on a bench in the park. Tsukishima sat with his head bowed, staring at his phone with a troubled expression.

Relief flooded through you as you approached him cautiously. “Kei,” you called softly, unsure of how he would react.

He looked up, surprised to see you there. His expression softened slightly, but there was still tension in his posture. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been worried about you,” you admitted, standing in front of him. “You left without saying anything. Are you okay?”

What the hell? What’s going on with me? Tsukishima thought. Say something!

He hesitated, his gaze flickering away. “I was at Tadashi’s, and then I came to get some air. He lives ten blocks from here.”

“I understand,” you said gently, sitting down beside him. “But you could have told me. I was really worried. It’s been two days.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn't mean to cause you any concern.”

“Tsukishima,” you started, gathering your thoughts. “We've been living together for three months now, and... I feel like we barely know each other. I want to understand what's going on with you, but you keep pushing me away.”

He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours. “Am I supposed to be sorry?” he murmured. “It wasn’t my intention or anything.”

Yeah, right.

As you listened to Tsukishima’s response, frustration and hurt welled up inside you. His dismissive tone and lack of remorse grated on your nerves, making it difficult to hold back your emotions.

“You don’t have to apologize, Tsukishima,” you replied, your voice tinged with disappointment. “But a simple ‘I’m sorry for worrying you’ would have sufficed.”

He looked away, a hint of guilt flashing across his face before it was replaced by his usual aloof demeanor. “Oh, forgive me for not realizing I needed to report my every move to you,” he retorted sarcastically.

“Maybe not to you,” you shot back, your patience wearing thin. “But to me, it was. I care about you, even if you don’t seem to care about how your actions affect me.”

You felt a pang of hurt at Tsukishima’s cold response, his words cutting deeper than you expected. His aloof demeanor and sharp tongue were nothing new, but somehow, this stung more than usual.

“We’re not even friends, [Y/N],” he continued, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. “We’re roommates. We don’t have to get along, it wasn’t on the contract.”

His dismissiveness struck a nerve, and you struggled to contain your emotions. “You’re right,” you replied, your voice steady despite the hurt bubbling inside you. “We’re roommates, but that doesn’t mean we can’t treat each other with basic respect.”

Tsukishima scoffed lightly, crossing his arms defensively. “Respect? Spare me the lecture, please.”

“You know what?” you said, your frustration simmering to the surface. “Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I thought there was more to you than this sarcastic facade. But clearly, I was wrong.”

He glanced at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “You don’t know anything about me,” he retorted sharply.

“Then why don’t you tell me?” you challenged, your voice tinged with both anger and sadness. “Why don’t you let me in instead of pushing me away at every turn?”

Tsukishima looked away, his jaw tightening as if grappling with his own emotions. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, which was rare for someone usually so quick-witted.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered finally, his voice quieter than before.

“Try me,” you urged softly, your frustration giving way to genuine concern. “I want to understand, Kei. I want to know why you’re like this.”

He met your gaze then, his eyes guarded yet holding a hint of vulnerability. “Because it’s easier,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s easier than letting people in and risking getting hurt.”

Your heart ached at his confession, the walls he had built suddenly making sense. “But that’s no way to live,” you said gently, stepping closer to him. “Closing yourself off from everyone… It’s lonely, isn’t it?”

Tsukishima hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Maybe,” he admitted quietly. “But that’s a me problem. I don’t need your help nor words of encouragement.”

You paused, taken aback by Tsukishima’s sharp rebuttal. His words stung, cutting through the fragile moment of vulnerability he had just shared. The raw honesty of his admission had felt like a crack in his armor, a glimpse of the person buried beneath the sarcasm and aloofness.

“I understand,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady despite the hurt. “But sometimes, we all need someone to lean on, even if it’s just a little.”

Tsukishima glanced up at you, his expression guarded once more. “I don’t lean on anyone,” he stated firmly. “I manage on my own.”

Your heart sank at his insistence on pushing you away. “You don’t have to face everything alone, Kei,” you said gently, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. “Let me be there for you.”

He tensed under your touch, his gaze flickering with uncertainty. “Why do you even care?” he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and defensiveness.

“Because I see more in you than you see in yourself,” you replied honestly, meeting his eyes with unwavering sincerity. “And because despite everything, I care about you.”

Tsukishima’s expression softened slightly, though his defenses remained intact. “You’re too persistent,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Then, I’ll cease,” you answered, saddened by his awful attitude. “I’ll be at home. Let me know if I have to start looking for another place to live, though.”

Tsukishima watched you live without even flinching. He saw your move from side to side, and deep inside, he desired for you to turn around. To come back, to beg for him. Was he always this selfish?

He should be the one to be for you, to be for your forgiveness. Three months with nothing but a few words. Three months of ignoring his roommate. Three months with an unnoticed suffering.

“That was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Yamaguchi, arriving from behind Tsukishima. “And I’ve seen you reject multiple people in high school with the most monotone voice and evilness.”

Tsukishima’s expression hardened again as he turned to face Yamaguchi. “I don’t need your commentary,” he snapped, his voice laced with frustration.

Yamaguchi crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Well, you clearly need something. What were you thinking, Tsukki?”

Tsukishima sighed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I don’t know, okay? Everything’s just... complicated.”

“Complicated?” Yamaguchi echoed, shaking his head. “You like them, don't you?”

Tsukishima’s eyes widened slightly at the blunt question. “What does it matter?” he deflected. “They deserve better than someone who doesn’t even know how to talk to them properly.”

Yamaguchi stepped closer, his tone softening. “Then tell them that. Tell them how you feel. It’s better than pushing them away and hurting them even more.”

Tsukishima looked down at his feet, the weight of his own insecurities bearing down on him. “I’ll just ruin it all over again. I hate this.” he mumbled.

Yamaguchi’s expression softened further, empathy clear in his eyes. “You’re not going to ruin anything by being honest,” he said gently. “You’re human, Tsukki. You’re allowed to have feelings and make mistakes.”

Tsukishima clenched his jaw, grappling with the swirling emotions inside him. His mind raced through the memories of the past three months—your late-night cleaning sessions, your disdain for cold breakfasts and black coffee, the way you immersed yourself in the volleyball magazines he left lying around, your eyes lighting up whenever you found his name mentioned.

The way your eyes sparkled with genuine interest and admiration—it was something he had never experienced before. Something he didn't know how to handle.

He couldn't help but recall the countless times he had caught himself staring at you, wondering what it would be like to be close to you, to share more than just a living space. But he had built walls around his heart, walls he thought were impenetrable.

Taking a deep breath, Tsukishima straightened his shoulders. He knew what he had to do, even if it terrified him. Yamaguchi was right—he couldn't keep pushing you away and hurting you. He needed to be honest, to take the risk, even if it meant exposing his vulnerability.

As he made his way back to the apartment, he replayed the conversation he wanted to have with you over and over in his mind. He practiced what he would say, how he would say it. But as he reached the door, all the rehearsed words seemed to evaporate.

Gathering his courage, he opened the door and stepped inside. You were sitting on the couch, looking lost in thought. Hearing the door, you looked up, surprise and apprehension flickering in your eyes.

“[Y/N], we need to talk,” Tsukishima said, his voice steady but filled with unspoken emotion.

You nodded, sitting up straighter, bracing yourself for whatever was to come.

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours. “I’ve been an idiot,” he began, his voice raw. “I’ve been pushing you away because… because I was scared. Scared of getting close to someone. Scared of getting hurt.”

You listened intently, your heart pounding in your chest.

“But the truth is,” Tsukishima continued, his voice softening, “I’ve come to care about you more than I ever thought possible. I’ve been hiding behind these walls, but I can’t do it anymore. I like you, [Y/N]. A lot. And I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you.”

Your eyes widened, tears threatening to spill over. “Kei… I…”

He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I want to try. I want to get to know you, to let you in. If you’ll give me a chance.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you smiled through it, the weight of the past three months lifting from your shoulders. “I’ve liked you too, Kei. Despite everything, I’ve always seen the good in you. And I want to give us a chance, too.”

Tsukishima let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relief flooding through him. In that moment, the barriers he had built around his heart began to crumble, making way for something new, something hopeful.

If he was the moon, he hoped the stars would never leave his side again.

[forest-hashira]

2 Be Loved

this has sat in my drafts for... idk exactly how long, a month at least, because i was trying to decide if i even wanted to post it here. i wrote this for myself when i was Going Through It with my depression. now that i've sat on it a while, and i've generally been doing better, i've decided it's time to go ahead and share this. i hope you all enjoy it, and that it brings you some level of comfort or reassurance if you need it 💜

read on ao3 here | wc: ~2.4k | cw: gender neutral reader, plus size reader, mental health issues (reader is in a depressive episode), emotional hurt/comfort, some fluff at the end, really this is very self ship coded

You’d spent practically the whole day in bed. And the day before that, and the day before that, and probably the day before that, too. You’d lost count, honestly; all the days bleeding together and blurring in the fog of your mind. 

This was far from the first time this had happened, and you knew it would also be far from the last. Your emotional state had been a rollercoaster for most of your life, and had only become more volatile in the last few years. You would be fine, until you suddenly realized you were decidedly not fine, with some realizations being more gentle than others.

Like this time, for example. You hadn’t suddenly buckled under the weight of the world, but instead had woken up one morning and felt paralyzed; even just the idea of getting out of bed, for any reason, felt insurmountable. So you simply… didn’t. You stayed in bed and slept between episodes of your favorite TV show, grasping for anything that might stop you from sinking further into the depths of your depression. 

Satoru had been as patient as ever, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead and whispering a little “I love you,” before he’d left for work. He knew you struggled this way sometimes, and had never been anything but supportive and loving. Suguru had called in “sick”, opting to spend the day taking care of you, which mostly consisted of slipping in and out of sleep all day and occasionally bringing a snack from the kitchen. Satoru had joined you back in bed as soon as he got home from work, effectively squishing you between himself and Suguru, where you were helpless to do anything but let them love you.

It had reduced you to tears, shoulders shaking as ugly, half choked sobs tore themselves from your chest. They had let you cry, not rushing to try and quiet you as they might have done when they were younger; they let you get it out of your system, only stepping in to comfort you when you started to speak. 

“I’m sorry,” you’d cried, eyes shut tight as you tried to avoid their gaze. “I’m sorry I’m…” you’d struggled for words then, losing them between your hiccuping sobs and the darkness that clouded your mind. 

“I’m too much,” you’d come up with eventually. “My emotions are too messy, and my mind doesn’t work right… I feel like all I do is cause problems for both of you. Like all I do is hold you back and drag you down.”

You hadn’t seen the look they’d exchanged, the pain that pinched their features, but you had felt the way they pressed in closer, as if they could crush the depression out of you. 

“You are not too much,” Satoru had murmured, gently tilting your head up to meet his gaze, his cerulean eyes sparkling in the low light from the lamp on your bedside table. “You could never be too much, not to me – to us.” His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, delicately wiping the tears from your skin even as they were replaced with more. “We love you so much, y’know? I love you so much. Taking care of you is not a chore, or a burden.”

You’d shaken your head, unable to believe his words. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

“But we do,” Suguru had been the one to speak that time. “You mean it when you tell me the same thing when I’m depressed, right?”

“Of course I do.” There wasn’t any hesitation as the words left your lips. “Taking care of you is a privilege.”

“Then why can’t you believe we feel the same way about taking care of you?”

His words had left you reeling, so much so that you almost didn’t hear Suguru when he continued. 

“Satoru’s right, angel. I love you. We adore you, and we want to take care of you. Always.”

As Suguru had hugged you tighter with one arm and pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, he’d placed his other hand on your white haired lover’s hip, keeping him as close as possible. Satoru had been eager to oblige, snuggling into you as much as possible. He’d brushed your hair from your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead, one hand cradling your face while the other reached across you to settle on Suguru’s hip. They had effectively caged you in, both with their bodies and with their love. It had shattered you, reduced you to tears again, but they hadn’t minded; they were there to hold you together, to pick up the pieces when you couldn’t do it alone. 

Through some unspoken agreement, your boys switched places the next day; Suguru had gone into work while Satoru had called out “sick” to take care of you. They did their best not to leave you alone for too long whenever they could help it, but they could only get away with calling out sick when everyone knew the two of them were perfectly healthy; when the higher ups knew that you were the one keeping the two special grades and teachers from fully doing their jobs.

A few days passed with your lovers taking turns staying home with you, until one day they both called out to stay home, though you didn’t realize that at first, since Suguru was quick to return to you in bed, holding you close as you drifted off again, faintly away of the sound of the front door closing and locking before you were fully asleep. 

When you woke up again, the first thing you were aware of was the fact that you were alone in bed. At almost the same moment, though, you heard music coming from what you guessed what the kitchen, though you couldn’t quite tell, since the bedroom door was shut; wherever it was coming from, it was definitely upbeat pop music, so you knew for certain Satoru was the one who had turned it on.

With no small amount of effort, you pushed yourself into a sitting position, rubbing your eyes for a moment and yawning before you crawled off the bed on Satoru’s side. You shuffled over to the dresser then, opening drawers and grabbing clothes pretty much at random. You wound up in a black sweatshirt and a pair of light blue sweatpants, both of which were at least two sizes too big for you, which even your fuzzy brain knew meant they weren’t actually your clothes; they belonged to your two giants of lovers.

Once you were dressed, you turned back to the nightstand, grabbing one of Suguru’s hair ties to pull your hair out of your face with, and, after a deep breath, you decided to brave the kitchen.

Opening the door to the bedroom allowed you to fully hear the music that was playing, and you were a little surprised to realize it was in English, rather than Japanese. Satoru liked to listen to anything that was happy and upbeat enough, but he – understandably – had a bit of a preference for J pop music. 

Still a little surprised by the music choice and a little foggy from sleep, you make your way to the kitchen in a bit of a daze. Both Satoru and Suguru were in the kitchen: Suguru at the counter, mixing something in the stand mixer, while Satoru danced around to the music, occasionally trying to steal a bit of whatever Suguru had in the mixing bowl, and being effectively swatted away every time. You stood in the doorway for a few moments in silence, just watching them in utter adoration.

Eventually, though, Satoru noticed you, and he got a bright grin on his face as he raced over to you. “You got out of bed!” he gushed, wrapping you up in a tight hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m so proud of you, mochi,” he murmured against your scalp, and something about the nickname in combination with the praise made you feel like you were going to melt into a puddle right then and there. 

Just as suddenly as he had engulfed you in a hug, the white haired sorcerer was releasing you, lunging for where he’d left his phone on the counter by the bluetooth speaker he was using for the music. You watched curiously as he opened his playlist, hastily skipping through a handful of songs before he got to the one he was apparently looking for. Seeming pleased with himself, he made sure the song was playing, turned the volume up a little bit, then turned back to you with that sparkling grin of his. 

You blinked in surprise when you heard the singer’s voice, and you looked up at him with a look of complete bafflement. “I didn’t know you listened to Lizzo.”

He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “No, baby, you gotta listen to the lyrics!” he insisted, taking your hands and doing a very small little dance with you right there in the doorway. 

Though part of you wanted to argue, you had never been good at resisting your energetic lover, and this time was no exception. Before you even nodded, Satoru already knew you’d given in to him, and he pulled you a bit closer to himself as he started singing along with the lyrics. And not quietly, either: he sang them with all the enthusiasm in his body, and though you hated to admit it, it was contagious, even in your depressed state.

By the end of the first verse, you were smiling, a small laugh escaping you at your lover’s almost puppyish behavior. When the chorus came around, you started singing along as well, and you noticed belatedly that Satoru was singing the lines of the background singers, rather than the main chorus, like you were. 

“Am I ready?”

“You deserve it now.”

“‘Cause I want it!”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Am I ready?”

“You gon’ figure it out.”

“To be loved, to be loved.”

Your singing faltered then, and you stared up at Satoru for a moment, suddenly realizing why he’d picked this song to serenade you with. He stopped singing as well, smiling gently down at you as he watched you fit the puzzle pieces together in your mind.

“We’ve always been ready to love you.”

The sound of Suguru’s voice from behind you caused you to startle a bit, but you looked up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

“Are you ready to let us love you again?” His tone held no resentment, no bitterness, only gentle adoration, and you were certain that if Satoru didn’t still have a solid grip on your hands, you would have sunk to your knees with the overwhelming realization of how much these two men adored you, despite how much your mind sometimes tried to convince you they shouldn’t.

Unable to find your voice, you nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks. You allowed your eyes to flutter shut for a moment as Suguru leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, but just a few seconds later, Satoru was tugging you back into his space, spinning you around so your back was to his chest. The song was still playing and he was apparently still determined to get you to dance with him.

Suguru laughed softly at his lover’s antics, shaking his head slightly at Satoru and offering you a slight shrug when you looked up at him for some sort of explanation.

Now the subject of Satoru’s whims, you allowed him to dance around the kitchen with you in his arms, still singing along with the song, though now his volume was lower, as he sang the words down at you. You smiled, allowing yourself to get lost in the warmth of his love, even if his fingers were cold where they wrapped around your own. 

“He call me Melly, he squeeze my belly.”

Your eyes flew open as Satoru sang the words, his chilly hands coming down to squeeze at the soft flesh of your stomach, the touch pulling a rather undignified squeak from your lips, but he just continued to beam down at you. He wasn’t going along with the lyrics of the song to make fun of you – he’d expressed to you enough times that he adored the soft pudginess of your body for you to know he meant it – but it still surprised every time he made sure to pay special attention to the squishier parts of you.

The sound of your squeak pulled another laugh from Suguru, and though at first you were planning to glare at him, you couldn’t go through with it; not when his expression was full of so much love and relief. He crossed the kitchen to reach you again, whatever was in the mixer long forgotten in favor of you. When he reached out for you, going to him was easier than breathing. He pulled you close, pressing his lips to the crown of your head as he swayed around the kitchen with you. The movement didn’t match the energy of the song at all, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You were safe and secure in his arms, and Satoru had enough energy for all three of you; it was impossible not to watch him as he danced around the kitchen, white hair and blue eyes shining, and he flashed you that brilliant grin of his every time he caught your gaze. 

Things weren’t suddenly perfect; Lizzo and dancing in the kitchen was not a magical fix-it for the irregularities in your emotional state, but it was certainly a stepping stone back to your normal. And you knew, without any doubt in your mind, that you would have the support and full confidence of your lovers behind you every step of the way. They were your way back to yourself, after all. Suguru was your anchor in stormy seas, tethering you to something real, something sturdy; Satoru was the lighthouse calling you home when the waters calmed enough for you to move again.

i hope you guys have enjoyed seeing some of my other stuff i hadn't yet shared here! though i can't promise when i'll have anything new, know that i am working on things now + am preparing things for my upcoming milestone event!!! take care of yourselves as best you can 💜. divider by cafekitsune

tagging: @kentohours @mitsuristoleme @marinnnnnnnnn @witchbybirth @peachdues

[evita-shelby]

Modern

Alternative Universe to Look Both Ways and Vēnor where Eva and Tommy never divorce loosely based on Felices los Cuatro by Maluma

Lucy Winters belongs to @mischievouslittlecreature

venor taglist: @justrainandcoffee @thegreatdragonfruta @zablife @call-sign-shark @mischievouslittlecreature @hoodeddreams13

cw: polyamory, technically cheating

The time in London allows them to think things clearly. Eva stays behind so he can have a chance to figure out a way to break the news to Lucy and figure out how to chart their course from there.

It will not be easy, not when Eva is in disarray due to her pregnancy and Lucy is too fragile still not to fear he’d love her any less. Tommy had never considered the question of what if his wife didn’t love his lover and now faces the conundrum of what to do.

Most wives do not live with their husband's lover nor share a bed with them. Most wives pretend the other doesn’t exist frankly and lie to others about the state of their marriage they end up believing it themselves.

Eva is not Most Wives.

He could split his time between them, ensure neither feels neglected by him and keep things discreet enough Eva’s family will not make good on their threat to take what he holds most dear.

Eva isn’t sure how long until the balance tips itself in favor of her and causes Lucy to be the one stuck in her shoes, but she has a feeling it will be when her pregnancy progresses even further and fatherhood cuts into the time he’s supposed to have for Lucy. Still, her time here in London is a nice respite from it all and her cravings get the best of her when she finds herself eating lunch with the man she’s to be doing business with on behalf of Tommy and her family.

His uncle owned the warehouse and teahouses in Birmingham while her husband provided protected deliveries of everything he sold, and her family provided ships to American consumers.

In particular, the opium from sources so pure one would even call them holy. The market is not big enough yet, it won’t be for another ten years give or take a year, but Eva has always had a good eye for business.

“Your husband has a whore he keeps under your roof and he has you doing business with me, four months pregnant with his child no less. Isn’t he afraid I might steal you away from him?” Brilliant Chang is smooth, hair slicked in the newest fashion, dressed to kill with fine furs and doesn’t care she is pregnant and married to the gangster who she acted as proxy for in the business world.

“I am a modern woman, Mr. Chang, his whore is my whore.” Lucy would not like to have been referred as such, but she will never know about this anyways. Besides, everyone will try to use it against her making the mistake of assuming things based on appearances.

“And does he allow you to have one of your own?”

Had Eva not been pregnant and trying to see if this second attempt at making the menage a trois work without resorting to separation and divorce, she may have taken up his offer.

“Ask me again once I have regained my figure, Chang.” The witch answers hoping he does keep his word. If Tommy had Lucy, why couldn’t she have someone to fill the gaps Tommy can’t fill?

And sure enough, he asks again when they meet here at his restaurant just a few days shy of her and Tommy’s anniversary while Tommy is out with Lucy after parenthood did exactly what Eva had predicted.

He had been a doting husband, slept with her just the two of them when he wasn’t with Lucy at the nice place Eva had helped her pick out. Tommy didn’t complain when his familial obligations occasionally left him unable to seek out Lucy outside of work hours and allowed Eva the place she was owed at his gang and company as his senior most advisor.

She and Lucy were friends, getting along better now that Eva doesn’t feel as crowded nor pressured to try and force anything. She helped with Charlie, assured Eva she wasn’t holding against her every bad day and even made contact with her mother and her maternal family at a fair.

Still, Tommy was only one man, and Eva knew this time it was Lucy who felt being pushed out of the equation.

The Red Demon couldn’t have children, and Eva had tried to be less protective of her baby boy when he was born, but her perfect little son just had to be born on the same morning his one-month-old cousin had died. Eva couldn’t risk death taking his soul after being born on a cursed day and refused to let anyone have him beyond her, Tommy and Polly until she was sure he would live more than thirty days and thirty nights.

This had caused Lucy to feel left out and now that Eva has confirmed this inequality would never fucking end, she needed to find his own Lucy.

Preferably one who is content with what she can offer, someone who has experience with this sort of thing and not quite as fragile.

“You said to ask you once you’ve regained your figure, and I am here to tell you my offer still stands, Eva.” He has used her name just as she has used both of his since that day, they meet alone never with anyone else and this strange friendship had slowly become something more.

Just as it did every time she fell in love.

“The word whore feels too insulting to use for you.” The witch feels giddy at the prospect, as giddy as she felt when Tommy asked her to the derby and she pretended to be unaffected by it.

“Paramour then, or perhaps, devotee.” He suggests making her feel as alive as she used to be before she realized what her marriage would truly end up like. He kindles such a fire inside her, one Tommy nor Lucy are enough to satisfy.

“Devotee, I like the sound of that.” She wants him, desires him in every way and yet that desire and love she feels for Brilliant doesn’t diminish the inferno that is her love for Tommy. It was how Tommy managed to love her and Lucy in ways that neither woman could ever replace the other with.

Eva returns home radiant with love and good fucking ---she really did need a man more adventurous than her husband, she has to admit--- and balancing the scales before it ends far worse than they could imagine.

“You have Lucy, I will have Brilliant.” It is not a question nor a suggestion, it is a statement.

“If that is what it takes for all three of us to be happy, then so be it.” Tommy finds himself agreeing out of fear of losing her forever just as she once did when he asked her to marry him, a part of her likes seeing him in her place for once. “Polly won’t like it.”

“What Polly likes and doesn’t like about our marriage isn’t our problem, Tom. I love you as much as you love me and that’s all that matters, mi vida.” Eva assures him this is not a mistake even when the way they love isn’t palatable to society.

Business takes off better than she had predicted, they buy Arrow House sooner than they had planned and the staff knows better than to reveal Lucy is more than just the secretary the Shelbys share between them or that Brilliant is more than Mrs. Shelby’s friend and business partner.

They are simply a modern family in the country with four perfectly Shelby children who have no clue what the secret to their parents’ happy marriage is.

[simonesleftarm]

TCM Ship Week @maskemasker

Day 7 Prompt: Marriage

Ship: Lefty Enright and Drayton Sawyer

"How'd you sleep, Boude?"

"Pretty well, what 'bout you?"

"I didn't sleep at all."

Lefty rolled his eyes. "Poor boy, hasn't slept in over 10 years."

Drayton snorted, continuing to move the spatula around the pan. And Lefty smiled at that sound.

They stayed in silence for a minute or two, Drayton focusing on the eggs, and Lefty focusing on Drayton. Life, as well as Drayton, has been glowing more then usual lately. He watched as he reached his hand to a plate and placed the eggs on it. Then he reached to the egg carton and picked two up. He then cracked both into the hot pan.

Just when he was digging more into the memories of that special day, Drayton turned around.

"How do you like yer' eggs, Boude?"

Lefty didn't listen. He looked at the ring on Drayton's left hand, holding onto the spatula. It was silver, and pretty damn expensive. He had spend three months salary on it, and it showed. He liked knowing it showed.

He smiled to himself, what a tradition man he was. Glitter makeup his little brothers had put on his face the morning of that day still somewhat remaining on his face. He could see a spark of pink glitter on the bottom of his left eye. What bright eyes he had. Even on the morning when he was tired and hadn't even had a cup of coffee yet. Just three days ago they had their wedding.

They got married at the courthouse, having their small wedding party in the backyard of the house. He could move his eyes to the walls, where he could see the remnants of the party they haven't cleaned up yet.

White ripped ribbons, half swept confetti, a full trash bag, present bags and paper, boxes of gifted kitchen supplies they haven't opened yet. And their pretty outfits in bags, ready to be shift off to the dry cleaners soon.

"Boude." Drayton repeated. "Yer' eggs! I haven't been married long enough to know how ya' like yer' eggs!"

Lefty's eyes widened and he shook his head quickly.

"Medium!"

Drayton turned around, but let out a loud shriek as he looked at the pan of two, burning eggs. He quickly turned the fire off and scrapped the burnt eggs off the pan into a plate next to him.

He then turned around angrily at his husband, gripping the spatula harder and his other hand on his hip. As he turned around, Lefty could see the details of the pretty apron he gave him for their wedding.

"The fuck you be lookin' at! Two eggs wasted! That's 3 cents each!"

Lefty couldn't help himself, and he began laughing loudly, throwing his back into the seat as he looked on at his shorter, angry husband.

"Was looking at you, doll face!"

Drayton shook his head angrily, crossing his arms.

"Lookin' at me?! Ya' look at me every damn day!"

"Lookin' at how pretty you are! And yer' ring. Yer' my husband y'know? Wanna see you wear that ring for the rest of yer' life."

Poor Drayton had the weakness of blushing easily, he shared it with his brothers. His face got slightly red as he looked down at the expensive ring on his finger.

"Distracted old man." Drayton murmured, but Lefty could see the slight smile in his eyes the more he looked down.

"You're so gorgeous with that ring, Dray."

"Oh shut up you." He let out an embarrassed chuckle and turned back to stove. "You just trynna distract me from wasting ma' 6 cents. I-I've been married long enough to know that!"

They ate medium eggs and burnt eggs that morning, looking at their pretty wedding rings. With Drayton promising he'll take their wedding outfits to the dry cleaners today, and clean up the ribbons and presents. Lefty didn't rush him.

Notes: I can’t believe this event is over! It was so fun to write for you!

[quinloki]

Bugging Thatch

Commission for @standfucker

Thatch x afab!Reader

Summary: Izou informs you that Thatch is afraid of bugs. It's hard to believe, but a simple test proves the truth of it - and just how much Thatch cares for you. You've been effectively friends with benefits for a while now, but maybe there's something more there?

CW: edging, impact play, dom/sub play, oral received, over stimulation, forced orgasms, sobbing, begging, food puns, bondage, gag, praising, cream pie, mdni

“No way,” you shake your head as Izou grins.

“I’m serious. It’s kind of endearing in its own way.”

“But he’s -.” You move your arms, pantomiming a space as big as you can. “I mean, it’s Thatch. Seriously?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Izou says with a laugh. “Test it out if you don’t believe me. Just be careful not to disrupt things when he’s really busy.”

“Right, yeah.” You agree, nodding, and watching Thatch haul supplies onto the ship with a couple dozen other crew members.

You’d been on the crew for a few months, and in that time you’d been getting steadily closer to the ship’s primary cook. Thatch was a hopeless romantic, and a sweetheart - he’d been such a flustered mess the first time you two slept together. It had almost been a game of chicken in a sense, the two of you flirting, layering it on thicker and thicker and neither one backing down.

In the end you’d been pulling one another’s clothes off in the pantry, giggling like a couple of idiots before one of the fourth division crew members chased you off so the others could clean up for the night.

Thatch had swept you full off your feet and practically danced back to his quarters, and you two resumed, tangling into one another for a few rounds before falling asleep in a mess of limbs and sheets, and that was how your kind of undefined relationship had started.

It was small wonder that Thatch’s longer time crew mates would begin to regale you with stories. Most of them at the poor man’s expense, admittedly, but what were brothers for? Still you hadn’t expected him to have a fear of bugs, of all things.

Even as you chased him around the ship, hands cupped over one another. Yelling after him that you just wanted to show him the cool beetle you’d found.

“It’s harmless!” You call out after him.

“I don’t care! Toss it overboard!” He roars, easily keeping ahead of you.

“I will not,” you laugh as he clamors up some rigging. Standing below you pout and Thatch sticks his tongue out at you.

Thinking for a moment you pretend to move the nonexistent bug into your bra and Thatch screeches before leaping off the rigging and landing in front of you.

“Are you mad!?” He yells, yanking your collar aside to remove the bug. “If it bites… you.” He freezes as realization dawns. You can’t help shaking with the laughter you’re desperately trying to contain.

“Sorry,” you murmur, your control cracking when he looks down at you with a long suffering expression. “But see? You’re not afraid of them when you- Waugh!” The strange sound escapes you when Thatch lifts you up without warning, tossing you over his shoulder and stomping off to his room.

“Thatch, wait, where are we - Annnnhhh ♥!” One big hand grabs your ass cheek and squeezes, forcing a nearly pornographic moan out of you. One of your hands is against his back, steadying you, the other clamped over your mouth.

Several people poked their heads out of their rooms and into the hallway, one of them being Izou. He gives you the most smug shit eating grin you’ve ever seen, wiggling his fingers at you in some sort of half-assed wave. You realize that between you and Thatch, the one who may have been set up was you.

Stepping into his room, Thatch closes and locks the door before laying you down on the bed. He doesn’t toss you like you were expecting, but he’s not setting you down as gently as he usually does. He looms over you caging you underneath him, and you barely have time enough to stammer half a syllable before he leans down and kisses you.

It’s a heavy and demanding kiss, your lips parting easily. A muffled moan creeps up your throat and his tongue pushes into your mouth more, as though he means to consume the sound before it can dare to escape. His hands have yours pinned to the mattress, and as he kisses you he crosses your wrists, holding you in place with a single hand.

You squirm a little beneath him, but your efforts have no hope of escape, and you aren’t sure you could slip Thatch’s grasp if he truly wanted to hold you down. He has nearly a head of height on Marco, and the first commander was crowding just a few inches shy of seven feet.

Thatch tugs his yellow scarf free, using his teeth to help tie it into a knot a couple times. Heat was burning in your cheeks, as your chest heaves. You don’t know what he has in store for you, but the kisses were hot as hell, and you’re open to suggestions.

“Open,” Thatch commands. There’s a weight and heat in that single word and you can feel a rush down your spine from it. Opening your mouth obediently you’re marveling at this commanding side of him. He was always more of a puppy dog as far as you knew, but this was a welcome change of pace.

He stuffs the knot into your mouth, and brings your arms down to your sides. You squeak as he turns you over easily, tugging your shirt up and over your head. He snaps your bra free so fast you wonder for a moment if it was actually hooked in the first place. Folding your arms behind your back he ties them into place with your shirt, and then uses your bra to keep your arms against your back. It’s going to stretch the bra out but right now you really don’t care.

“Mm are-ee.” You say from behind the scarf.

“Better keep that scarf in your mouth, if you’re really sorry.” He says in reply. Well, at least he can understand you even with the gag in place. Thatch pulls your pants down to your knees and then moves you so your bent over the side of the bed. His hands are on your bare ass cheeks, kneading his fingers into the meat. You moan again from the sensation.

Leaning over you, he puts a little of his weight onto you, speaking into your ear. “You really need me to stop, you spit that out and say ‘red’, understand?” You nod, groaning as he keeps massaging your ass with those massive hands. “Good, and if I let you speak you reply with ‘Yes, Chef’, got it?”

You have to be radiating heat enough for him to feel it, but you look away and nod your understanding. You’re torn - ‘Chef’ is what those in the fourth division call Thatch when everyone’s in the galley making meals.

“Good. Now take what I give you, sweetheart. This is your punishment for scaring me earlier.”

You feel Thatch’s weight and body heat leave you and a second later there’s a sharp crack against your ass. Crying out into the gag you come up off the bed a bit and squirm at the sting. Thatch rubs the place he smacked and the prickly rush of pleasure from it makes you squeal in a different way.

CRACK!

He smacks the other cheek and repeats the process. You can’t help the squirming you’re doing until Thatch puts a foot between your knees, stepping on your pants and bringing them down to your ankles. He pins your pants to the floor with his boot, and puts a hand against your shoulder blades. You’re held taut against the bed and floor before he smacks your ass again.

You jerk from the sting, but you have no where to go with Thatch holding you down. All you can do is take it, and the sharp smacks are sinking something else into your body. The hot stinging slaps feel good, even as your body jerks from each impact. You grunt at the last crack against your skin and Thatch stops, rubbing his rough hand over your red and swollen ass cheeks. His hands make the strange prickly feeling almost tickle, and you can’t stop the squeaking moan because of it.

“Look at you, enjoying your punishment.” Thatch muses and you jolt a little in guilt. He laughs, leaning down and licking a long heavy stripe over the curve of your red ass. You practically growl the sweet sound from the sensation of his tongue against your tingling skin.

Thatch’s hand moves over where he licked you and then slips between your thighs so quickly you gasp, nearly dropping the gag.

“Wow, you’re soaked already.” He muses, fingers idly playing in the wetness of your folds before he focuses on your clit. “Been wanting me to just put you over my shoulder and do what I want, huh?”

You don’t even try to say anything, your hips are already trying to raise up to help him, and your knees are as far apart as you get them with your ankles tangled in your pants. There’s no reason to play coy at this point. You’ve had sex plenty of times, and you haven’t been overly shy with Thatch.

“I love how honest you always are,” he pushes his thumb against your entrance, just barely teasing the tip into your vagina as his fingers tease your clit. It’s just enough that you can feel the pleasure coiling in your muscles. Your breath is already coming hot and heavy and you don’t know how much longer you’ll be able to keep the gag in your mouth.

Squirming and whining, you push back against him as much as you can. Considering how well he has you pinned down it wasn’t much. You start to mewl against the gag, trying to have your needy pleas make it through enough to be heard. Thatch didn’t do anything in response to the sounds, even though you were sure he could hear you.

His thumb pushes in a little more and you moan, biting down on the scarf to keep it in your mouth. A little more and you’re going to cum, and there’s not going to be anything you can do about it.

Thatch pulls his hand away and even though you aren’t surprised he’s stopped, you can’t stay the grunt that kicks against your chest. He laughs at the sound and moves again. Pulling your pants the rest of the way off he tosses them aside and rolls you onto your back.

With your arms bound behind your back it pushes your chest up into the air. He adjusts your position a little and lifts your legs by your ankles. Putting your feet against his chest he unbuttons his shirt, keeping control of your legs as he takes it off.

There’s little that you appreciate in this world more than Thatch’s big, broad, hairy, scarred and tattooed barrel chest. It’s almost overwhelming at the moment, to be honest. You want your hands free so you can comb your fingers through his chest hair, you want the gag out of your mouth so you can kiss his scars and make him gasp when you tease his nipples.

“I can practically hear your thoughts.” He grins as he lifts up your ankles and pushes them back until your ass is in the air, and only your shoulders are still against the mattress. “But we’re not done.”

Thatch gives your ass another swat and in your current position you can’t do anything except grunt and take it. Leaning down he kisses the sore spots. He teases the backs of your thighs with nibbling kisses and heavy licks against your skin. You squeak and squirm under the ticklish assault, but you lack the leverage to hope to escape.

“You’re so small,” he muses, making your face flush. You want to say you’re only small compared to him, but the look he’s giving you is so soft. At least for a moment. “I bet this will work.”

Thatch leans down and wraps his arms around you. Standing up easily he’s lifted you upside down, your legs on either side of his shoulders. You gasp and drop the scarf.

“Crap!” You swear, squeaking when he adjusts his hold on you.

“S’alright sweetheart,” he assures you. “I want to hear you anyway.”

Thatch’s mouth dives into your pussy with fervor, his lips and tongue buried in your folds, moving aside your labia so he could reach the treats within. Surprised gasps from you turn into deep moans as his tongue plunges into your pussy. His nose can’t tease your clit like this, but Thatch is strong, and once he gets settled he’s only using one hand to hold you up.

The other’s holding your hips still, his thumb reaching out and teasing your clit.

“Fuuuuuck,” you groan. The blood rushing to your head is making you a little dizzy, but the pleasure Thatch is pouring into your cunt is making the blood rush to your pussy with just as much fervor. The heat of his tongue, the wetness of it, it sounds so sloppy, it feels so good, and once he brings you to the edge again he stops.

“Fuck,” you grunt.

“Complaints?” He prompts, and you flinch.

“… No.”

“No?” Thatch grabs your leg and turns his head, biting the inside of your thigh.

“Aaaahh! Chef! No, Chef!” You correct.

“Better.” Thatch moves you carefully, setting you on your side on the bed. He runs his fingers through your hair, combing through it gently before he starts to check on your arms and hands, making sure nothing’s pulled too tight. “How’s that gorgeous ass of yours?”

“Sore, Chef.” You answer with a grunt.

“Mm, I can make it so you don’t sit right for a week, if you really want.” He promises, looking down at you with an expression on your face that makes your toes curl.

You don’t say anything for a moment and Thatch’s brows raise. “Really?”

Hiding your face against the mattress you take a moment to reply. “I don’t know, but I know I’m not against it enough to say no.” You admit. “Chef.”

After a moment’s silence, Thatch stands up and takes his pants off. Somehow he looks intimidating right now. It’s not like he’s suddenly gotten bigger, but the way he’s standing, the way you’re tied up, but when he rolls you onto your back you keep your legs together.

Thatch scoops you up easily, laying you more in the center of the bed before climbing onto the mattress to join you. Grabbing one ankle, he spreads your legs for you, leaning down low enough you can see the muscles on his shoulders and upper back. Big and rippling under the movement, the power he commands makes your brain stutter as he places soft kisses against your legs, moving them further and further apart as he kisses his way up to your thighs.

He spreads your pussy open and licks your clit, lapping at the stiff bundle of nerves a few times before sucking it into his mouth. You can’t ask him to have mercy on you, can’t bring yourself to beg him to not bring you to the edge again.  Even as he licks and sucks and nibbles you into another frenzy, you can’t do anything but whine long keening moans into the air.

He brings you so close to the edge you think you’re going to cum no matter what, and he stops, licking the inside of your thigh and making the bite mark there sting. You suck in a breath and then moan as his heavy kisses work up the inside of your thigh again.

He’s barely let you settle before he’s bringing you to an edge again, two thick fingers stretching your vagina open as he licks and huffs against your mound. Fuck him for looking like that while he’s doing this to you. He looks more like Izou, piercing gaze that knows where you are and knows you’re getting what you deserve.

When he stops before you can cum again you nearly sob.

Thatch wipes his lips with the back of his hand and moves again until he’s pulling your hips into his lap, pressing his cock against your entrance. He’s barely pushing into you and you’re already panting, squirming a little in desperate need and a little in wanting to help ease him in.

Thatch pushes in slowly, so slow you’re almost pouting, fighting to keep yourself from demanding he go faster.

“You’re so wet,” he sighs, big hands rubbing your thighs and hips as he pushes in. “Such a perfect dessert.”

He leans into you, pushing himself the rest of the way into you as he presses you into the mattress. Thatch sighs, taking a moment and rolling his hips against you, grinding in just a little deeper. The soft swear hisses from between his teeth as he grabs your legs and pushes them back until you’re locked under him.

When he moves its slow and deliberate. You can feel the head of his cock, the bumps of the thick veins, and the throb of his heart beat buried deep in your cunt. Every slight move feels sweet, and while the pace is so deliberate it’s maddening, he’s slowly driving you toward the edge again.

“Thaa-a-a-atch,” you gasp as he presses against you, pressing heavy and deep. “Faster, please, please!”

He pulls back, just as slow as before. “Forgetting the rules already, my soon-to-be creamed puff?” He teases and you almost groan at the pun.

“Chef, please!” You beg, squirming under him. “At least, my arms, let me…” You huff but Thatch cuts you off by leaning down and kissing you. Moaning and mumbling into the deep kisses you try to beg for him to speed up but he doesn’t, keeping the same tortuously slow pace.

Your feet were the only things not pinned beneath him and you had barely enough movement to wiggle your toes. Thatch breaks the kiss and immediately begins kissing more of you, leaving heavy kisses against your neck, and shoulders, bending enough to lap at your nipples.

You gasp and he grunts in response.

“You really tightened up.” He purrs, licking your other nipple and then sucking it into his mouth and making you tighten up and squirm again. “More sensitive than usual? Does my darling tart enjoy being trussed up like a roast?”

“The food metaphors, Chef.” You groan, the shivering sound turning into a moan as Thatch gives your nipples more attention. The sparks it sends into your chest go straight to your pussy and you know he’s delighting in the effect he’s having. “Please, please, I’m so close, please let me cum!”

“I haven’t told you that you’re not allowed.” He says, feigning innocence as he stops teasing your nipples, maintaining that terrible slow pace.

The teasing and the pace keep you on an edge and you can’t wiggle against him to ride him from your current position. All you can do is take what he’s giving you, and what he’s giving you isn’t nearly enough. Thatch is watching every squirm and pant and twitch from you, and cooing sweet words at you every now and then.

Even with the soft praises, after a few more minutes you can’t take it anymore and sob.

“Please, please, Chef,” you cry, looking into Thatch’s eyes as the tears fall down your cheeks. You didn’t want to cry, you were worried he’d feel bad, but if you didn’t get some relief soon you were going to have to use your safe word. “I can’t take it, please!”

“Shh, shh,” Thatch soothes you, petting your hair and giving you a soft kiss. “You endured well. I think you’ve paid for making me worry. Now for you to pay for chasing me around the ship!”

“Huh?!” You start to ask him what he means but Thatch begins to thrust into you swift and heavy.

There’s no words your mouth can form as he fucks the air out of your lungs, pushing sweet gasping cries past your lips. The bed creaks and groans under the assault and quickly you can feel yourself reaching that edge again.

“Please! Please!” You gasp, almost afraid he’s going to edge you again.

“Cum for me baby,” Thatch husks, grabbing onto your tits and teasing your nipples with his thumbs. “Cum against my cock like you want.”

“Thatch, Thatch, fuck! Fuuuu-nnnggh!” The pleasure crashes into you, and he doesn’t let up. Your body tenses and you throw your head back, crying out in euphoria and relief as all the teasing and edging throws you into a deeply satisfying haze.

“Thank you,” you gasp, breathlessly as he doesn’t slow down. “Thank you, Chef, thank you.”

“Heh, we’ll see if you’re still saying that after a bit.” Thatch grins, grinding against your throbbing clit. You whine from the stimulation, struggling beneath him as he barely gives you time to come down from your first high.

He teases your nipples with his fingers again and you buck. “Sensitive!” You cry out, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, you are.” He grins. “Come on, don’t you dare fight it.” As he leans down and kisses you, keeping his weight off you even as he rails you, you’re reminded how strong he is. Squeaking into the kiss you squirm, the squeaking moans turning into muffled screams as a second orgasm rushes into you without much build up.

Thatch breaks the kiss and you cry out into the air before sucking in a deep breath and squirming under him. “Wait, oh gods, Thatch, you’re - you’re- still - ah! I’m gonna—!”

You tense as he sucks harshly on your nipple, forcing a third orgasm on the heels of the second. A shattered swear breaks in your throat and the pieces dribble out past your lips in thick drops. The wet squelch of Thatch’s cock pushing the flood of pleasure past your pussy lips only makes you clench tighter.

Sweat makes your hair cling to your face, tears streaming down your cheeks as you shiver and sob. Thatch slows, kissing your tears, your cheeks and your forehead. The long slow strokes make you gasp and tremble beneath him, your body exhausted but still alight from the rush of relentless orgasms.

“Please, please,” you husk, hips moving to meet his despite your words. “Mercy, Chef, please.”

“Catch your breath, little snack,” he smiles pushing in with a heavy and deep thrust, grinding into you as though he means to reach as deep as possible. “Give me one more, and I’ll fill you up nice and full.”

“Kuh-cum in me Thatch, please but I don’t think I can come again.” You gasp, your hazy gaze is barely focused on him and he wraps his big hands around your breasts.

“One way to know for sure.” He responds, gently rolling your hard nipples between his fingers as he begins a steady pace. “I think I know my sweet sub… ordinate well enough, hm? Do your best for me, won’t you?”

You can feel the tears welling in your eyes as the pleasure builds again and you nod your head. “Yes Chef.” You had no idea how easily you’d fold beneath him, no idea how demanding he could be. Your sweet Commander Thatch, the biggest goof ball and the most hopeless romantic on the entire ship, and here he was demanding all you had to give and more.

And you wanted to give all of yourself.

Your breath quickens with Thatch’s pace, and you swear you can feel his heart beat buried in your body.

“There you go,” Thatch nearly sighs the word and you can see the flush of heat in his face. “Sweet little thing, you’re doing so good for me. Look at you, you’re beautiful.”

You gasp, body tensing as you nearly peak from the compliment. “Don’t - ah, shhhhhhhit.”

“You’re mine, yeah?”

“Yes, yes! I’m - hnnngh - y-yours, Chef!”

“Thatch,” he corrects grinding against your clit. “You’re mine and I’m yours, say it for me sweetheart.”

“Yours! I’m yours Thatch and you’re - you’re muh-mine!” You cry as the pleasure crashes into your screaming muscles a fourth time. Your body tensed as you cry in euphoria and Thatch pounds into you roughly a few more times before pressing in deep and heavy.

Your name slips from his lips like jewels before he grunts, filling you full. The hot rush is punctuated by needy lips against your neck as he lazily pulls in and out a few times, milking himself empty as you flutter against him.

Pulling out, Thatch has barely broken a sweat, brushing his hair back and smiling down at you. You’re cold for a moment until he cages over you again, kissing your skin softly while you slowly come down from your high. He smiles when you smile at him, and then leans down and kisses your lips.

“Don’t tease me with bugs, please.” He says with a chuckle.

“Sure, yes, definitely - ah, but uhm…” You’re grateful that he’s rolled you onto your stomach to undo the binds holding your arms. “You can do that to me again. When… whenever.”

Thatch’s brows raise while he rubs your arms. “Certainly. Maybe next time we’ll go for a full course.” He leans over you, kissing a line down your spine. “A nice all day affair.”

[calaverage]

Little Bit of Loser

An ode to Starsong. Thank you to @sodas-letter for helping me bring this beautiful ship to life. I don't care what happens this is the cannon ending of their story and I will accept nothing else. :)

Cal was up far too early that morning, even earlier than Gail. They had barely slept a wink, planning out what the perfect day would look like. They paced around the living room, making sure they had everything in order and didn’t forget anything.

It was Pete’s last day in Hatchetfield before going off to college. Ted was taking him out for most of the day, but Cal had managed to weasel most of the evening away from him. They weren’t going to see each other for months. This would be the last impression they had of each other for a while. Sure there was video chat, but everyone knew that didn’t really count.

“Hey Weirdo, will you keep it down over here?” Gail called, as she walked out of the bathroom. Cal paused mid-pace. “I can hear you spiraling from down the hall.”

“Sorry I just-”

“Wanna make sure that today is special. I know.”

“It’s the last time for months I’m gonna see him I don’t wanna fuck it up!”

“You’re not going to.” Gail places her hands on their shoulders. “He’s gonna love what you two do regardless. Quick getting in your head about it.”

“I know. I know. Thanks babe.” Cal grabs the bag and heads for the apartment door, giving Gail a peck on the cheek on their way out.

They jogged most of the way to Pete’s house. That ended up being a mistake. They arrived at the house sweating heavily and extremely winded. They lean on the doorframe as they knock on the door.

Pete’s smile shifts to concern as he holds Cal’s hands to balance them. “You okay?”

They nod. “Ran…was too excited…forgot how fucking…far it is.”

Pete chuckles amusingly as he guides them over to the couch. “Honey…”

“I know. I know.”

He heads into the kitchen to grab them a cup of water. Pete hands the cup to Cal as he sits back down.

Cal leaned into him, taking a sip. “Thanks.”

Pete smiled. “So…what was so important that you had to run here.”

“Ted had his turn to be mushy, now it’s mine. This evening is just for us.”

“How the hell did you manage that?”

“I’m very persuasive.”

He chuckled. “Well, I’m glad I get to spend the evening with you.”

“Yeah, and I have it all planned out with stuff for us to do.”

“You didn’t have to do all that.”

“But I wanted to. I have to make this special.”

“Being with you makes this special.”

Cal’s cheeks turned a tinge of red. They tried to cover it up with a snort. “Gayass.”

Pete smiles at them. “So…what were these oh-so amazing plans, huh?”

“Well, first I was thinking a stop at the arcade. Play some games…kick your ass at DDR.”

“Only if I get to kick yours at a shooting game.”

Cal chuckles. “Deal. Then maybe take a stroll around the park…go to the beach…and then wind down back here.”

“Quite the night you have planned.”

“It’s the last day we’ll be together like this for a few months, I wanna make it special.”

A bittersweet smile spreads onto Pete’s face. “You’re here. That’s already pretty special.”

Cal smiles, their cheeks turning a soft shade of red that causes Pete to snicker. They scrunch their face. “Shush.”

“Nah.”

They roll their eyes playfully. “You wanna head out?”

“If you’ve got your breath then sure.”

Cal smiles, taking his hand and leading him out the door. It was a bit of a walk to get into downtown, but it flies by as they stroll. The wind rustled as they walked, the naturally cool weather of Hatchetfield causing them to push closer to each other as they walk. Not that they minded all that much.

As the two draw closer to the arcade, they stop, something catching Pete’s eye: an astronomy book sitting in the window of a local second hand bookshop. His whole face lights up as he looks at it.

“Woah…I’ve been looking for that one. It’s limited edition I can’t believe it’s just in there.”

“Let’s go get it before anyone gets any big ideas then.”

He looks back at them. “You sure? I don’t want to mess up your plans any.”

“Pete, we are not passing up on something that makes you that happy just by looking at it. Come on.” Without another word, Cal leads him inside.

“Oh-” Pete is inside the store before he can protest anymore. He rushes over to the book, flipping through it excitedly. He doesn’t seem to realize that he started reading it, engrossed in the maps and charts.

Cal smiles softly at the joy on his face. They lead him over to a little reading corner in the shop. He sits down, his eyes glued to the book. 

“I’ll be right back, alright?”

“Oh…okay. You sure you don’t want me to come with?”

“You enjoy your book, babe.” They kiss his cheek, causing his face to be buried deeper in the book as it goes red. They chuckle.

“...shush.”

“Nah.”

Cal grins widely the whole way to the cafe that’s connected to the bookstore. The wait was shorter than at Beanies, thankfully, and with a little luck it would taste better too. They sip their tea as they return, handing Pete a cup of hot chocolate.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Of course.”

Cal curls up in the chair next to him. Pete always has one hand on the book, but the other alternates between sipping his hot chocolate and reaching for Cal’s hand. They stare at him softly. 

A couple hours fly by like that, Pete entranced by the book and Cal entranced by him. It’s not until he catches a streetlight turn on outside that Pete realizes how much time has passed. He slams the book shut in a panic.

“Oh fuck it’s already getting late I am so sorry I didn’t realize-”

Cal gently places a hand on his chest. “It’s alright.”

“But…but you had plans and I-”

“The most important part of the plans was being with you. Like you said, that’s already fairly special.”

He smiles, his face flushing. “You sure it’s okay?”

“I’m sure.”

Pete checks his watch. “I think the arcade’s closed by now, but we could always go back and play something at my place?”

Cal smiles. “You down for a little Mario Kart?”

Pete grins. “If you’re down to lose.”

The two head up to the counter to pay for the book before heading back out onto the streets of Hatchetfield. Given that it was already getting dark, they opted to take the bus back to Pete’s house rather than risk whatever bumps in the night.

The ride home was peacefully quiet. There weren’t many people on the bus this time of night, the only sound being the trudge of the tires on the road filling the air. Pete stares out the bus window, flinching slightly when he feels a sudden weight on his shoulder. He turns, his face softening when he sees Cal’s head laying there. He squeezes their hand gently.

The two head down to Pete’s room when they get back. Cal’s switch appears in their hand as they hop up onto his bed. They hand him a controller as they fall into a familiar rhythm: the same characters, the same cars, even the track they’ve played more times than they could count.

Even the same victor. Cal scrunches their face as Pete crosses the finish line with a smug grin on his. They roll their eyes playfully. 

“Told ya,” he said with a smirk.

“Hush.”

“Nah.”

Cal’s smile turns into a yawn, nudging his shoulder. 

“You tired?”

“...noooooooo.”

“Sure.” Pete packs up the switch, setting it on the nightstand before wrapping his arms around them. Cal smiles as they lean into the touch. They don’t realize as Pete guides them to lay down on the bed. 

The two smile at each other. Cal snuggles closer to him, pressing their head onto his chest. Pete chuckles slightly, running a hand through their hair. Cal smiles fondly until their eyes start fluttering. They blink, forcing their eyes back open.

“Sleep, honey,” Pete whispered.

Cal shakes their head. “Last…last night together I…don’t want it to be wasted on sleeping.”

“It’s not wasting it. We’re together. And we’ll still be here in the morning.”

Cal grumbles. Pete chuckles at the sound as he continues to stroke their hair.

Cal smiles up at him tiredly. “I love you…”

“I love you too.” Pete presses a kiss onto their forehead.

Their grip on him tightens. Slowly, Cal drifts off. Pete gazes at them for a moment, watching them fondly. No matter what the future held, both of them went to sleep that night thinking the same thing. How lucky they were to have each other. Even if they were thousands of miles apart, they would always have each other. And they wouldn’t want it any other way.

[breakfastteatime]

Today's request is for @drgeektoyou who asked for 'Little Rituals'.

Prauf comes to a stop in the dark, smelly hallway. "Here we go, pal, here's your apartment. Last guy left it tidy, which is pretty unusual around these parts."

“What happened to the last guy?” Cal asks before he can stop himself. He really hopes no one was murdered here. Those kind of echoes are some of the worst.

“Accident with the ship cutter’s what I heard,” Prauf says. “Then again, maybe he paid off his indenture and got the hell out of here. You never can tell ‘round here unless you see it or hear it yourself!”

Laughing at his own joke, Prauf opens the door and flicks on the lights, revealing a dingy room beyond. It contains a bed, a tiny table with a stool, and one corner is dedicated to food prep. There's no refresher - Cal's got to share with everyone else on his floor... which isn't so different from the Brave. The space is half the size of his old quarters. It’s cold, there’s a faint smell of rust, and Prauf can't stand straight because the ceiling's so low, but it's home, and better than the rocks he'd slept under out in the wastes when his body gave in and refused to walk another step without rest. Probably better than the bunkhouse he’s been in for the past few months too.

"Like it?" Prauf asks.

No.

"Yes," Cal says.

"You remember what I told you?" Prauf asks.

Find a good place to stash for his credits and loot, fix everything that breaks as fast as possible, always hang clothes up to dry, and never forget to lock up. It’s the little rituals that make Bracca easier – according to Prauf. Cal looks up at his friend. "I remember."

“Good, good. Okay then, I’ll let you get settled in. Oh, and set an alarm so you don’t oversleep. Can’t be late the day after we get you set up in your own place. I’ll see you at the station in the morning. Have a good night, Cal.”

“Night, Prauf.”

Left to his own devices, Cal’s first job is to change the access codes to his apartment. After weeks in a bunkhouse where he’d watched plenty of people stealing from each other, he knows nothing in here will be secure until he alone knows the code and purges any secondary backups. It’s thanks to Hack he knows how to do it, except Hack is dead now because Cal deflected a blaster bolt right back at him while fleeing the Brave. Cal focuses on the digital puzzle ahead of him, unwinding the code and finding someone’s master override. He wipes that, wipes everything, and programs a new code. He also programmes it to autolock after three seconds in case he ever runs out and forgets to lock up. He’ll have to update the code monthly, another habit to get himself into if he wants to stay hidden. If someone did break in and find the lightsaber he’s got to hide in here, his life would be over in a heartbeat.

Access code changed, Cal pulls off his poncho and hangs it up to dry. He decides to keep his boots on for warmth. Then, he starts pulling the tiny apartment apart. The previous inhabitant left nothing behind. Nothing but echoes, anyway, and most of them are feelings of weariness or frustration that his indenture doesn’t seem to be shrinking. There are a couple other echoes from people who’d cleaned out the place after the last resident died, taking anything they could get their hands on. Cal decides to create several stashes. It’s safer that way, and if anyone breaks in, they’ll probably get distracted by finding credits or tools long before they go anywhere near his lightsaber. He’s so thorough, he even finds an undiscovered stash behind a power outlet. He can’t believe no one found it, and he finds himself fifty credits up. The previous inhabitant’s joy washes over him as his hand closes over the money. Offering the dead person a silent thanks, Cal leaves it there. It can be the start of an emergency escape fund, and it’s where his lightsaber can go. He’ll need to keep a bag packed just in case he ever needs to make a run for it.

Next, Cal makes a mental list of what’s broken in the apartment and what he’ll need to fix first. He can’t afford to run the heating, so he’ll have to find every cold spot and block it. Either that or he’ll need to requisition some extra clothes from the Guild.

Cal sits on the bed, his own exhaustion mingling with the echo of the last occupant. He doesn’t have any pillows or blankets, so he’ll have to use his poncho once its dry. He’ll go to the market and buy some essentials on his next scheduled downtime. He’ll have been paid by then too. He could break into his unexpected credit find, but no, he’s got to stick to his rules if he wants to stay hidden. It’s no good blowing the credits on blankets and pillows if a stormtrooper kicks his door in and tries to drag him away. He has to remember the three rules for survival.

Don’t stand out.

Accept the past.

Trust no one.

He’s not going to survive if he doesn’t follow those rules. He’s got to stay quiet, accept that whatever he was before is not who he is now, and no one, not even Prauf, can be trusted with the truth.

Trust only in the Force. Cal’s trying, he really is, but survival is his top priority, and it starts here in his new home. Stick to the rules, follow the routine, have an escape plan and maybe, maybe, he won’t die.

[that-one-depressed-author]

I can’t really believe that I’m posting this at…

*checks time*

1:47 AM!

But, I’m tired of being silent and now have the motivation and energy to come forward!

I’m here to share my experience with Melody (yanderelmk)!

Let it be known that I could not write, draw, or even look at myself in the mirror after this happened for a good month!

Hello, everyone! Those of you from the Yandere!LMK Discord Server may remember me as Goat! In this post, I will be discussing my experience with the server and its owner, Melody. I want to go ahead and tell you all to not bother Melody or her blog, instead, go straight for the block button. This post is just meant to be a cautionary tale and hopefully provide insight and validation to those she is near or has hurt.

Here's a bit of context to the events leading up to my ban from Melody’s server. I had been stalking Melody’s blog for a little bit before I joined the server, and when I saw the Shauna situation, I felt like I needed to respond. I also have extreme bipolar disorder and ADHD, and even I didn't respond the way Shauna did. So, after making an anon emoji combination for Melody’s blog, I joined the server.

When I joined, I was a social anxiety-ridden mess, but I was welcomed with open arms. My own trauma from past friend groups clouded the already well-hidden red flags. Looking back, I noticed some things.

I noticed that when I first joined the server, everything I sent (drawings, writings, character-inspired makeup, etc.) was showered with love and praise. But the longer I was there, it slowed to a stop. Meanwhile, everyone who was close to Melody and in her inner circle got most of the attention and praise. I may be petty, but I am not jealous.

I noticed that Melody did little to talk about people causing problems and simply watched from the side. When someone was saying that their character would unalive mine because I shipped mine with the same character, Melody said nothing to stop it in the channel. But, later during a private call, she admitted she was watching it happen and didn't know whether or not to step in. As the server owner, she and her moderators should try and keep the peace when she sees something wrong.

And finally, I noticed that Melody had a bad habit of bringing up things that happened somewhere else where they didn't need to be brought up. Which leads me to my next topic: the events leading up to and the reason for my ban.

A little while before my ban, someone (I don’t remember who) had sent some Twitter fan art of the LMK characters as FNAF animatronics. And we all reacted positively, a few of us including myself talking about making it an AU.

So, Melody hosted a role play. I had used one of my OCs for this little role play, mainly her human design. We went for a few hours and when we had to stop, it was six in the morning.

Now, I had not slept for the past two days and was ready to pass out on my couch after a few after-role-play messages. I believe we had started talking about what our OCs would be like in a FNAF!AU and I had brought up one of my ocs whom I made with a group of friends and was the embodiment of lust.

Someone had mentioned and compared my OC to Asmodeus, the biblical king of lust. In my delirious, sleep-deprived state, I had incorrectly worded my message. I had said that I would say Asmodeus was a former sin of lust and my OC was the current one.

This was not what I had meant, I had meant using the name Asmodeus as a reference, not the actual biblical figure. And even then, I would have shortened it to make it even more of a reference. (ex: Ozzie, Azzy, Moudes, etc.) But, for some unknown reason to me, Melody had an issue with this.

She started an argument with me about how Asmodeus was from Christian religion and that it was offensive to Buddhism or something. I’m gonna be honest, the details are a bit fuzzy. In an effort to make me look like the bad guy, she brought up another set of OCs me and my friend group had made that were based around the Ten Commandments. (Also, I didn’t even use the biblical Ten Commandments because those are paragraphs, I used the ones from the Seven Deadly Sins anime!) These OCs were mentioned in that same private call outside the server!

Melody, being more awake than me, sent several messages in quick succession, not allowing me to get a word in or get my thoughts together. And as always, the person who could get more of a word in wins. Me, being half awake and ready to fall asleep, told Melody I was going to bed and would continue to talk about this later because I was tired and didn’t feel like arguing with her.

I woke up at around five in the afternoon and decided to go into the server and apologize for how I acted and let Melody know I was ready to talk. Only to find the server missing from the list.

Confused, I went to check Melody’s Tumblr blog to see if something happened or if I was banned by mistake. Instead, I found that Melody had made a post about banning me over a picrew I had made.

I will admit, the picrew was BDSM themed and it did include Nezha. But, I was not the first person to send it nor was I the only one who participated. Melody herself participated with one of her OC and Macaque. I will also admit that I forgot to spoil the picrew I made due to being tired.

However, I am not here to get into the ‘NeZhA iS tWeLvE’ debate. I'm here to share what I experienced with Melody and her server.

Here's what could've been done instead of straight-up banning me: talking to me about the image and asking me to spoil or delete it! I was given no warning of my ban, only waking up to it and seeing the post about it! She had made no effort to message me or inform me!

Alright, now that you have all of the info and my side of the story, time for a little analysis. I am a major psychology lover due to my own mental problems and I adore learning about the human mind.

Melody’s two nicknames in her server are ‘Queen’ and ‘Mother’. She is not either of these things.

A queen looks after her subjects, a mother looks after her children. Melody, on the surface, appears to look after the people in her server. But as someone who's seen beneath that surface and experienced people like this long before I met her, she is anything but.

Melody invites people into her server, welcomes them, and smothers them with affection. Then, when they aren't so new anymore, she winds to a stop and focuses on the people in her inner circle.

Melody watches over above, looking at everything and everyone in her server with the eye of a hawk. Waiting and biding her time for them to give her a reason.

Then, when she gains that person’s trust, makes them let down their walls around her, she sees them do something she doesn't like, and she finally has her reason. She strikes.

She removes them from the safe environment she builds around them and feeds them to the wolves. She takes mentally unwell people and puts them in an unsafe environment where they can be harmed.

She wounds them so they aren't thinking straight and baits them to lash out with posts on her Tumblr blog so she can paint herself as the victim. And once they do lash out, she links the places where people can attack them in the form of a ‘call-out’.

Have you noticed the fact that everyone Melody bans and posts about, deletes their blog? Now, I am not excusing these people's actions. But, no one should be put in an unsafe environment where they can be harassed and threatened.

In fact, I’m sure I would’ve been in a similar situation had I not gotten a hold of a close friend of mine. She comforted me, calmed me down, and distracted me from Melody. Her support and love allowed me to be the bigger person and not respond, blocking Melody and removing the problem.

But, I’m stubborn and tired of being the bigger person.

Melody is a manipulator and an abuser.

Let my story be a cautionary tale on these kinds of people. And, don’t harass Melody over this. If you do, you’re no better than her. Instead, go straight for the block button.

[ohmightydevviepuu]

imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [1/6]

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said.  But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him.  Like it was just a fact. But Emma’s life was a story, too.  A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up.  She wasn’t that kid anymore.  Confidence could be learned.  And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either. Not if she picked up the pieces.  Not if she told herself a new story.  About who she was.  About what she wanted.  Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales. "You owe it to yourself," Mary Margaret said. "Happy endings always start with hope."

--

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

to @wistfulcynic and @thisonesatellite who sat with me while we daydreamed on a hilltop in cornwall on the summer-iest summer day england has ever seen. it took me eight months but i got there in the end.

thank you to @shireness-says for time and feedback and kindness to the IAS @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @idoltina @initiala @thejollyroger-writer for always giving me a cheer when i needed it (including--in B's case--occasionally getting random, context-free paragraphs dumped into her DMs)

--

one. 'when you leave, you just miss it'

The sun was shining.

Almost a week since they’d seen real daylight—maybe more, maybe less.  No one was sure.  Time, like light, did not work properly in Neverland.  That’s what Hook had said, and Neal had agreed, an uneasy peace between them; Regina grumbled and Gold snickered but it had been a week or a lifetime and the sun was shining and she had slept last night, for the first time in a week.

Or a lifetime.

She heard the wind rustling around her through the open portholes.  Tasted the salt on the air, sweet and slightly cool.  Emma sat up and the chill danced around her skin as the sheet fell.  She felt good; rested, refreshed.  Free.

Her clothes were were on the floor where she’d left them.  She slipped from the bunk and picked them up, one by one and hanging from her fingertips. Because time might not have been real in Neverland but everything definitely smelled like she’d been wearing it for a week.  When they got back to Storybrooke she wasn’t just going to wash the clothes.  She was going to burn them.  Just thinking about it made the power well up inside her.  It wasn’t anger or darkness or the unrelenting terror of the Dark Hollow.  It was something else—warm, gentle flames that tickled.

Or maybe she just really needed a shower.

God, a shower.

She dressed quickly and found her way above deck, stumbling over a dozen dozing Lost Boys and one wide-awake former fairy.  Neal and Wendy leaned up against the bulkhead, their legs sprawled out in front of them.  Wendy had curled herself against Neal like she wouldn’t let him go.  

Emma wrapped her arms around herself and glanced up.  The sail billowed, but the Shadow cast no shadow here.  Tink turned and spotted her.  The way her eyes lit up made Emma’s breath catch.  They were going home.

“We’re nearly there,” Tink said.  “I almost can’t believe it.  Where’s Hook?”

Emma shrugged.  “I thought he needed to be here.  Steering.”  Behind them, the giant wheel turned on its own.

“Magic,” Tink said.  “The ship, it has magic.  Not my kind—I’ve no idea how it works.”

“And I’ll never tell.”  His hair was mussed by the wind but his coat hung heavy over him.  Weighing him down.  The words were heavy, too, weighted with meaning—something in his eyes before he cleared his throat.  Then Captain Hook inclined his head and it was gone, replaced with twinkles like tiny blue gems in his eyes.  “Tinker Bell.”

“Hook.”  A speculative syllable as the fairy stared intently and he blushed.  Emma looked from one of them to the other until Hook’s eyes caught hers and held.  He raised his eyebrow, just the one.

Emma raised hers.  Both of them.

“Swan,” he said.

“Hook,” she said.

“Mom!”  Henry ran across the deck, leaving Regina behind in the companionway with a genuine smile on her face.  Neal’s eyes opened immediately at the sound of his son’s voice and he scrambled to his feet, catching Henry in his arms but barely slowing him before he angled back toward Emma.  She nearly fell over as she absorbed the fullness of his hug.  Her son’s arms around her, finally.

Six days.  Not even a week.  But her life had changed in less time before:  The time it took to steal a car, to open a locker.  Sixteen hours to give birth.  Ten hours on a beanstalk.

The kiss it took to break a curse.

A week was plenty of time for her world to turn itself upside down.  Again.

“The sun is fully up,” Hook said.  “We’ll be arriving shortly in Storybrooke.”  A fairy-tale land full of fairy-tale people encased in a magic shield that they were going to pierce with a magic boat piloted by a pirate and guided by a demon’s Shadow.  Hook spoke and the ship turned on a dime, the wheel spinning, the Shadow-filled sail briefly flashing white, and there it was.

The harbor.  The clock tower.  The neon sign of the B&B.

“Home,” Mary Margaret whispered, coming to stand next to Emma.

David rested his hand on her arm and Emma tensed.  His smile gentled and he moved, stepping back to pull Mary Margaret closer.  “Together.  Heroes, villains—pirates.”  Pride glowed briefly in his eyes.  “Just like you said.”

Heroes, villains, pirates.  Parents.

Storybrooke.

Home.

The rest of the fairy-tale folk rushed to the rails, hanging over the sides for a closer look at their heroes’ welcome.  A faint sound carried on the breeze—laughter.  Cheers.

They were in the water.  They were in the harbor.  The gangplank lowered.  Henry was practically trembling with excitement as he hurled himself onto the dock, zooming between his father and his grandparents and Granny and—and—and—

But it was Neal Emma was watching.  Hugging his father.  Hugging Belle.  Escorting Wendy.  No longer a Lost Boy but a found one.

“Home.  The place that when you leave, you just miss it.”  He’d told her that the night they’d met.  Her lifetime had been a series of moves from place to place to place and every time, she’d only known one thing for certain:  She wasn’t home.  Not yet.  She’d been seventeen and Neal Cassidy had kneeled in the dirt and picked the lock and when he turned the amusement park lights on and smiled at her, knowing and full of confidence, her entire world had shifted on its axis.

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said.  But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him.  Like it was just a fact.  Or maybe it was a secret he was sharing.  With her.

Home.  Neal wrapped Wendy and her brothers in a group hug with an expression Emma had never seen before.  But Emma’s life was a story, too.  A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up.  She wasn’t that kid anymore.  Confidence could be learned.  And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either.  

Not if she picked up the pieces.  Not if she told herself a new story.  About who she was.  About what she wanted.  Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales.  The flame warmed inside her again, as if the idea of wanting—of knowing what she wanted—was its own kind of magic.  Maybe it was.

Possibilities.  Hope.

In her.  In the magic.  In this town.  It wasn’t a home—yet—but for the first time Emma felt like it could be.  If she let it.  If she wanted it.  If she chose it.

Henry turned back to her, waiting.  An impatient gesture.  She took one last long look around the decks of the ship.  Hook stood at the helm, tracing the scratch marks in the wood.

Home.

With a deep breath, Emma stepped onto the dock.

two. 'i quite fancy you'

The realization hit at approximately the same time Emma Swan hit the water, the waves enveloping her and dragging her down, though he didn’t think about it.  Not then.  Not in the midst of the magically-intensified storm and the maelstrom wrought by his own frustrations:  Baelfire’s death, his son missing, the Dark One on his ship and Prince-bloody-Charming up in arms and in Killian’s face, so certain it was he who was the captain here—an uncomfortable thought all on its own, and similarly ignored.

But then she’d hit the water and it was all hands on deck.

Nothing else mattered as they retrieved her from the deep and lowered her to the deck and waited.  Waited for her to breathe, to move, to cough out the water, her body wracked by the effort but alive.  The storm vanished as quickly as it appeared but the weight lingered.

Killian did not like to think about the last time he had seen a woman laid out before him on his ship.  About how it had ended.  So he ignored it.  Ignored it with the patience and practice of a man accustomed to counting time in centuries rather than minutes and it was easy enough.  In Neverland the only thing real was the here and the now; their horrific, indeterminate trek across the island was more than enough to occupy his mind.

Until it wasn’t.

He set himself up a good bit away from the others as they made their camp.  He refused to watch the undisturbed slumber of the Charmings.  Even Regina slept, but not Killian.  Never Killian, never on Neverland.  Whether it was better or worse to be alone and surrounded by the haunted cries of the Lost, Killian did not know.  He’d thought and hoped never to hear them again no matter how unnaturally prolonged his life might be.  But he knew this—it was too easy for Pan to grab on to a person in the netherworld of Neverland at night and it was darker now than Killian remembered it being, unless it was just the effect of the rum. 

He almost wished it was.

Either way, there wasn’t enough of the bloody stuff to soothe the ragged edges of his soul.

He’d said it as a joke.  Or a feint.  An instinctive push in their ongoing tug-of-war.  “I quite fancy you sometimes,” he’d said.  But here in the dark surrounded by the cries he had no choice but to admit to himself that he’d meant it.

Horrific thought.

Idly, he wondered if Tinker Bell was still here.  Their tactics for sleep--and mutual exhaustion--had always proved more then satisfactory in the past.  Pleasurable, even; some of the only good memories Killian had of this place.  Only that felt somehow…disloyal.  A betrayal to an idea that his heart was apparently already committed to.  Killian took another pull from the flask and reminded himself that villains didn’t get happy endings and if Captain Hook had been anything in his life, it was that.  

After all, if he had been a better man, perhaps Baelfire wouldn’t have left.

It was with that happy thought that the cacophony of cries reached its crescendo—midnight, then, or near enough on this cursed island where the night felt endless.  Perhaps it was endless, now.  The days seemed shorter—nonexistent—the darkness constant.  The island was changing.  Dying.  Killian knew only too well there was nothing Pan would not do to prevent that happening.  Every instinct told him that Henry was the answer Pan sought.

Killian had not been lying when he told Emma that on this island, he was not the villain.  Perhaps that was why he waited.  Waited to hear the whisper of movement and the moment she finally gave up.  When she finally got up.  He had never wondered if she might hear the cries.  It had been very nearly his first thought upon meeting her.  She’d had the Look and few knew it better than he.  Maybe Baelfire—Neal—had recognized it, too.

He could hear the muttered imprecations under her breath and was only gratified that she had sense enough to take the cutlass with her as she began to roam the surroundings of their camp.  And then he heard something else.

Not words.  A voice.  A voice that taunted him still, lurking on the edges of his nightmares.  Even worse, he knew what it meant.  To be approached by Pan was to have a quest assigned, a task given.  When Emma stumbled out of the woods clutching a scrap of parchment, he stood to meet her, already on alert.

Pan always did like his games.

three. 'you owe it to yourself'

The shower felt incredible.  One after Granny’s; one before bed; one when she woke up.  Part of her felt like she might never not be covered in dirt and sweat again.  Part of her just wanted the warmth and the solitude.  Even in a loft built for one and sleeping four, the shower was a one-person-at-a-time activity.

She hoped.

Exhausted but too restless to sleep, Emma had lain in her bed and stared at the exposed beams, counting the wood scratches and feeling it every time someone in the apartment breathed.  Henry’s little snores made her smile with every exhalation and though here Mary Margaret and David were only—breathing—it was hard not to think about the other things they could be doing in the bed they shared at the bottom of the ladder.

Ew.

Emma really needed to get her own place.

Henry would want to go back to spending nights at Regina’s again, anyway.  As he should.  She was his mother.

Emma couldn’t help but think of Regina at the Tree.  Regina with ‘no regrets’.  She wasn’t sure if she believed any of it, but she couldn’t argue with the result—all of them, still standing, at the end of something horrible.  Even if Emma thought Regina should have a few regrets—surely some of the murders had been unwarranted—maybe it was time to follow Regina’s example.  Leave the past behind and focus on what she had.

What would it be like, to live with no regrets?

A new beginning.

A steam cloud followed her as she opened the frosted glass sliding door and followed the sweet smell of coffee to the kitchen island—a little pot, in an honest-to-goodness tea cozy, left in the blessedly quiet loft.  Mary Margaret hadn’t done that in—she hadn’t done that since—

Before.

The texts had accumulated on her phone while she showered.  She recognized most, but not all, of the phone numbers—David, Mary Margaret, Henry, Ruby—and remembered suddenly that she didn’t know which one might be Neal’s.  Being presumed dead made that easy enough to excuse.

She was glad he wasn’t dead.

Emma sighed.  Maybe it would have been easier if she’d set a time, or maybe it just would have been funnier:  An hour to process Felix into the cells.  Another at the pawnshop to watch Pan sealed beneath the floor—a tiny box to hold so many nightmares, but both of her parents standing next to her in spite of the dreamshade.  Henry flanked by his mothers, his father, three of his grandparents.

Of course Neal had approached her—exactly down to the minute on the timer she had not set—cornering her at Granny’s.  The beer was flowing, the food was hot, the noise was crushing her skull.  Tick, tock.

“Emma, can we make some time to talk?”

She hadn’t even gotten her coat off, and it was weird to suddenly need it again after six days and a lifetime sweating in an otherworldly jungle.  She saw Hook at the bar with Tink, a glass mug of amber liquid in each of their hands as they toasted.  Mary Margaret and David pushed in behind and around her to head for a table.  Regina and Henry were tucked in together at a booth.  

Tick, tock.

She forced her attention back to Neal.  “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” she said.  “Unless—are you trying to ask me on a date?”

Yes.

Yes, he was and yes, she would make time—because they needed to know what would happen.  Emma had a few ideas and as Mary Margaret always said happy endings start with hope.  It was the look on Mary Margaret’s face as Neal settled himself back into his booth that had her worried.  The big eyes, the bright smile.  It was a look she wasn’t totally used to seeing on her friend’s face because it was such a Snow White look.

“You owe it to yourself,” Mary Margaret had said.

Tick, tock. 

A motherly look.  She wasn’t used to that yet, either.  Six days or a lifetime hadn’t quite given her enough time to digest the shift from best friend to parent and almost every minute since the curse had broken had been one unrelenting nightmare after another.   Ogres, giants, beanstalks.  Cora.  Hook.  Neal.  It didn’t help that even while Mary Margaret was urging her to take the chance—“You owe it to yourself”—Emma kept thinking about the chances Mary Margaret and David wanted to take.

Tick, tock.

They were home now, the three of them—four—five—six—or maybe eight—one big modern fairytale family—and that mattered, even if Mary Margaret had looked her in the eyes and promised that she wouldn’t be an orphan anymore and then decided that she would stay in Neverland forever if she had to.  The thin leather strap of the waterskin crossed over David’s shoulder didn’t feel like much against that, but it was everything.

The water.  From Hook.  And every time she’d turned Emma had seen Hook watching, his eyes tightening slightly every time David moved.  Like he was waiting for something.  Tick, tock.

Shaking herself, Emma finished her cup of coffee and hauled herself back up the ladder.  The curling iron felt comfortable in her hand; it was a relief to look in the mirror and see someone she recognized, from Before.  Her blue leather jacket because it was warmer, her favorite tank top layered underneath, and she was going to go to Granny’s and have a goddamn normal day.  Whatever that meant now—now that it wasn’t Before, but After.  After the curse.  After the Enchanted Forest.  After Neverland.  

After—everything.  

She wasn’t a tiny princess under a mobile of glass unicorns; none of them knew what to do with a goddamn adult with a past.  A history, a trauma, that was not part of their storybook fantasy, and more than a missed opportunity that they could recreate.  

She refused to just be that.  She was a mother, too.  A sheriff.  A Savior.  

An orphan.

If what they had was unique, to use Mary Margaret’s words from the Echo Cave, then they had to be able to make their own definitions.  Their own rules and wants and needs and hopes.  Their own story.  And what Emma wanted, more than anything, was to carve out her own space in this world—parents, children, magic, exes, and evil queens—and know that it was hers.  That she belonged.  Emma wanted to know that when Henry came for her he wasn’t just looking for her to break a curse.  He was bringing her home.

How did Snow White, of all people, not understand that?

She glanced at her phone, at the time and at the last text message.  Pulled on her shitkicker black boots and closed the door behind her.

She had a date to get to.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING HOLY

CHAPTER 5: The Ghost

WARNINGS: angst, explicit content

SUMMARY: “Would you still follow me anywhere?”

“Into the dark,” Din vows. “Into the stars.”

“What if I go somewhere you can’t follow?”

He stares. Nova can feel the crushing weight of his fury on the other side of that question, even in the dark. But she doesn't speak, doesn’t try to undo it, doesn’t try to take it back.

She’s not talking about leaving. She’s talking about being ripped away. With teeth and silver, a parting from this mortal realm. Something is buzzing low in her head. Nova can’t quite put it to name.

“I am never,” Din repeats, low and angry, “leaving you again.” A beat. “What do you want, Novalise?”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HAPPY SOMETHING HOLY SATURDAY!!! i am once again asking you to forgive me for my very extended absence (more notes on this at the end). this chapter is a slow thrum with smut and angst (with a dash of plot). i hope you love it <3

If you're new here, Something More & Something Deeper are the first installments in this series, available on here & ao3!

First—blinding, searing light. 

Then—a whisper, creeping in around the edges.

Nova blinks once, twice, trying to shake the exhaustion from her eyes. Everything filters in slowly, like she’s been drugged, in a coma, off floating in another dimension entirely. It all floods in flashes—in and out of the light, like her own eyes shuttering against the memory. She’s drained—down to her bones, she can feel it, the weary, tired seep. It feels like how she did when she slept off three months on Naator, head stuck in a dream, body lost in the void.

That does it. She jackknifes upward, catapulting forward, hand on her belt.

Her belt is empty. 

Nova curses under her breath, stumbling around in this ship’s low, grey light. It feels similar in make to the Crest—but it’s not the Crest. It’s roomier, warmer, slightly, and she categorizes all of this while rooting around for her lightsaber, the Darksaber, any saber will do, really, she’s not picky—

“Your sabers are safe.” 

Nova whirls around, fists up.

The woman leaning against the wall is grinning at her. Not sadistically, not evilly—just smiling. Also, she’s a Twi’lek. And she’s green. Nova runs through these facts in her head, trying to make sense of them. She comes to the same dividend—she cannot. 

Nova blinks. Once, twice, trying to dislodge the sleep in the corners of her eyes. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” 

The woman’s smile widens, rows of glittering teeth so bright in the dim light of the ship that Nova shrinks back. Her eyes rove over Nova’s body—her tousled hair, her ripped clothes, the cuts she’s sporting. At some point, Nova’s lip split, her ribs are still bruised, and her eyes feel puffy. She’s not sure if that was from the ship fracturing or from blowing up the remnants of the evil laboratory, but she can feel the ache now. 

The woman in front of her has blue, blue eyes—river-deep and unreadable. “You’ve been through a lot.” They’re kind, though, Nova recognizes, running the pad of her thumb over the seam of her lip, worrying along the fault line. From her eyes to the smile on her face, the woman in front of her looks kind. 

Nova darts her tongue out, then immediately winces at the sharp pain of the still-open wound. She sits up straighter instead.  “That’s an understatement.” 

“She told me you’d be wary. That’s good. Out here, wary keeps you alive.” 

“She?”

“A friend…sent me.” 

Nova chances a half-step forward. Her head feels underwater, her body feels bruised. She wants Din, and a hot shower, and to curl up and sleep for another full rotation. But she forces her chin up, tilting her head to the side. “I have lots of those,” she says evenly, “you’re going to have to clarify which one.” 

The woman laughs—a hearty, inviting thing. She doesn’t look dangerous. She looks warm. Nova eases up, both physically and mentally. “And I happen to have multiple friends in common with you, and it’s a shame we haven’t met before. Welcome aboard the Ghost, Novalise Djarin. My name’s Hera.” 

It sounds familiar, but in her addled state, Nova can’t place it. She relaxes, though. It’s imperceptible, but it filters into the crush of her jaw, easing the tension of her shoulders.  “And you know me…how?” 

“A few ways,” Hera says, cocking her head to the side. “And you’re safe now. All of you.”

 Nova squints at her, dazed. “I think I hit my head.” 

Hera sobers, moving to meet her in the middle. “I’m sure you did,” she murmurs, holding her hands out in an invitation. Cautiously, Nova creeps forward until Hera’s green fingers trace across her forehead, looking for the source. “From what your husband told me—”

Nova rears back. “Where is he?” 

“Oh good,” Din murmurs from somewhere in the dark, emerging like shadows singing around the woman in front of her, immediately drowning everything else out, “you’re awake.” 

Nova leaps across the floor, running into Din’s chest—thankfully unarmored, but it still packs a wallop—and sinks her skin against his. Freshly showered, he still smells like gunsmoke and cinnamon, and the lingering waft of metal, the tang that never seems to leave his skin, his blood, his heart. “You’re here.” 

He smiles down at her, one thumb tracing over her cheekbone. “Where would I go?”

Nova bites her split lip, winces. “Down there, we—”

Din’s brown eyes flash with something—guilt, a memory, she’s not sure. All Nova knows is that hers are likely flashing with the same thing. “Not now,” he whispers, a ghost of a thing, and then: “All that matters is that we’re all here.” 

“And where,” Nova says, a half-step louder, still muffled against Din’s beskar-clad chest, “is here?”

“The Ghost,” Hera supplies, and Nova reluctantly leaves Din’s tight grip to face their rescuer again. “My ship. And our mutual friend—the one I was referring to, anyway—is Ahsoka Tano.”

Nova’s breath catches in her throat. “You said all of us were safe,” she whispers, heart banging in her chest, hammering against her injured ribs, “but if Din and I are here, then—” 

The noise comes from just out of reach, in the cockpit. It fills Nova’s lungs, seeps warmth into her blood before she can recognize why. When Grogu comes toddling around the bend, Nova lets out a cry—part anguish, part relief—and scoops him against her chest, pressing her injured forehead against his green one, three-fingered palm tracing right over the place on her cheek that Din’s hand just left. 

“Ahsoka sent me,” Hera says, smiling down at them, “but this little guy found me. Come sit down, Nova. We have a lot to talk about.” 

*

Grogu is safely nestled in Nova’s arms, the warmth of his little green body thrumming against her own chest. Hera is making them tea—real tea, brewed with leaves and flowers, some of Yavin’s purple petals tucked beneath the rest of the scattered ones. It feels like a good omen. 

“We have a lot to cover.” Hera says this matter-of-factly, like she’s running through a pre-flight checklist. There’s a no-nonsense assurance to the way she carries herself, the way she puffs out her chest. It’s not arrogance. It’s knowledge. She’s careful and she’s sure—it fractures Nova’s chest, just a little, because even in just this glimpse of her, Hera reminds Nova so much of her mother. “But you must have questions, and I’d prefer we start there.” 

Nova slides her thumbnail between her teeth, worrying along the split. A gloved hand darts out to catch her wrist before she can dig in too deeply. Din’s helmeted, obscured from the light, but Nova would bet all of her credits that he’s wearing a neutral expression underneath. The familiarity of this—Nova, unhinged, Din, unbothered—feels so much like their early days traversing the galaxy that she’s lost there for a minute, eyes roving over her Mandalorian, hands clasped around their kid in her lap. 

“I’ll start with the worst one,” she mutters, sliding her fingers around a roguish curl instead. SHe inhales, exhales, trying to keep her fear at bay.  “How long was I out this time?” 

Hera’s eyebrows furrow in the middle.

“Five days.” Din tilts his head to the side. “Well. Five and a half, technically.” 

Nova sits back in her chair, sighing. 

“Not the worst,” Din murmurs, trying to keep her level. His thumb strokes over her own. 

“Not the best,” Nova volleys back.

“We were so far out there,” Din says, voice level, to keep her even-keeled, “that you didn’t miss anything. We just reached the far side of the Outer Rim earlier, about an hour before you woke up. You didn’t miss anything—”

“I missed five and a half days of my life.” Nova swallows, trying to hold onto the sense of calm that Din always embodies in the face of her unsteadiness, trying to absorb some of Hera’s cool. It radiates off her in waves. Nova presses the heels of her hands into her eyes until stars explode. “I don’t care what happened when I was out. I hate losing time like that. You let me sleep?” It’s not meant to be accusatory, but it comes out that way anyway.

“Nova—”

“Excuse me,” Hera cuts in, steady yet warm. “You were just in a crash landing—where, miraculously, nobody died—and you’re…upset because you…” she trails off, blinking at Nova, clearly trying to not offend her, which makes Nova warm to her even more, “...slept?”

Din sighs, trying again: “Novalise—”

“I once lost three months,” Nova says miserably, wrapping her arms around her legs like a little kid, fully aware she’s acting morose and silly, but unable to shake it free regardless. “Three months of my life, gone, because a Sith acolyte found me in my dreams and began to possess the people around me while also siphoning off my life force. Poof. Gone. I was out—not sleeping, dead, but somewhere in between.” She snaps her fingers for emphasis, which is a sound entirely too sharp for the interior of the Ghost, and all of them jump. Just a little. “She also kidnapped my best friend, tried to raze Mandalore—again—stuck Din with a poisoned dagger, almost killed him, seriously interrupted my journey to become a Jedi, found out she murdered my parents, manipulated me into trying to meet her alone, kidnapped Bo and Din, tried to kill them, again, tried to kill me, again, but then I killed her—except, except—she’s still fucking around in my head. I keep having visions, I keep having nightmares, and I cannot figure out where the premonition ends and the dream begins. And since Wedge ran into you on Hoth, I have been running across the galaxy in the search of a lost Jedi that I’ve never met, even though he’s told me not to, over and over again, and that what’s coming is even worse than what already happened.” She swallows, placing a hand over her racing, skipping heart, trying to will it to quiet. Hera is staring at her. Nova blinks, once, twice, a futile attempt to come back down to earth, closing her eyes tight when she realizes just how much that was—to blurt out, to experience. Either. Both. She can’t differentiate. 

“Needless to say,” Din says, low and even, “Novalise doesn’t like to lose time.” 

Hera’s staring back and forth between the both of them. 

“I know you have questions, too.” That’s Din, talking. Nova’s fighting the furious, stubborn tears welling up in her eyes. “Especially after that. Ask them.” 

“Didn’t you guys…talk?” Nova asks, when Hera’s mouth doesn’t move from the shell-shocked, half-open state it’s hung in since she began talking, “while I was…out?

“Your husband,” Hera whispers, “is not a man of many words.” 

Despite everything, Nova laughs, the feeling of it bubbling up in her chest foreign and bittersweet. 

“It must have been very hard,” Hera says, carefully, “to carry the enormous weight of being responsible for so many lives, including your own.” 

Nova swallows, looking down at her purple fingers, war-torn with the efforts of the starfighter crash, the destroying of the midichlorian tanks, the days of unconscious and fitful sleep. She feels bruised around the edges, crushed like the Yavinian flowers in her tea. Everything is violet and half-formed. She feels raw—not like she’s been through war, but like she’s at the dawning of a new world, after the devastation of losing her original ones, over and over and over again. “I am not very good at delegating,” she whispers, and Din’s hand finds her knee, anchoring her to the bench of the table, unfurling all the seismic hurt pooling in the center of her chest. Grogu is asleep on her lap, his tiny breaths synching in tandem with her own. “Which is to say,” she continues, barely a whisper, and she’s being melodramatic, maybe, but Nova thinks at this point in her life, she’s earned it, “my name is Novalise Djarin, and I am the patron saint of lost causes.” 

Din stiffens beside her, recoiling. The words taste awful in her mouth—but they aren’t untrue. “Nova,” he whispers, and there’s so much weight hurled behind that one small sound, the anatomy of her name, but they can’t do this, not here, not now, not after everything—

Hera’s green hand comes up between them, bisecting the tension, dissolving it. “You are Novalise Djarin,” she says, “and nothing I am about to say makes that unshakable fact untrue.” Nova sees it in her eyes, what she’s going to say. “But I think before you were Nova, you were someone else.” 

Nova straightens up a little, wary, even though she’s fully let Andromeda back in, made peace with her hurt, clutched her former self’s strength to her heart like a pearl. But she knows Hera Syndulla ran in the same orange circles of where she originated from, where Andromeda was formed, where Andromeda was unmade. And she is so close to fracturing, so she waits with her swollen lip bit between her teeth. 

“I knew your parents,” Hera says softly, extending a green hand across the granite of the table between them, a living shock against the anathema of white. “And I think who you are now is in no small part because you are Piper and Arokel Maluev’s daughter.” Are, Hera says. Present tense. It wraps Nova in like a hug, and she breathes out a sigh of relief. “And I think that the woman you’ve become has the spirit of a Mandalorian and the heart of a Jedi. Resilient. Strong. You live up to every legend that the people we share have told me about you.” Her teeth shine in a sad, eternal smile. “And I am so sorry, Novalise, that you have had to shoulder so much hurt.” 

Nova can’t speak it into words, the relief she feels, the safety in this woman who rescued them—who is still holding both her sabers hostage—and she lets out a small noise, a quiet keening sound, wiping the unlodged tears from her eyes with the back of her free hand.  

“Thank you,” she manages,  and then: “I’m very grateful you’re the one who found us.” And it’s a tiny thing, miniscule in comparison to what Hera has just said, but it shines between them, that understanding, like a star. Next to her, Din’s body shrinks against Nova’s, the tilt of his pelvis closer, his leg, so warm, even clad in beskar, pressed against her own, and when her hand slips out of Hera’s, it finds his gloved one. She looks over at him, and even through the mask, there’s understanding. There’s an apology, even though it’s not necessary. They are the ghosts of every version of Novalise and Din that have come before, and they return to each other again and again and again. His thumb strokes over her exhausted one, and for the first time in weeks, Nova feels a sense of settling. She chooses to name it peace. 

“Bo-Katan Kryze,” Hera says, faintly, bringing Nova back to steady ground, “is your best friend?”

Nova nods. Fear stokes up in her chest again like a roused flame. “I don’t know where she is—” But Hera’s already pulling something out of her back pocket as Nova’s heart catches in her throat. “But you said all of us, earlier, were safe—?”

Hera’s green finger thumbs over the button on a hologram. The white disc fills the space between them, suddenly opalescent and painting the atmosphere blue. “Can you please move? Move!” Then, slightly winded and heavily sour, like she’s just been elbowed somewhere soft: “Please. Thanks.” Mumbling and grunting in another language filters off-screen, and Bo-Katan’s beautiful, annoyed face floods the screen, and Nova feels relief seep like a drug through her bloodstream. “I don’t know if this’ll get to you.” 

“It will. I memorized the channel frequency before we left for the Unknown Regions.” 

Bo-Katan shoves at Wedge offscreen. More grunting, a distant, slippery language on the tongues of assorted people in the background. Decidedly not Wedge, or Bo-Katan, who’s looking off-camera like she’s at her wit’s end. 

“Yes. Very smart, Wedge,” she spits, and Nova can feel the smile Wedge is sporting from lightyears away. “Okay. The report from this half of the Victory crew is this: we got picked up by a group of very slow-moving Mon Cala. Their hyperdrive’s broken, so we’re stuck on this medical frigot indefinitely. But we’re heading—slowly—towards Mandalore, where Wedge and I are planning to rally the troops that we can.” She pauses, leaning in, the striking curve of her jaw clenched. 

Nova’s breath catches in her throat, tears pinpricking at the corners of her eyes. 

“Technically,” Bo-Katan continues, “I’m cashing in on a favor that doesn’t exist yet. But it’s one I’ll repay tenfold when we’re back together again. Listen, Hera—I know this is a big ask. But I also know you’ve been looking for Ezra, and if you’re not flying a mission for the New Republic, you’re out in the Unknown Regions anyway. So I am hoping against hope you’re closer to the rest of the Victory crew than we are. I don’t use this word lightly—please,” she whispers, and her machismo and iciness vanishes in that one word, “please make a pit stop on Lenahra and look for the shattered Mandalorian starfighter. It’s a massive wreck. You can’t miss it.” She swallows. “I have friends there in need of rescuing.” She glances right. “Get in here.” 

“Hi again,” Wedge says, as he’s yanked into frame, “General, if Bo-Katan hasn’t already sold you, it would be the favor of a lifetime.” 

“You’re being weird,” Bo-Katan stage-whispers, “stop it.” She lifts her chin, with a little bit of hope etched onto her face. “Hera,” she says again, “if that wasn’t convincing enough, there’s more.” She swallows, her gaze again flickering upwards, like she’s not sure if she can speak freely. Wedge squats down beside her, the two of their faces filling the entire space in front of Nova’s eyes, and her heart is still thundering in her ears, even though they’re safe, they’re safe.

“You know the Chimaera is back,” Bo-Katan whispers. “And I know what that means for Ezra.” She holds Hera’s gaze through space and time, even though it’s a message, it’s being played, it’s not in real time. “But that means he’s here, too.” She swallows, raising her chin, the mask snapping back on. “So—be careful. I really, really owe you one. Get the Djarins and meet us on Mandalore. We’ll see you soon.”

The hologram flicks off, leaving all of them in anesthetic silver and white. Din sighs out next to her—in relief, in exasperation, Nova’s not sure. But she leans into him, slowly handing off Grogu into his crossed arms, and looks at Hera. 

“That message,” Hera says, her voice faraway, “came in not five minutes after Ahsoka’s did. She set up a beacon across every planet in the Unknown Regions, set to trip the second new life forms entered the atmosphere.” She swallows, and for the first time since Nova’s opened her eyes, Hera looks undone—afraid. She licks her lips, knotting her fingers together, bracing herself for impact. Nova leans in, slightly, knowing she’s missing something—a key piece of the puzzle—she just doesn’t quite know what. It’s ringing, dimly, faintly, in the back of her mind—she has all of the information, it just hasn’t clicked into place. “Ezra Bridger,” Hera says, with the ache of a thousand worlds, “is my family.” She swallows. “A long time ago, he disappeared into deep space. And now,” she whispers, “according to the Chimaera’s distress signal, and Ahsoka’s message, and Bo-Katan’s hologram, and your testimony, Ezra is in this galaxy. Ezra Bridger, my long lost, brave Ezra—he is home.” Hera shifts, fear and hope, in equal measure, warring across her face. 

“I haven’t found him yet,” Nova whispers, “but I’m going to, Hera—”

“Ezra is not lost,” Hera interrupts, her voice low and thrumming with pain, “because he is back here, against all odds, in this galaxy. After years, after sacrificing himself to save the rest of us, Ezra is back here, hiding again, obscuring himself to protect us.” Her eyes meet Nova’s with startling clarity—the same reflection that she’s seen between herself and Ezra, the parallel lines connecting their spirit, over and over again, alike like only two Jedi can be. “And that is not good luck. That is not possible, not without him.” 

Nova blinks at her, still feeling like she’s on the outside looking in, like she’s peering through the looking glass without a solid scope, a kaleidoscope, a mosaic of so many lives, woven together by an exhausted gold thread. “Hera—” 

“If Ezra’s back,” Hera says, far more evenly than Nova would have been able to muster, “that means Grand Admiral Thrawn is, too.” That name. Like calls to like. It’s been spoken aloud, for the first time—but Nova feels it resound in her chest—blue skin, rows and rows of glittering, awful teeth. Sharp, that name—razor-thin and infinitely more dangerous. The nightmare in the back of her skull, primordial and real. Hera holds up a finger as Din shifts, as Nova inhales, both too sharp. “And that means,” Hera whispers, “that the entire galaxy is going to war.” 

*

Hera fills Nova in on an entire history. Nova listens to Hera’s account of the Alliance she was never a part of, the wars going on in space she was never privy to. When Hera and Ezra and the crew of the Ghost were running around in the stars, Nova was fighting for her life.

And yet, Din knows, she’s kicking herself for not being there anyway. So Din watches Nova, tuning out everything else. 

Nova, his Novalise, his cyar’ika—his beloved, his home, his heart. She is there, alive, filled with mortality and vitality. She feels like a heart attack, too warm, too close. Hera is talking, monologuing about the history of Thrawn, about his prowess, his sick skill, his evilness—and it should absorb, really, Din should be listening, and he is, he’s incapable of not multitasking, but he can’t focus on anything but Nova. 

She is sitting, body coiled taut like a live wire, energy radiating off her in spurts. So alike the Nova that used to sit in the cockpit with him, as Din fed her lines of his restricted life, his dangerous thrush, his brutal career. She is unflinching in the face of despair—it shines like a star, like a pearl. Maker, she’s brute strength, his wife—every single part of her tuned into a frequency he cannot access, cannot hear. Before Nova, Din didn’t even try.

He does now. 

“He’s going to try and take over the galaxy,” Hera is saying, her hands laced together so tightly that she could break her own bones. Din watches Nova out of the corner of his eye. “And he is terrifying.” 

“We’ve dealt with terrifying,” Nova starts, but Hera shakes her head, tightly. 

“Not like this,” she manages, letting the words hang in the balance between them. Din watches as she tries to collect herself, gathering that even-keeled composure she’s kept since she first picked them back up in the Unknown Regions and then shifts. It snaps back into place, but Din’s an expert by now at seeing the cracks in the veneer. 

Nova’s leaned into Hera, like she’s magnetized in her orbit, teeth gnawing on her bottom split lip, the smell of freesia and coconut still raising off her curls, even after a crash landing and the ship splitting apart. Din inhales through the helmet, not moving a muscle, watching her.

Hera sighs, sitting back. She drags a hand over her face, trying to physically erase the sorrow written there. She lifts her chin, trying to snap that sense of calm and control back into her face. Din watches as her blue eyes flick to the visor, then to where his gloved hand is clenched around Nova’s. A tiny, sad smile flashes across her face, a flutter-cut. If Din didn’t wear that expression like an old friend, he wouldn’t have caught it. 

Hera sighs. “You both must be—well, exhausted doesn’t even cover it. Why don’t you lay down. Catch up.” She gestures to Grogu, who’s still sound asleep in the hollow of Din’s arms. “I’ll take the little guy up to the cockpit with me. I could use a copilot, even a sleeping one.” 

Din raises an eyebrow under the helmet. Nova looks over at him, and the world cements, crystallizes. He relents, sighing, letting Hera pluck Grogu out of his arms like a berry. 

“I’ll get you both up when we land to refuel,” Hera promises, “and we can make a plan.” 

“The plan,” Nova says, “is to get out of enemy territory. Get back home.” 

Hera cocks an eyebrow. “I was planning on that,” she says, a small grin playing across her mouth. “I’ll program the flight plan towards Mandalore.” 

Nova smiles, and it’s like light streaming through the clouds after a year of rain. “No,” she says, chin in the air like the leader she is, “I’m a Mandalorian, Hera, and a Jedi, too, but before that, I’m a Rebel.” Her eyes connect with Hera’s and Din’s chest swells with pride, listening to her talk, to speak, to slot their shattered pieces back into place. “If we’re fighting a war, we need to start at the beginning. I want to go to the base.” Nova blinks away sorrow and pain, shifting back into herself. There she is, Din thinks.

“We need to go to Hoth.”

*

The room is so quiet. It’s not a room, really, it’s just an alcove, barely big enough to fit a double-person bunk, but it’s tucked into the hull of the Ghost, away from the bridge and the cockpit. If Nova didn’t spend most of her life out in the stars, she wouldn’t know they were hurtling through space at all, but she can feel the vibrations of the metal as the ship soars through hyperspace, getting closer and closer to home. 

She touches her hand to the hull, ice-cold. Nova snaps her eyes shut, and for a second, she’s back on the Crest, and she’s falling in love for the first time. Din is not her husband, he is not her anything—he is the Mandalorian, and he’s brought her out of Nevarro and into the stars, and all she has of him is the cockpit they share and the millions of miles of open space. She longs for it, sometimes, the simplicity of their beginning. Din asked her if she wished they could stay on Naator—but before Naator, they had bounties and quarries, they had wounds and silence, and they had the crush of space. It’s always been them, through all of this—but sometimes, sometimes, when Nova lets herself, she yearns to start at the beginning, to blip herself back in time, to touch her hands to Din’s face for the first time. 

To feel like a supernova, rather than being Supernova. 

“What?” His voice, low and gravelly, holds volumes. 

Nova inhales sharply, dragging her hand off the hull, turning to face Din in the pitch-dark, in the vantablack night. 

“When you picked me up on Nevarro,” she whispers, afraid to put it into words, “if you had known all of the hurt and heartbreak that would come of it—would you have even looked twice?”

Silence. It crushes her, pulverizes her chest. Din’s thinking, choosing his words, plucking them out of the illuminated pinpricks around them, but it hurts in Nova’s chest all the same, the weight of waiting for his answer.

“Novalise,” Din says, the word—her true name—baring teeth in the darkness, “if you even have to ask me that question, you have no idea how deep my love for you runs.” 

Nova swallows. “I am a mess,” she whispers, the words fractured. She drags her knees up to her chest, leaning back against the headboard—or lack of one, really, because all that’s in here is the metal wall of the ship. Her hands press into the hollows of her eyes, hard enough to try and force the tears back. “I don’t feel like my—I don’t feel together,” she whispers. “I feel—wrong. Like I have made the wrong choice, over and over again, and it keeps almost costing us all our lives.” 

Quiet. The small rustle of Din shifting closer to her in the blackness. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Nova says, inhaling a shuddering breath, “that we shouldn’t have left Naator. But we shouldn’t have left Mandalore, Din. When Wedge and Bo-Katan said they got the distress signal—when I found out it was Ezra, I should have listened to what he told me. Clear as day, don’t come after me. And you have tried to bring me back to earth, over and over again, since this senseless mission started—to tell me that he didn’t want to be found.” She swallows a sob. “He didn’t want to be found because it was dangerous. And now he is lost, again, while Thrawn—this elusive, evil terror—has made it back to our galaxy to—unmake it.” Nova heaves out another uneven breath, feeling that same knife bisecting her heart, feeling the terror of what’s to come pulverize her stomach. “I made the wrong call,” Nova whispers, a tiny admission the weight of the universe on her tongue, “and you gave me the chance to correct it, and I didn’t.” 

Din’s warmth is right next to her, but it feels like he’s a million miles away. In her head, in flashes—the snap of Sparmau’s glittering teeth, the devastation of a starship crashing, the ghosts of her parents in every breath she takes. Thrawn, a vision, nothing more—holding the fate of the galaxy hostage. The midichlorian tanks, the evil running in fault lines that drip across the galaxy. The reflection of Nova’s own face in the mirror—her, but not her—the way she can feel herself unbecoming, atom by atom, the exhaustion in her marrow, the anger still clinging to her bones. Everything is amorphous and ungrounded, and Nova is fractured into millions of tiny stars, trying to fix it, to gather herself up, to pull it all together, to save everyone, to find the fight again—

“Novalise.” 

Quietly, barely a breath: “What?” 

“What do you want?” 

She stares out into the darkness. Somewhere, in the very back of her mind, Nova can’t shake the sensation of the darkness staring back. “I want to save the galaxy.” 

Din’s shutter-still, only breathing in the darkness. He smells like cinnamon and metal, and Nova is so exhausted, and so afraid of falling into fitless sleep, and everything is pulsing through her temples like a migraine, like a hex, like a curse. Din speaks softly. His words could rattle mountains. “What else do you want?” 

Nova doesn’t put words to what she wants—really, truly wants. It does not exist. It cannot exist. She has become the divining rod for something more, the physical symbol of rebellion. The fight ahead of them—it has the power to shatter the stars entirely. She is the earnest and exhausted savior of the galaxy—for better or for worse. It is a Herculean feat, and Novalise is, decidedly, not a god. 

(She wants something more than all of this. She wants to put down the weight of the world. She wants Mandalore to have a truer leader. She wants to learn how to be a Jedi, to live on a quiet planet with yellow trees and purple-pink skies, and she wants to live a life free of violence, to grow old without the threat of war, or pain, or death. She wants to choose love. She wants to choose her family.)

“I want,” Nova breathes, “you.” 

Din doesn’t move. “Nova—”

“You,” she chants, like casting a spell. “No—I need you. I need you, Din.” 

He’s staring at her through the dark. Nova can feel it radiating through to her, want and need coursing in equal measure through her bloodstream, taking the bite out of all of this hurt. It’s so simple, she realizes—Din and Nova, traveling through millions and millions of stars, how it’s always been, how it always will be. In this moment, right now, she doesn’t have to think about the hurt that’s happened, or the horror on the horizon. 

“I can’t save you,” Din breathes, cutting through the dark. “From what pain is living in your head or from the danger ahead of us, I cannot save you. I need you to understand that.” 

It’s too big. Nova fights the urge to slap her hands over her ears. “Din—” 

“You made the wrong call,” Din whispers, “but you did not force me into battle. Do you hear me? I am not an unwilling soldier. I am not marching to my death. I am following you—my Mand’alor, yes, but more than that, my savior—into the next war.”

“Din,” Nova whispers, and she feels him moving closer, but she cannot sense where he is, and the thrum of her heart starts up like a hummingbird. 

“You can save the world,” he whispers, “I know because I’ve seen it.” 

“But it’s so much—” 

“You are Novalise Djarin,” he whispers, and for the first time, it doesn’t sound like a prayer. It sounds like a question. It scares Nova more than she can admit, but the heavy thump of her heart drowns it out, floods it to the back of her mind, clinging on to Din’s words as he moves in above her, like a predator, like a soldier— “You want to save everything? I am your first in command. You want to burn it down? I am still your first in command. You made a bad call. I’ve made them before, too.” His mouth presses against hers, and Nova flinches at the surprise of it in the dark, then leans into his eternal, magnetic pull, like a tractor beam—inevitable. Her Mandalorian. “My worst call was leaving you,” he whispers, “and that will never happen again.” 

“Din—”

“You can do this, Novalise. That has never been in question.” 

But, Nova thinks, an awful thunderstorm raging in the back of her mind, what if I become something else in that process? What if I lose sight of something holy?

“Would you still follow me anywhere?”

“Into the dark,” Din vows. “Into the stars.” 

“What if I go somewhere you can’t follow?” 

He stares. Nova can feel the crushing weight of his fury on the other side of that question, even in the dark. But she doesn't speak, doesn’t try to undo it, doesn’t try to take it back. 

She’s not talking about leaving. She’s talking about being ripped away. With teeth and silver, a parting from this mortal realm. Something is buzzing low in her head. Nova can’t quite put it to name.

“I am never,” Din repeats, low and angry, “leaving you again.” A beat. “What do you want, Novalise?”

“I want you,” Nova manages, through glass and poison, through the insurmountable weight of everything that lies ahead. Then, one word, a shattering, desperate thing— “please.” 

His lips are on hers like a siren, like a bandage. It’s loud and it’s everything and it drowns all the hurt out of her. In the darkness, stars explode. Din licks a line over her split lip, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, lapping up everything that Nova has left in pieces. He surges forward, and suddenly, his body—unarmored and tight, corded muscles tensed over the wash of her own—is covering her, crushing her, pulling her back into his orbit. 

Nova’s mouth opens wide as Din’s lips latch onto her neck, tongue flickering against her pulse point. He knows her body. He’s memorized it, over and over again, more times than she can count. And every time he latches onto her like a viper, it feels like the first time. She mewls out, the wound wet and low and obscene in this tiny alcove, and Din growls, baring his teeth against her throat.

“Careful,” he warns, low and angry. 

“What?” Nova breathes, stars exploding behind her eyes as a rough, ungloved hand comes up hard between her thighs. It knocks her knees in opposite directions, and Nova sings out in the dark, grabbing at his back, his hair, anywhere she can dig her fingers in. Then, lazily, delayed: “...do you mean?”

“Careful,” Din hisses again. His hand comes up, bracketing her throat, fingers squeezing down just enough to send the stars through her eyes again. “You have no idea,” he whispers, but it’s like he’s not talking to her. It’s ragged, a breath, like Din’s praying. Nothing about this feels holy. She is once again begging to be desecrated—to be torn apart. “No idea,” he mouths against her skin. 

“No idea,” Nova manages, through half-lidded eyes, her blood molten and heavy running through her veins, “about what?”

“What you do to me,” Din grits out. Nova mewls again as his other hand trails up the inside of her thigh, nails dragging into the threadbare fabric, tantalizing and dark and possessive. Everything has melted away, everything has—run backwards out of her, like water dripping off somewhere distant. There is no hurt here, nothing dangerous. Nothing beside the man on top of her, her hulking Mandalorian, clad in loungewear instead of armor, diamond-hard. Nova wants to feel him bisect her, split her open, give a new name to the hurt. Turn it on its face, inside out. 

“I have some idea,” she breathes. 

Din doesn’t dignify that with a response. One hand snaps up, quicksilver, pinning both of hers above her head. Nova mewls out again in the darkness, and the hand that was roving between her thighs, teasing against her clit, shoots up to her mouth. Din pinches her cheeks between his forefinger and thumb, puckering her split lip out, and Nova sighs. 

“You want me, cyar’ika?”

Nova nods, eyes tearing up from how hard his grip is—unyielding. Unmoving. It is unbreakable, and she’s caught under the weight of it. This is the darkness she wants. This is the darkness she craves. She would die for every version of Din Djarin, but this one? This one, she would pray to. Endlessly. Worship at the altar of his terrifying, impossible beauty. He is the opposite of monstrous, but in this blackness, he can play one so well. It’s devastating—it’s everything. One word, she’s able to eke out. “Yes.”

Din lets go of her in the darkness, and Nova slams back against the mattress, the flutter of her heartbeat ricocheting off her chest. “Prove it.” 

Nova blinks up at him, entirely unseeable in the vantablack, and slowly channels all her strength into her hands, pushing back against Din’s unshakable grip enough for him to loosen it. Lightning-quick, she pulls her pants down with one hand and shoves his face towards the apex of her thighs with the other. She’s shaking, from want, from fear—it all feels the same. Din inhales, low and deep, and shivers, pressing the bridge of his nose where his hand once was, dragging it back over her clit. 

“Oh, Novalise,” he rumbles, and it reverberates so low it feels like the sound is coming from inside of her. 

Nova shivers. She feels feverish, drunk, like her body cannot hold. She forms the shape of a word in her mouth and it wobbles and fizzles before disappearing entirely, because Din’s licking a hot, wet line up the seam of her cunt, and everything inside of her head has ceased to exist. 

“You don’t want me.” His voice is simpering. Cruel. It cuts her down to the bone. It’s the voice Din used before he was ever Din to her—just the ruthless Mandalorian, the most feared bounty hunter in the Outer Rim. Shivers dance down her spine at the timbre of his voice. “You need me.” 

Nova moans. He slaps a hand over her mouth—hard, hard enough to make her jump, and then he’s soothing it with his tongue, his hands immediately replacing its steady thrum between her thighs. 

“Quiet,” he whispers, “or I’ll have to stop.” 

“You can’t.” 

“I can,” Din whispers, tongue dancing out across the hollow of her collarbone, thready with her hammering heartbeat, “do whatever I want.” 

“Din—” 

“You’re mine,” he whispers, grinding down on top of her, and Nova almost blacks out. “Mine, mine, mine—” 

Nova knows it’ll tip him over the edge. She needs it—she needs him, this unfettered, uncapped version of him, to leech inside of her to the hilt and take everything else away. She is fevered, delusional, grabbing at his hips, trying to loosen the tie around his waist. She breathes out, staccato, the sound of it pornographic and too-loud in the darkness, and then she unleashes her own kind of demon. “Prove it.”

Din goes quiet. Too quiet. The silence falls upon her like a predator that’s just spotted its prey in the wild. Nova doesn’t make a sound. She has just stolen the helm of control and surrendered it in the same two words. She knows he will—he will take, and take, and take, and Nova wants to give him everything down to her bones, until there is no more questioning, no more darkness, no more hurt. Novalise’s light is flickering in the blackness between them, and she needs Din to snuff it out. 

He lets out a low laugh—an indecent rumbling chuckle, and then he is shoving his waistband down, far enough to just free his cock, springing free with force, and then he is pushing inside of her. Nova’s back arches off the mattress. It spears her, bisects her, forces her apart. She has been split down the middle—and then he’s gearing up again, pulling all the way out to slam into her. Nova yelps, and Din’s hand is back over her mouth, tears pricking in the corners of her eyes from the size of it, the weight he’s slamming into her. 

“What?” He pulls all the way out, a sick tease at her entrance, and then thrusts back into Nova. Hard. Hard enough for her to see stars again, more of them, another galaxy’s worth. There are tears running down her cheeks, now, from Din destroying everything inside of her. She craves it, this sick, sweet release. “You talk a big game, cyar’ika.” Another thrust, Nova’s whole body ricocheting from the force. “You told me to prove it.” 

Nova wants to speak, to tease him, to prod him into the Din of her dreams—the unfettered one, the unholy one, haunted and dark. But she can’t open her mouth, can’t form words on her shaking tongue, so she just lets out another moan, hoping he’ll punish her for that one, too. 

“Not.” Din says, punctuating each word with a heavy thrust of his hips, “Good. Enough.” 

“More,” she manages. 

“More,” Din repeats, crooning,” and Nova’s eyes roll back in her skull. “Are you close, Novalise?”

“Yes,” she chokes out, the word split down the syllable, feeling him swell even bigger inside of her, threatening to send her right over that edge. 

“No,” Din snaps, and one hand is back on her throat, squeezing down, hard enough that air wheezes out of her lungs, oxygen leaving her tongue. Nova’s unable to suck it back, and stars, that feels good—to be kept in this limbo, to be unmade by Din’s need. To not think about the horror ahead of them, because she is held, imprisoned by this sweet, cloying torture and bliss, in equal measure. “You don’t get to cum until I tell you to.” 

It’s harsh, gritted out through bared teeth, his voice low and gravelly, and Nova cries out. It’s a sound that always halted him before—half moan, half sob, all need—but both of them are so deep in the maelstrom of want and desire that it’s choked out by the vantablack room around them, lost in the ether of space. 

“Please,” Nova sobs, a desperate, broken—pathetic—thing.” She can feel Din’s lips curl against her neck, purpling the same spot on her pulse point his own shade of violet, and her eyes roll back in her head.

“No.” 

“Din—”

“You do not yield,” Din hisses, “not to anyone but me.”

Nova can feel her orgasm threatening to rip through her—a tornado of feeling, of need. She is not a person, here, she is just a coiled, wet vessel of desire. She is begging Din, but the person on top of her is the Mandalorian, silver and bullets, hail and thunderstorm, and he is closer to a god than he is a man. He is ruthless and dark and everything she has ever wanted, and she can feel release building inside of her, even as he refuses to let her. 

“Please,” she whispers. 

“No.” 

“Please.” 

Nova can feel Din’s lips curl into a smile. “I love it when you beg.” 

“Oh, Maker—” 

He drives into her cunt to the hilt. “Your Maker isn’t here, Novalise,” Din growls, “just me.” 

“I know,” Nova manages, her head dizzied and spinning, “please, Din, let me—”

Din bottoms out into her again, and it’s so close, so cloying, so desperate, Nova can’t hold it back anymore. 

“Cum for me, cyar’ika,” he grits out, hand fisting in her mess of curls, pulling her off the sheets, “Now.” 

She does. Nova feels the world implode, one by one, those millions of stars blinking out behind her eyes. Din’s grip on her throat finally lessens, and she sucks down oxygen like it’s water, throat throbbing, already hungry again in his absence. He makes a low, guttural noise, and then he’s tipped over the edge too, spilling deep inside of her, both of their breathing ragged and undone, chasing breath after breath as they lay together, sweaty and entangled in the darkness. The hand that’s fisted in her hair pulls taught again, and Nova inhales, Din’s lips wet against her ear. “Do not,” he chokes out, “ever insinuate you could go somewhere I could not follow again.” 

The darkness is there—omnipresent, crushing, but right now, it cannot touch her. And Nova is exhausted, held up by Din and the holiness of their desecration and nothing more, but she links her pinky in his, pulls his lips to her mouth, and whispers silent vows into the gap behind his teeth.

*

Hera watches the stars trip by, an endless maze of light. She is no stranger to the hyperspace run—and even less of a stranger to the loneliness of it. The stars are her home, but these ones, these pathways, closer and closer to the Rebel base—they cut her, sluicing with regret. She straightens up in her seat, takes the Ghost off autopilot. They’re low on fuel. They’re too low—running in reserve. She usually pays better attention—but usually, Ezra and Thrawn are not back from another dimension, another galaxy, another cosmos. Hera is torn between fear and excitement—Ezra, her surrogate child, her family, home again—that she let herself get complacent. The fuel gauge glares at her. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, patting the dashboard. “I’m stopping.”

And the hologram sensor roars to life. 

“Hera!” 

She squints. “Bo-Katan?”

“Can you hear me?” She flickers in and out. Hera leans forward. 

“Barely. Where are you?” 

“Still on this—forsaken ship—”

“Bo-Katan!”

She comes back into screen, sharp and dangerous, the face of a general snapped on. Hera knows it too well. “Hera,” she says, her voice shaking, “we are stuck on Corellia.” 

Hera feels relief seep in, anathema in her bloodstream. “Stars, Bo-Katan, I can come get you, I’m  not far—” 

“That’s…that’s not the problem.” And Bo-Katan, unshakable, ice-princess Bo-Katan has tears in her eyes. “Wedge just got a transmission from the base on Hoth.” She turns away. “Hera,” she whispered, muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

“General Kryze—” 

Wedge’s face fills the screen. “Hera,” he says, so somber, so unlike him— “the Chimaera’s signal just popped back up on the map.” 

“Ezra—?” 

Wedge shakes his head, shell-shocked. “No,” he manages “Thrawn.” 

Hera swallows. “Where.” 

“Just over Bespin.” 

Her heart flares. “We’re heading to Hoth,” she says, “right now, I just have to stop for fuel, we can…I don’t know, blockade him, shoot him down—” 

“Hera,” Wedge says, “he is going to beat us there.” Then, barely a whisper: “There’s not going to be a Hoth to save.” 

*

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*

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!! my sincerest apologies as per usual for the literal 6-sh months wait :( 2023 was the wildest and most lived year of my life so far, and unfortunately, it put SH on the backburner. the good news? i sat down over the last few weeks and wrote an entire outline for the full book, as well as a chapter-by-chapter outline through Chapter 16 (for those following along with the Something More Series Lore, that is historically the Nova-Centric Chapter), so while life is still busy with work/living/everything in between, i will be posting MUCH more regularly for the foreseeable future!

thank you all so much for your patience, kindness, and for loving this fic so much. i started writing this series for me, and with how absent i've been, i've made peace with the fact that i may end up finishing writing this series for me, but each and every one of you have proved at every turn how much you care, and the fact that you spend even a few minutes reading my work means more to me than i'll ever be able to say <3

CHAPTER 6 COMING SOON! for day-to-day updates, follow me on tiktok @ padmeamydala :)

xoxo, amelie

[oh-surprise-its-me]

So I was scrolling through the Jake Seresin tag and stumbled upon your headcanons and i can’t stop thinking about Jake’s first steps! You said that Slider had gotten deployed when Jake was around 9 months so it’s likely he would have missed it. I’m sure he would be so proud but also sad because Jake was growing up and he wasn’t there

Oh my fucking god you’re so right.

(Also so glad you found this I hope you enjoy my ramblings lol)

Chris is sitting on the floor of the living room, Jake is crawling around exploring, he yanks himself upright using the coffee table.

Sarah comes back in with the coffee she promised Chris, she hands it over and then ties her hair up. Jake likes to yank the shit out of it.

“No offense Sarah but I’m still not sure of the point of this visit, I love you like a sister but we don’t do this without Tom or Ron.”

She sighs. She’s messing around with a video camera she got from Tom at Christmas. “New York just became too much for a while, being a nurse is exhausting.”

Chris pats her leg, “I get it, it’s different out here since I’m a firefighter but I get it.”

“Oh my fucking god Chris.” “Jesus kid language.”

She smacks him, “no stupid look at your kid!”

There’s Jake. Standing. Not the first time but his balance seems better. Chris inhales, “come here chickie, come to dad.” He hears the sound of the camera, Jake takes two stumbling steps forward.

God Ron is missing this. It’ll kill him.

Jake keeps walking. He makes it all the way over to Chris. God Chris is proud. He scoops Jake up him and Sarah are both cheering, Jake is quietly babbling.

“I can’t wait for you to watch this back and cry.”

Chris turns, Jake is patting his face gently, “Sarah oh my god I love you. You filmed this?” She laughs again, “I’m still filming Chris.”

Chris makes a split second decision, he spins Jake around to face the camera, he picks up an arm and waves it at the camera, it makes Jake laugh.

“Say hi to Daddy chickie, he’ll love this. He’s gonna cry just as much as I’m going to. Love you Ron.”

Sarah turns off the video, she slides onto the floor with Chris, “you’ve got a great kid.”

“He’s got a great aunt.”

—————

*on the ship a month later*

Ice waltz into their room, he’s got mail in his hand, there’s a pack of pictures from Chris. They both sit down to look at them all.

There’s Jake sitting with a cowboy hat on clearly at Chris’ older sisters place, with the caption ‘yeehaw from Rebecca’s’

There’s a picture of Sarah with Jake on her shoulders captioned “aunt Sarah stayed with us for two weeks! Jake never touched the ground and I slept so much!”

And then there’s a photo of Jake walking.

Ron gasps, he has tears in his eyes. Tom would refuse to admit it but so does he. He’s so happy for them.

“I can’t believe I missed it.” Tom knocks their shoulders together, “read the back.”

“Auntie Sarah managed to film the first ever steps, don’t worry, you’ll cry. I sure did.”

“Your sister is a godsend.” Tom laughs, “Christ Ron never let her hear that.”

Tom pulls out a photo of his own, it’s of Mav, he’s across the world right now, he doesn’t know how Chris managed to get this, “love you flyboy be safe.”

Tom has the tears now.

[bluerobokitty]

“Y’know, she beat me and darts

And then she beat me at pool

And then she kissed me like there was nobody else in the room..”

Hi my name is Shardy and I am huge into Jizavi right now pls sail this incredible canoe with me.

[skyeet-the-writer]

okay i’m not sure if you are taking like open requests but corpse and reader are dating and nobody really knows but like the fans ship it and stuff, and they are playing among us with jack, felix, rae ect,, and someone invites somebody and it’s reader ex boyfriend and corpse notices that she’s acting really quiet and he texts her like “baby are you okay??” and she tells him that’s her toxic ex and during an emergency meeting, her ex suspects her and when she defends herself he says something along the lines of “don’t believe her she’s a fucking liar, she’s been one since the day i first met her” and everyone is like ??? but corpse flips out on him and just snaps telling him to leave his girlfriend alone which breaks his cover so everyone knows about you guys and just like really mad corpse and having to help him calm down and you get up from your seat to see him in his streaming room and just sit on his lap and he’s like “fuck that guy it’s okay baby we can just play minecraft or something” lmaooo 🥺🥺🥺 sorry i know that was so specific but the thought makes me so soft i would actually cry if you wrote this

This Is A Shout Out To My Ex

here’s my first request guys! so sorry they’re taking so long. i’m trying to get these done before i do anything else. hope you guys enjoy! x,

corpse x female!reader

summary: while paying a game with her friends, y/n’s toxic ex joins the game. when he calls her a liar, corpse snaps and defends his girlfriend

word count: ~4.4k

warnings: mentions of emotional abuse, gaslighting, near-death experiences, swearing, some angst but it has a super fluffy end!

Living with your boyfriend is, obviously, amazing in every way. You see each other all the time, you get to cuddle almost all the time, and you get to see his handsome face every morning.

Probably, the only downside is the fact that living together makes it nearly impossible to hide the fact that you’re dating.

But, somehow, you’ve managed to keep it a secret from you rabid fans for the past four months. You literally have no idea how because you’re pretty sure you accidentally got a glimpse of Corpse walking by while you were doing a vlog.

Miraculously, no one noticed it. Then again, none of your fans knew what he looked like, so there’s a plus. There were one or two comments asking who the person in the back was, but you lied and said it was a friend. Technically, you weren’t wrong.

And so you’ve been trying to keep your relationship with Corpse on the DL to avoid any stress or anxiety his way. You could deal with it, you’ve been doing Youtube for years and could handle almost anything. Corpse, bless his heart, might not be able to.

One morning, you’re awoken by some slight tugging on your hair. You crack your eyes open but the bright light makes you whine and close them again. There’s a soft laugh behind you and you roll over onto your back, scooting over closer to him. You stretch your legs and grin, still keeping your eyes closed. 

“Did you sleep at all?” you ask in a quiet voice, your head resting on your lover’s chest.

“No,” he answers in his deep voice and you feel him play with your hair. “Anxiety, insomnia, the usual shit.”

You hum and open your eyes slowly, deciding to brave the light. You blink up at Corpse who is staring at the ceiling. “What were you thinking about?” Your own voice is a bit scratchy and rough. 

He looks down at you and you take notice of how bloodshot his eyes are and the bags under his eyes. “How pretty you are when you sleep.” He grins.

“You watched me when I slept?” you ask and playfully narrow your eyes at him. “You creep.”

He laughs and you turn around onto your side, your back facing him. “Baby, no, I didn’t mean it that way.”

You smile. “You’re so creepy, Corpse.”

He doesn’t say anything but you hear him sit up in bed. You begin to ask what he’s doing but then he lifts up the back of your shirt to press a few kisses to your back. “You’re still here, though. With me.”

“Hm. Yeah.” You turn around and he gazes at you. “Because I love you.”

His eyes light up in the way that they always do when you tell him those three, simple words. You love seeing them light up that way and you grin. “I love you, too.” He leans in for a quick kiss.

“What time is it?” you ask when you pull away.

Corpse reaches over to his side of the bed and turns his phone on. “Noon.”

“Noon?” you shout and sit up so quickly you get a head rush. “We were supposed to be playing Among Us with Sean, Pewds, Toast, Rae, and them.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You turn and see him with his hands covering his face.

You walk over to him and kneel next to him. “Babe? What’s up?”

He just groans and you frown. He doesn’t feel good. 

You push his hair from his forehead. “I can tell them that you’re not feeling up for it. They all know you, they’d understand.”

He shakes his head and runs his hands down his face before they rest on his chest. “No. No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.” He gives you a smile.

You kiss his cheek. “Okay, then, babe. C’mon, we’re gonna be late.” You grab his hands and tug him up until he’s in a sitting position. He pulls you in for another kiss but you lean away.

“You have morning breath,” you tell him when he gives you his sad eyes. “Brush your teeth and then I’ll kiss you.”

That seems to get him out of bed and into the bathroom while you change clothes. You change out of your sweatpants and t-shirt and into jeans and a shirt. He walks out of the bathroom yawning and you walk past him to go to the bathroom.

I wish he’d sleep, you think to yourself while brushing your teeth. After brushing your teeth, you wash your face and do a little bit of makeup so you don’t look like you just rolled out of bed even though you did.

Corpse walks into the bathroom as you’re finishing your makeup and has a mug of coffee for you. You’re the only one in the house who drinks coffee since he can’t, so you always find it so sweet that he makes it for you.

“You made me coffee?” you ask and he nods. You take it from him and give him a peck. “Thank you, love.” 

You take a sip and grab your phone from your nightstand and shove it into your pocket. You walk out of the bedroom the two of you share and into the kitchen to check on your cat. 

Before you met him, Corpse had never really wanted a pet. He said that they die and he doesn’t want to deal with that, which you understand. But after the two of you had been dating for three months and you had been living with him for a month and a half, you begged him to let you get a cat. You knew he couldn’t say no to you. 

“Where’s Inky?” you call out to your boyfriend after not finding your cat in the living room or the kitchen. 

“In here,” he calls back and you follow his voice. Corpse is sitting in his chair getting ready to stream. You spot a black cat sitting on his table, licking at his hand. Corpse laughs and pets the animal on the head. “Stop licking me, girl. Your tongue feels weird.”

You smile and walk over to him, picking the cat up. “Come on, Inky, let’s leave dad to do his job, yeah?”

The young cat meows up at you and stares into your soul with her green eyes. You lock her gaze and have a staring contest. You lose, however, and blink away. 

“Why is your cat so weird?” you ask, placing the cat back down and watch her run away. 

“Probably gets it from her mom,” Corpse mumbles and you hear a smile. 

You scoff and smack his hand away gently when he reaches out to you. “Fine, you don’t get a kiss before the stream.”

“No, wait!” he shouts and grabs your hand, pulling you towards him. “I was kidding, baby.”

You smile at him and cup his cheek. “I know.” You lean down and give him a long, deep kiss. You feel him smile against your lips and you pull away. He gives you a smile.

“I love you,” he mutters, brushing some hair away from your face. 

“I love you more.” You grab his hand and press a kiss against his knuckles. You take a step back. “I’ll see you in the Discord chat, babe.”

“Okay. Also, don’t close the door all the way!” he calls to you and you look back at him, your hand on the doorknob. 

“Why?” you ask, leaning on the doorframe. 

He takes a second to respond. “Because I want Inky to come in here later.”

You laugh but smile. “Okay, fine.” You walk away from the door and across the hall into your own recording room. 

Your room is a lot different than your boyfriend’s. His room is dark and doesn’t have a lot in it. Yours, on the other hand, probably has too much stuff. Most of it is gifts from fans like stuffed animals and other knickknacks. Your desk, monitors, and lights take up a lot of the already limited space. You turn both your ring lights on after closing the door and turn on the LED lights you have attached to the ceiling. You switch them to the f/c setting and put the remote next to your coffee mug. You sit down in your black and white gaming chair and set everything up after putting on your headset. 

You join the Among Us game after beginning your stream and then the Discord call. You seem to join before Corpse because you can’t see him in the call. 

“You’ve finally decided to join us, y/n!” Felix exclaims and you smile. 

“Am I late?” you ask, taking another drink of your coffee. 

“No,” Sean replies. “I mean, we played a couple of rounds to pass the time, but nothing interesting happened.”

You nod and glance at who all is in the chat. It seems to be you, Felix, Toast, Charlie, Rae, Sean, later Corpse, and someone else who’s tag sounds familiar. 

“Oh! I invited someone new!” says Rae. “He’s a friend from college. y/n, this is Dallas.”

“Hey, y/n.”

Your eyes widen and your blood goes cold at the sound of his voice. You know him. You used to date him. In highschool before you moved away. You remember how toxic he was. He would always blow you off when you wanted to hang out and when you did hang out, he always played video games and never talked to you. 

“Hi, Dallas,” you stutter out. “Uh, hey, didn’t you and I go to highschool together?”

You can practically hear his smirk. “Yeah. We did.”

“I didn’t know you two went to school together,” Rae says happily. 

“Yep,” Dallas says. “We were friends, too.”

You want to throw up.

Suddenly, your loving and not toxic boyfriend joins the call and your spirits lift. 

“Corpse!” you exclaim, almost letting another word slip out. 

“You’re here,” says Rae. “Good noon!”

“Yeah, I’m not a morning person,” he says and you just now notice how deep his voice is. “I just woke up.”

“Oh my god,” Felix says. 

“Jesus,” says Charlie, dragging out the ‘u’.

“You just woke up?” asks Toast. 

He’s a liar, he didn’t sleep at all, you think but keep your mouth shut and laugh. 

“It’s like a forty-hertz voice,” Sean says. 

“It sounds like short wave radio,” Charlie adds. 

You laugh. “You sound like spoken brown note.”

Corpse laughs. “This is me when I wake up, that’s what...” He cuts himself off and laughs again.

“I’m scared,” says Dallas. 

“I didn’t know it could get any lower!” exclaims Sean. 

“I didn’t know you could hit puberty twice.” Felix laughs. 

After some more laughter, Corpse is introduced to Dallas. 

“Hey, man,” Corpse says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” Dallas replies. 

“Can we start the game now?” Sean asks when everyone is in the waiting room. You take a sip of your coffee while Rae starts the game. 

You mute yourself as your role is revealed and let out a sigh of relief. “Crewmate. Good, this makes this less stressful.” You go into the hallway, following Felix and Sean to go do wires. You clear the two of them and you three go up to admin. “Okay, so for those of you wondering about my reaction to Dallas joining the stream is that he’s my ex. Uh, we dating in highschool and broke up around the end of senior year. So this is pretty awkward for me.” You break away from Sean and Felix to go do a task in the greenhouse. 

You leave out the part about Dallas where he was borderline abusive. You remember him shouting at you for asking for the littlest of things to him gaslighting you and guilt-tripping you into going skinny dipping with him. 

Maybe that’s why you love Corpse so much. He’s the opposite of Dallas. He’s sweet and he’s caring. He’s never once raised his voice at you unless you were beating him in a game. Even then you both knew he wasn’t serious. And he had never once pressured you to do something you didn’t want to do. 

You’re brought out of your thoughts when someone reports Rae’s dead body. You unmute yourself and take another drink of your coffee. 

“I found her in decontamination,” Dallas says. “I opened the door and she was right there.”

“I was down by storage doing wires,” you tell them, putting your mug down. “And I was with Felix and Jack for the beginning and I’m pretty sure they’re cleared. So it has to be either you, Toast, or Corpse. Or Charlie.”

“You almost forgot about me,” he says and you laugh. 

“We never vote on seven, right?” Toast says. 

“Not if no one is sus, no,” Corpse answers. 

“I’m skipping,” says Sean. 

You nod and skip voting. “Same here.”

Everyone skips voting and you continue on. You do the rest of your wiring tasks and go out to the balcony where you notice Corpse standing out there. You smile and walk up to him and make your characters’ “eye” parts touch. “Look, Corpse. We’re touching eyeballs.”

You can just barely make out his laugh from the room across from yours and you grin before doing to do your task. You glance at your chat while you run to the reactor with Corpse. “How have you guys been doing? Hope you’re having a good day. Don’t forget to drink some water and eat something.” You smile at the camera and enter decontamination with Corpse and Toast. 

When you enter reactor, Corpse and Toast each go to do it and you head to the sorting in the lab when suddenly a body is reported. 

You decide to be quiet and drink from your coffee while everyone else discusses what happened. You zone out a little when Dallas talks and your mind flashes back to memories you’ve been trying to forget. 

“Wait, who are we voting?” you ask when you suddenly snap back to reality. 

“Felix,” Sean answers. “He vented right in front of me.”

You nod and vote for Felix and he gets ejected. 

pEWds was ejected 

1 imposter remains

You mute yourself once more and continue to do your tasks and stick with Corpse as much as you can. Your chat notices this and begins to blow up with the ship name they have for the two of you. You laugh at the chat as you scan yourself. “Why are you guys freaking out about Corpse and me? We’re literally just walking.”

Another body is reported and this time it’s Toast’s. You know who the imposter is. You unmute yourself and quickly say, “It’s fucking Dallas, it’s a self-report.”

“What?” Dallas exclaims and you immediately sense the hint of anger in his tone. He used to get so mad during video games and it seems like nothing has changed in the past few years. “How’s it me? It could be Charlie.”

“Charlie is dead, too,” Sean says. 

“Yep. And I know both Corpse and Sean are cleared because I was with Sean for a long time and I just watched Corpse get scanned.”

Dallas scoffs. “Well, shit, you got me there.”

After Dallas is ejected, the crewmates win and you all start another round. You suddenly don’t feel like talking too much anymore and do your stream in mostly silence. Just Dallas being there and in the same call as you is making you anxious and bringing up memories you don’t want to remember. 

Your chat asks you about this and you ignore it as you continue to do your tasks as a crewmate. Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you pull it out, looking at who it is. 

corpse 🖤

are you okay? you’re being really quiet

y/n

yeah, ig. just that dallas is my ex. toxic ex too

corpse 🖤

want me to kill him for you? im imposter

You smile and shake your head. “Oh, Corpse,” you whisper to yourself. 

y/n

no dont kill him lol

You put your phone back down on the table and look back at the game. 

You don’t pay too much attention to the game until the fourth round after you and Rae lost as the imposters. You’re a crewmate once again and you’re peacefully doing your tasks when suddenly something lays on your bare feet. 

“What the?” You look down at your feet and see a little dark fuzzball on your feet. “Inky, get off my feet, baby.” You move your feet and pick her up. You hold her in your arms like a baby the way she likes and rub her belly. “Okay, go see your dad.” Inky jumps out of your arms and you watch her leave your recording room. 

You turn back to your task and continue to do them without any interruptions. You notice, however, that Dallas has been following you for most of the round. You’re starting to get a little nervous and you run into the cafeteria to get away from him when he calls an emergency meeting.

You unmute yourself and Dallas says, “I think it’s y/n. I’m pretty sure she’s faking tasks.”

“Except I’m not,” you tell him. “You’re the one following me around, too, Dallas. What’s up with that, huh?”

“I’ve been following you because you’re acting sus.”

You glare at Dallas’s character on the screen, heat rushing to your face. “I’m literally doing my tasks, I know you saw me do the card swipe--”

“Don’t listen to her,” Dallas says and he sounds far too confident. “She’s a fucking liar. She has been since the first day I met her.”

By now your face is completely red from anger and you gasp. “Excuse me?”

“What are you talking about?” Sean asks. “I’ve known y/n for a long time, she’s never told a lie so long as I’ve known her.”

“That’s because she’s too good at it,” Dallas says in a snarky tone and you’ve never wanted to punch a screen more in your life. “Her and me used to date in highschool but I broke up with her because she lied to me about everything.”

“That’s not fucking true!” you shout and you can hear blood rushing to your ears. “I was the one who broke up with you after you gaslighted me about not hanging out with you enough when in reality you were always hanging out with your stupid football friends!”

“She’s lying--”

“The fuck are you saying about my girl?” Corpse demands. 

The chat goes silent for a moment. Corpse just called you his girl. You look at your live chat and it’s exploding with “i knew it”s and lots of keyboard smashing.

“Your girl?” Dallas asks after a moment.

“Yes. My girl. As in my girlfriend.” He sounds so possessive and it’s kind of hot to you. “Why are you calling her a liar?”

Dallas stumbles on his words. “B--because she is one.”

“Right. And how long have you known her?”

“I knew her in highschool--“

“Nevermind, I literally don’t care,” Corpse interrupts him. “I’ve been living with her for the past five months and she’s never lied to me about anything.”

Dallas is quiet for once. Everyone is. No one is really even breathing but your heartbeat is rattling your brain and blood is rushing through your ears.

“I don’t wanna play anymore,” you whisper. You swallow thickly and glance at your chat. Luckily, they’re all defending you and yelling at Dallas. You turn back to the screen. “Dallas, I’m not the imposter. And stop making stupid ass accusations.”

“I--“

“Kick him,” says Felix and you can tell he sounds mad.

“No wait--“ Dallas begins to say.

“No!” Rae interrupts. “I knew there was something off about you.”

“You don’t get to come in here and talk shit about our friend,” Jack says.

“I was kidding,” Dallas tries to explain.

But then something inside you snaps. You forgot how much you hate Dallas. How he always turned the blame on you when he did something wrong. How you almost lost all of your friends because he convinced them that you were a bad person.

At first, you thought he had changed. You thought that he had actually grown up. Turns out that people don’t change.

“Like you were kidding when you almost got me kicked out of the house because you made me go out with you to go drinking?” you ask. “Or how you played a stupid trick on me when I was driving us to school and I almost fucking crashed the car and nearly killed us?”

“Jesus.” You can hear him roll his eyes. “You’re still on about that? It was April Fool’s, you should have expected it—“

“I shouldn’t have expected shit!” you yell and it comes out raw. The memory flashes in your mind and you cringe. “That wasn’t funny, Dallas! You weren’t funny! I fucking hated my life in high school. I was already stressed out because I thought I wasn’t smart enough and you being my boyfriend and ignoring me and manipulating me didn’t help.

“So fuck you. Fuck you for everything you did to me when we were teenagers. Fuck you for making me think that you changed and were actually nice and then ripping that away from me. But you know what? Thanks. Thanks for being my ex because you made me what I am today and you’re the reason I moved to California and met the love of my life.”

You suck a deep breath in and wipe at the tears that had fallen. You put your hand on your camera. “Speaking of which, I need a hug from him. Bye, guys.”

You stop streaming and disconnect from everything. You turn your computer off, unplug your headset, and turn your lights off. You sit in your chair trying not to cry in the dark.

Corpse, your mind says and you open your eyes. You really want a hug. His hugs are the best. You take your headset off and walk out of your recording room. Before you walk into Corpse’s recording room, you head to the living room and grab a fluffy gray blanket and wrap it around yourself.

You don’t even bother to knock on the door and just walk in. His room is still dark and it appears like he’s angry. You can tell by the way his voice is deeper and how he looks like he’s shaking.

But when you tap on his shoulder, he looks up at you with wide eyes. “Babe.”

You sniffle and he pushes away from his desk. You shake your head and pull his arms up above his head and settle yourself on his lap, your legs on either side of him, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Baby,” he whispers and you lean your cheek on his shoulder. “Just fuck off, Dallas.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and you shift up a little, pushing your nose into his neck. He smells nice. “Stop talking to them.”

“What?” he looks down at you and asks what you’re doing when you take his headset off. You unplug them, thereby disconnecting him from the stream. “y/n, what are you doing?”

“I want to cuddle with you,” you mutter and bury your face into his neck.

You feel him wrap his arms around your back and he pulls you up, leaning his head on your shoulder. “Okay, baby. We can cuddle.”

The two of you sit like that for what feels like a long time. You hear Corpse’s phone buzz, but the two of you ignore it. He kisses the side of your head and you smile.

You sigh deeply as he tightens his hold against you. “Fuck that guy, baby. It’s okay.” He moves his shoulder and you look up at him. “Wanna go play Minecraft?”

A grin spreads across your face and you nod. Corpse smiles back and picks you up, bridal style, blanket and all. You squeal and laugh as he carries you to the living room. “Put me down, Corpse!”

“Alright.” He drops you into the couch and turns around to turn the Xbox on.

You huff and push your hair out of your face, keeping the blanket wrapped tight around your body. “I didn’t mean literally drop me, dummy.”

He shrugs and sits next to you, handing you a controller. “Should’ve been more specific, baby.”

You scoff but can’t hide the small smile creeping onto your lips. “Jerk.” You put the controller next to you on the couch and move the blanket so it’s over both of your laps and you lean into his side.

After playing Minecraft for the majority of the afternoon and evening, you finally drag Corpse to bed with you after ordering pizza for dinner.

His arms are wrapped tight around your waist as your back is pressed against his chest. Inky hops up onto the bed and nuzzles your hand until you begin to pet her. She lays down on her belly and you gently pat her.

“Am I really the love of your life?” Corpse asks after a long time of sitting in the quiet darkness

You nod against the pillow. “Yeah. You are.”

You can’t see him, but you know he’s smiling when he kisses the back of your neck.

Your phone on your nightstand lights up and you head Corpse’s phone buzz again as well. You think for just a moment about all of the texts, all of the messages, all of the DMs you’re getting about what happened. For a second, you panic. What if people don’t think that you’re worth to be dating Corpse? What if people are calling you a pussy for how you reacted to Dallas? What if everyone hates you?

But those thoughts immediately go away when Corpse mumbles something in that husky voice of his that makes the butterflies in your tummy come back. “You’re the love of my life, too.”

“Yeah?” you hum, your eyes slipping shut.

“Yeah,” he says and you can tell that he’s getting tired as well. “And I’m gonna marry you someday.”

An involuntary smile spreads across your face and your entire body overheats. You bite your lip in the darkness and whisper,

“And I’m gonna say yes.”

But he’s asleep. His breathing has evened out. He shouldn’t have heard you.

You know he heard you somehow, though, because his arms tighten around your waist. You wiggle backward so that you’re flush against his chest and his head drops down onto the top of your head.

You place your hands over his and close your eyes. Finally, he’s sleeping.

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

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[sstwins]

Femslash Feb Day 3 - Storm - Hitch/Annie

I’VE DONE IT AGAIN

these aot ones are really making me feel something,,, the feeling you get as an adult relating to other adult characters

and a sense of real closure. i can’t believe i haven’t written in so long

oh man... pieck x reader HAHAHAHA

now that would give me some feelings

Brief Summary: During a storm, Hitch goes to visit the chrysalis of Annie.

Word Count: 577

Request by @miss-ali-lawliet

I’m still accepting ships for femslash feb!!! Send me your fave fem pairs and I’ll write you a fic sometime this month!! (13 spots left)

“It’s storming outside,” Hitch remarked. “They said it might even be enough to knock some trees over out there. Pretty gnarly.”

She glanced up, taking in the view of the huge crystalized shell. It was hard to even see Annie in there, but she knew she was. She told herself she was here as a guard, to make sure nothing untoward happened. But still…

“I probably should be out there, you know. Helping civilians, Instead of sitting here talking to you.” Hitch pressed a hand against her forehead, resting her back against the dank basement wall. Of course they had to store Annie here. Couldn’t have been somewhere like the food pantry. Or somewhere with a fireplace.

She didn’t know why she kept coming. Other than keeping people safe, obviously. But in three long years, Annie hadn’t moved at all. Sometimes Hitch would sit and just watch her, waiting for some kind of twitch. Could she even break out of that paralysis? Was she even still alive? 

“Watch you have been dead this whole time.” Hitch shook her head. “Me talking to a corpse for years. You probably can’t even hear what I’m saying.” Which would be a good thing, considering the number of times she’d cussed Annie out while pacing around the room, completely agitated.

Everything that happened four years ago was just a faint memory now. Sleeping in the same room together. Lying awake and daydreaming. They didn’t talk nearly as much as they did now. Which was ironic considering that Annie was completely incapacitated.

If she tried really hard, she could still remember the feeling of her skin, the smell. Things that felt so… human. Things that brought up feelings that Hitch had been fighting against for years.

Sometimes, she couldn’t help herself, and she would caress the statue. It was so wrong in so many ways. First of all, the girl was a titan who would probably love to eat Hitch up and destroy everything she loved. But second of all, she was another girl. It was so embarrassing that those feelings were still lingering, even after Hitch had tried it with so many boys over the last few years. It all just felt empty to her. Terribly boring and lacking something that Annie had… a secret complexity of emotions and a massive intelligence. Probably how she’d been able to pretend to be normal for so long. She’d had everyone fooled.

Hitch bit her lip, still looking at the hardened shell. Annie probably thought she was beneath her anyways. She knew she was shallow and not always the brightest. Very materialistic and much more girly. She’d never been wanting for boys. But maybe Annie had felt something too… a connection that you could only have when you slept so close together, breathing the same air for months. She sighed, eyes fluttering. 

“Annie…” she mumbled, lost in the memories. She felt that lure again, to go touch the chrysalis. Press herself against it until it was almost like she could feel Annie inside.

A rumble of thunder echoed around the basement, and Hitch jolted out of her daze. God, what was she thinking. Lusting after a titan. It was pathetic, and so wrong. She stood up, averting her gaze.

“Well, that’s enough of that,” she sounded, walking briskly towards the door. “Sweet dreams, or whatever.” She slipped out of the door, clutching onto the knob as it closed.

Oh titan, how she wanted her.

[no-droids]

Mercy, Sabotage, and Dead Space

(gif credit to @redwyyne-archive)

Part One of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.7K

Summary:

1. No sex.

2. No touching yourself.

3. No orgasms.

Warnings/Tags: DUBCON/NONCON elements, fuckboy Poe (OOC), Enemies to Lovers, degradation/humiliation, mentions of oral sex, SMUUUTTTTTTTT also I’m not sorry for what I did but you’re not allowed to read if you’re gonna get mad at me okay byeeee

***

This.

This shit, right here.

If the question was ever, “What’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever let Poe Dameron somehow talk you into doing?” then the answer is this stupid shit, right the fuck here.  This is like.  You remember that one game, Mercy?  The one where you’d dig your nails in and twist arms and just needlessly inflict pain on each other as children until one of you cried uncle because someone somewhere once decided to turn torture into a matter of pride?

You always thought those games were fucking ridiculous.  Who can hold their breath the longest, who can handle a lit deathstick against their flesh the longest, who can take the hardest punch—who cares?  It’s child’s play.  It’s self-inflicted agony for the sake of bragging rights and even as a youngling, you refused to fall for it.

But then you met… fucking Dameron.

You know those people that… they don’t just rub you the wrong way, but literally every single aspect about their personality is sandpaper against wet skin and your whole entire being feels chafed raw just by existing in their general vicinity for an extended period of time?

You’re… you’re not usually a competitive—much less aggressive person.  You never have been.  It’s just not part of your nature.  If you ever excel at anything in life, it isn’t because of some secret, deep-seated desire to win or be better than anyone else.  You just… do you.  You do whatever you do, and if it’s good, it’s good.  And if it’s bad, it’s good.  Because at the end of the day at least it’s still you, and you’re okay with that.

But this?

This shit?  Right here?

“This is fucking dumb,” you say, because you know it’s what you both must be thinking so you may as well just get it out in the open.  “This is the dumbest fucking thing, Dameron.  What are we doing?  Why are we doing this?”

The grumpy, orange-jumpsuited figure sitting behind you just sighs heavily and slumps even further down in his bucket seat, as if it isn’t the first time you’ve tried asking this incredibly valid question (it totally is), bringing a palm down to thunk the top of the guidance controls between his legs in a quiet irritation you’re almost certain has everything to do with the very topic you’re trying to bring up. 

“Because,” comes that infuriating drawl.  You can only see his face from this angle by looking at his reflection in the transparisteel barrier directly in front of you, but even just imagining the way his mouth moves while he rounds out the words makes your jaw clench.  “The coordinates we picked up were scrambled and this rendezvous could be going down at any one of thirty-six locat—?”

“No,” you interrupt him with a scowl, “not why I’ve been floating in dead space in this Maker-forsaken ship with you for eight fucking hours a day since… fuck, what’s today?  Thursday?  Friday?  Nope, can’t be Friday, Friday’s our off-day.  Thursday, then. …Thursday?”  You shake your head.  “Ugh, see?  Time doesn’t exist when I’m not allowed to cum, life is like one never-ending nightmare.”

“Oh.”  He takes a second to think about it in silence, the calloused tips of his fingers scratching the side of his face while he considers.  It wouldn’t usually be as loud as it is right now.  Maybe it’s the haunting quiet of space surrounding the ancient powered down hunk of metal you’re both stuck in, inadvertently isolating and amplifying the sound—or maybe it’s because your copilot’s jaw is currently covered in a thick, dark beard that you swear barely took his testosterone-overloaded ass a fucking week or two to grow, if that.  Regardless, the dark bristles crunch loudly under his short fingernails and it takes you about a grand total of five whole uninterrupted seconds of the scraping sound to realize you’re grinding your teeth along with it.  “Well,” he finally says, “that was your stupid idea.”

“Hmmmmmmmno,” you contest firmly, wiggling your elbow back to poke at his shin with your index finger once, twice, thrice, until he finally slaps your hand away in quiet irritation.  To the misfortune of you both—and likely the other hundred or so pilots concurrently taking rotating shifts in these tandem x-wings in a glorified mass stakeout, the cockpit of this ship is just way too fucking small.  Your arm is squeezed uncomfortably against machinery and electronics to get to him from this angle and a light slap isn’t going to stop you now that you’re here.  “You—” (poke) “—have a superiority complex and decided to turn it into a competition, not—” (poke) “—me.”

“Oh, I have a superiority complex, okay,” he scowls and nods in vehement, fake agreement, finally giving up and letting you poke at will, but the appeal is lost as soon as you realize he’s over it and your arm eases back into your lap.  You watch his reflection look out of the viewport and scan the empty void of space for the twentieth time in the past five minutes, clearly just as desperate to get back to base as you are.  “So what is it you call saying—wait, no no, not even saying, loudly declaring—‘Of course I can go longer without sex than “wham bam thank you ma’am” Dameron, you brainless fucks, it’s a simple fact!’”

“Alright—I don’t sound like that, fuck you very much,” you return, in reference to his shrieking, high-pitched impression of you surrounded by your fellow pilots in the rec room when you’ve had a bit too much to drink.   “Also, you don’t have to finger-quote literally every single syllable of my fucking sentence, Dameron.  First and last word, that’s all it takes.  And if it’s so superiority complex-ey of me to state simple facts, then what is it you call saying ‘betcha two weeks worth of pay you can’t, pretty baby’?”

“Uh, easy credits?”  He immediately asks, side-eyeing your reflection through the transparisteel.  “ Easy credits.  Just begging for it.  Two weeks of your slutty, sexy, easy fucking credits just begging to be taken and used— ”

“You need to get laid,” you cut in to tell him bluntly, scrunching your nose in what you hope looks like disgust.  As per protocol, the power to the x-wing was cut at the beginning of your shift—what feels like a fucking eternity ago—as a preventative maneuver in case the target falls out of hyperspace unexpectedly.  Avoiding the scanners of a fleet that may never actually show means it’s cold and dimly lit in here—just starlight in front of either you, but you’re hoping he can gauge the severity of your revulsion with your back to him.  “You just turned my money into a sex object.  It was vile.  I feel violated on its behalf.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who needs to get laid,” he tosses carelessly back at you, and you roll your eyes with as much sass as you can physically muster, so tired of all the dodging.  You know this hasn’t been easy for him either, he just has too much pride to admit it.  “Besides, you’ve gotta be past the withdrawal stage by now.  Is it really all that bad?”

“The fuck you mean, ‘Is it really all that bad’?”  You snap at him, shuffling around grumpily in your seat, hating the way the bulky weapons controls sit right between your thighs and prevent you from closing them.  Withdrawal stage, ha.   “Of course it’s all that bad.  It’s horrible.  It’s the fucking worst.  And more importantly, how are you not having any trouble with this?  Oh, wait—that’s right,” you answer yourself before he has a chance to.  “Because you cheated.”

“I did not cheat,” Dameron’s reflection immediately challenges with an accusatory finger pointed at you.  “I did not.  When the fuck did I cheat?  I swapped housing assignments with your shitty roommate and slept in the bunk below yours for a month and a half—all because you don’t believe in the honor system—just so you could tell me I fucking cheated?”

You scoff, feeling your annoyance spark even more.  He’s always been able to get under your skin, but the neglect you’ve been forcing your body to endure is just throwing gasoline on an already roaring fire.  “Okay, first of all?  Rude.  I am a fucking joy to have as a roomie, alright?  I put up with your snoring, your 2:00 AM dinners, you blasting your radio while I’m trying to sleep, I barely complain about your body odor—”

“My snoring is adorable, I get snacky at night, only sad people with fucked up lives hate music, I smell amazing,” Dameron casually lists off on his fingers, the self-confidence so easy and unshakeable that you swear he’s almost preening at the compliments he just gave himself by the time he’s finished rebutting everything you can think to throw at him.  And, while you’d never admit it, he does smell good.  He smells… unbelievably fucking good.  Always.  Something dark and woodsy, you can never quite put your finger on.  It pisses you off, so much that you’ve made a habit of pulling a face of disgust whenever the warm, rich scent noticeably reaches you, hoping it deflates his ego just a little bit.  No such luck so far.  

“Whatever.  The point is I’m a good fucking neighbor, alright, I’m neighborly as fuck,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.  “And don’t make it sound like I’m putting a chastity lock on your balls every night, because you can fuck anyone you want.  In fact, I strongly fucking encourage it—I just want to know about it when it happens.”

Dameron smirks and you groan, already knowing what’s coming.  “You wanna hear it?”

Yep, there it is.  “Second of all—”

“Feel the whole bunk rock with it?”  He goes on, completely ignoring you.  “Use the excuse that you’re trapped up top so you can just stay there the whole time and listen?  You know you can do a lot more than just—”

“Second of all,” you project over him, “you’re seriously telling me you haven’t had any wet dreams then, hm?  No snorgasms?  Hmmm?  No happy naps?  No captain midnights?  No mattress fracking?  Hmmmmmm???”

His voice very quickly sounds… shocked.  “How many fucking euphemisms—?”

“Wait wait, one more—” you quickly interrupt, too much momentum to stop now, “—sleepskeet.”

You watch in immense satisfaction as his expression seems to progress through all five stages of grief, before he exhales a long, unamused sigh and scratches his beard again.  You want to pluck each strand of it out of his face one by one.  “Anyways.  Wet dreams are totally different and don’t count.”

“It’s not different!”  You burst out, unable to help yourself, “it’s an orgasm, and rule number three is no orgas—”

“I know what the rules were, Gold-Ten,” he returns calmly, and it infuriates you, how he’s always able to make it seem like you’re the instigator who’s overreacting.  And he knows exactly what he’s doing by calling you by your flight designation, and it pisses you off even more because calling him Black-Leader in any other situation besides active warfare just feels like an unnecessary reminder of his skills.  Why he’s currently behind you manning the guidance controls and why you’re currently stuck in the front seat with the bulkier weapons systems.  “The question is if you’re seriously that bad enough of a sport to automatically disqualify me because of something that happens to any human with a dick indiscriminately when we blueball ourselves.”

“But that’s the entire fucking point, Dameron!”  You shrill, throwing your hands in the air in pure exasperation.  “There it is!  You need it more than I do, you just said it yourself!  Not to mention I said I can go longer without sex than you can— sex , not orgasms, but as it turns out I win at both.  Now can we please call this shit off so I can finally cum?  This isn’t fun anymore.”

“Nope,” he says immediately, popping the P with a bit too much hard emphasis to be genuinely amused.  He’s frustrated, too—his voice is too pleased, too fake to not be masking irritation underneath.  “Sorry.  But this was also your stupid idea, so.”

“You’re insufferable,” you grumble, anger flaring equal to his, just way more… verbal.  And descriptive.  “Wet dreams don’t count, fucking right.  Tell that to the oceans of Kamino I got going on down there, huh?  I move on this seat wrong and I’ll slide off it—”

A loud slam of a palm against the controls suddenly echoes throughout the small cockpit, causing you to jump slightly.  

“Don’t,” Dameron snarls, “... say shit like that to me.  Not right now.  Not right now, fuck .”

You go quiet for a moment, not expecting that much of an outburst at something you considered to be a throwaway remark, but then… oh.  Something occurs to you, something… sinister.  Oh, well, now there’s an idea.

Everything inside you immediately surges up and burns at the thought—the mere whisper of a way out of all of this, quickly, without giving in and letting him hold your surrender over you for Maker knows how long.  It’s so fucking simple, you don’t know why you didn’t think of it before.  You don’t have to wait him out at all; instead, you just need to… entice him into giving in first.

Neither of you say anything for a while, and you don’t know what he’s thinking (nothing, probably—a dry tumbleweed bouncing across an empty desert landscape, you imagine) but you take the dip in conversation to consider a plan.  You can’t go at it too outright, it’ll be too big of a turnaround and he’ll see it coming lightyears away.  A halfhearted joke about your pussy tossed out without thinking is what catalyzed the most substantial reaction from him you’ve seen, so… maybe you can keep steering the conversation towards the idea.

“How many wet dreams have you had?”  You suddenly ask, your heart beginning to pick up in your chest as soon as the words are out of your mouth.

“Excuse me?”  Dameron grunts from behind you, and you catch his reflection raising a thick eyebrow at you.

You take a deep breath and disguise it by stretching your back out just a little bit, lifting your shoulder blades and arching the sore muscles there, before settling back down in your normal crappy posture once more.  “Now many times did you cum in your sleep?  Had to at least been once for you to claim they don’t count.”

“Why does it matter?”  He asks, completely sidestepping the question for the second time.  “It was involuntary.”

You shrug.  “Just so I know how many freebies I can get tonight.”

“No,” Dameron instantly counters, his voice dead serious.  “Not fucking allowed.”

“Why not?”  You ask, and this time, there’s significantly less challenge than you’d typically deliver it with.  Instead, your voice is soft, questioning.  Not argumentative, but curious, and there’s just enough of your point left unsaid that it’ll seem like he conjured the rest of the image himself.

There’s silence while he considers his response to the perfectly executed bait.  You assume you’re both picturing the same thing, because it’s what you’ve pictured almost every single night spent in this celibate hellscape.  The cool darkness of your shared quarters, the standard-issue sheets that still feel crispy and rough on your skin no matter how many nights you’ve slept in them, with one of your hands pressed tight over your mouth and two of your fingers circle your clit.

“You only get to do it if I’m in the room,”  he poses instead, and you swallow thickly, feeling your body tighten with an unintentional drop of pure heat through your tummy at the thought.  Maker, it must be really bad if Poe fucking Dameron is getting to you like this.  The bane of your existence shouldn’t make your insides twist in on themselves—at least, not in a good way.

“Not like I’d have much choice,” you eventually respond, keeping it purposefully ambiguous.  “It’s your room, too.  Unfortunately.”

Stars, it’s been so long since you’ve done this, since you’ve walked the fine line between flirtation and seduction, wanting to turn on the charm slowly—gradually ease it up like a hyperdrive lever under your fingertips so that you’re at maximum by the time he realizes you’re even there.  You take a moment to glance at his reflection, watching Dameron look back at you curiously, a flash of interest in his eyes.

“By the way, how does that one girl feel about us doing this?”  You ask out of nowhere, suddenly remembering the existence of his pretty little number.  You’ve seen her under his arm around base at least a few times, which is more than you can say for the rest of them.  “Red-Six.  Tall brunette with the tattoos—I don’t bother learning names, they all come and go.”

“Nihla,” Dameron nods with a wistful sigh, tilting his head to rest against his shoulder.  “Or, wait… Neah.  No—it was… Nalal.  Yeah, Nalal, I think that’s right…”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.  “One of the greatest mysteries of the universe is how many people get in line for you, I’ll never fucking understand it.”

“They just want me for my cock,” he tells you without missing a single beat, sounding like he’s not joking in the slightest.  “It was starting to get obnoxious.  Glad I finally have an excuse to turn them down.”

“Unbelievable,” you repeat, stunned by how truly, mind-blowingly full of himself he is.  “You’re… fucking…”

You end up just staring at him and making a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, at a complete loss for words, and Dameron eventually shrugs and continues on after you fail to form a coherent thought in the allotted time frame he provides.

“Now I can just tell them I’m in a long-running bet with Gold-Ten over who can sexually deprive themselves the longest and weirdly enough, they don’t seem all that interested anymore,” he remarks, tilting his chin up and rubbing at his beard again, and for some reason… the sound of it bothers you somewhat less now, the way he phrased that resonating deeper inside you than it should.  Lower than it should.  You blink a few times, almost shocked by your body’s unprecedented response to his admission—Poe Dameron uses you as an excuse to turn down sex with pretty girls?  Happily?—and your mind goes blank for a second while he watches you through the transparisteel.  “It’s alright,” he eventually goes on, tilting his head.  “Sometimes a sabbatical is good.  I do really miss pussy, though.”

“Well,” you finally tell him, oddly not having much else to offer at the moment.  “I’m sorry?  And… you’re welcome.  I guess.”

Dameron shrugs once more and makes an apathetic sound without opening his mouth, and you drop your stare down to the machinery between your spread thighs after feeling like you were looking at each other for too long.  The position started uncomfortable and seven hours later, it’s still fucking uncomfortable.  At first the discomfort twinged at your hips and lower back, but now the sensation seems to be… centering itself a bit more, finding a spot right between your legs, especially when his words echo through your subconscious and make you naturally want to push your thighs together.  I do really miss pussy, though.

You try to snap out of it a bit, try to stop hyperfixating on the way your underwear has felt sticky and wet for fucking hours now, but it’s so fucking difficult to chill yourself out when your body already went into this whole situation with a month and a half long stumbling block.  He’s not really doing anything at all—he’s leant back in his chair and staring out the window into the black emptiness of space when you steal a look once more, but something about how his casual responses are affecting you makes it seem like he’s the one currently seducing you.

Maker, you have to focus.   You have to control yourself.  You’re starting to feel a little warm in your thick jumpsuit—a particular shade of orange that does not compliment your complexion but you normally rejoice in wearing regardless.  It’s baggy and uniform and hides most of your curves and most importantly, it keeps you toasty on missions like this.  Space is cold —especially this far out in the Cauper Void, and there’s no fucking reason this powered down hunk of floating metal should feel as muggy and stifling as it does in here.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you suddenly hear yourself say, spontaneously, no thought put into it whatsoever.  One last try, one last attempt to avoid it, a last-ditch go at flight before he gives you no choice and you’re left with this one remaining option.  “This isn’t a good idea.  It’s… not healthy.  I don’t want to do this anymore.”

This gets a small chuckle out of him.  “I know you don’t, pretty baby.”

“Then let’s just call the whole thing off,” you propose once again, trying to lighten your tone, make it a… a friendly thing.  It sounds so fake, even to your own ears—since when would you be desperate enough to let the dreaded petname slide?—but granted, you know what they say about time and measures and all that shit.  “We can call it a tie, just go back to the way things were befo—”

He cuts you off and pins you with his gaze through the reflection.  “You realize that you begging me to put an end to your suffering is—ridiculously hot, mostly—but also only an incentive to make me keep pushing until you finally give in?”

You groan and comb some of your hair off your forehead, not liking the way it’s getting just the slightest bit damp.  “Fine, we won’t call it off, but can we at least just stop—”  You immediately catch yourself, not wanting to unintentionally push this too far too quickly, but your hesitation is clear and compelling enough for him to prompt you.

“At least just stop what?”  Dameron asks, and though you don’t think it’s intentional or even noticeable from his perspective, something about the way his voice sounds… husky.  Low to the ground.

“Stop dragging it out,” you breathe, your heart pounding.  Why is your heart pounding so fucking fast?  This is a fucking sting op, a facade, so why are you getting so caught up in the lie you’ve spun for yourself?  “Finish it.  Sooner, rather than later.  Quit being masochists about it, just fucking put it to—”

Maker, your eyes instinctively snap to his at your poor choice of wording, having almost said bed on complete accident.  Genuinely, you didn’t mean to phrase it that way, but at the same time, the thought of it almost burns you alive.  Fuck.  Dameron, and you, in bed.  It could be mean.  It could be rough.  A fight for dominance more than anything.  He’s bigger than you and he could make it fucking hurt, especially after going without it for as long as you have, but something about how double-edged that type of relief would be isn’t really sinking in for you right now.  Like a person slowly dying of thirst that’s fantasizing about drowning.  Regardless, the idea of a night with him and the sudden assortment of vivid imagery it provides is enough to get you to shut up and take a deep breath, just wait with your mouth shut for whatever his response is.

Unfortunately, you don’t have to wait long at all.

“This is cute,” he suddenly tells you, and you jerk back and sputter a bunch of consonants stupidly like he smacked you.

“Fuck you?”  Are the first recognizable words that can be heard.  “I’m not—this isn’t fucking— cute?”

“It’s cute,” Dameron repeats, hiding a soft smile from you with a few of his fingers pressed to his lips.  “You,” he says as he points at your reflection, twirling his finger around in circles, “trying to be all sneaky about it, go about your little performance.  It’s like… watching a little kid just blatantly fuck up a magic trick but they’re naive enough to think it’s working.  Keep going, I’m enthralled.”

You hold still for just a second as ice suddenly sinks through your tummy and clears away any trace of warmth you may have once felt from before.  Of course.  Stupid.  Stupid, you shouldn’t have even tried something like that, you don’t know why you thought…

Horrifyingly, you go dead silent and the lack of an immediate response from you hangs awkwardly in the still air.  You’re usually so quick with him, so fiery, letting the things he throws at you just glide right off you, but for some insane reason, you’re actually fucking… embarrassed?  A little bit?

You should say something, but your whole body is just frustratingly blank, almost buzzing in mortification, and it gets worse and worse the longer you stay quiet.  You don’t usually put yourself in a position to be compromised, and you certainly didn’t think the place he decided to jab this time had particularly thin skin.

You… you’d forgotten what it’s like to have someone laugh at you when you’re genuinely trying your best to flirt.

Well, it’s too late to say anything now, you think.  Now it’s just uncomfortable in here—true discomfort, not the typical angry silences.  You’re used to that, you’re used to huffing and crossing your arms and ticking your jaw through the breaks in conversation, refusing to say a word because you’re beyond pissed off.  This is different.  This quiet sits different in the air, this emotion hits different in your chest, somewhere vulnerable.  A crack in your armor he found without even necessarily intending to, but at this point, the stupid way you can’t seem to hide the wound from him is just as much to blame.

“So, uh…”  Dameron clears his throat as you shut your eyes tight against the awkwardness, but you can still feel a strange little shift in the air from behind you.  There’s something about the enclosed space, the quiet darkness surrounding you both, you feel… too close to him.  Sharing his air, feeling the energy when it’s cramped and you’re not able to just get up and storm away from him like normal.  You don’t like it.  You don’t like that you can immediately tell something has changed without being able to see him, that type of intimacy between you is pushing a boundary you can’t quite pinpoint but know exists.

You snap your eyes open and look over at Dameron’s reflection when he’s quiet for too long, and though you try to glare as fiercely as possible at him while you do it, the look on his face almost stops you dead.  The pure intensity raging in his expression, the way he’s got his eyes narrowed, flicking back and forth between yours, carefully studying you, wondering if perhaps he may have gotten it all wrong.  “I mean, y’know.  Theoretically speaking, and all.  If I broke, you’d let me fuck you?”

You… aren’t expecting that.

You don’t know why but your heart suddenly starts to race again, but it’s not the same as before.  Before it was speeding up and at an angle, like a rocket trying to escape a body’s gravitational pull, to go somewhere, search for something.  This time it just feels like it’s ricketing downhill, unsteady and out of control, about to break apart with every single pothole that rattles and slams through you.  Shit.  You didn’t expect the ultimatum would be presented to you so up front like that—you thought there’d be… some resistance, at least.  

Fuck, you take way too fucking long thinking about it, and your face feels warmer and warmer the more you mentally pick apart his specific phrasing, wondering where you should even begin.  You still haven’t said anything, but the damage is already done.  What should've been a firm, instantaneous go fuck yourself is left suspended, unanswered, open for interpretation.  You miss your window of opportunity to shut him down, you overshoot it by a longshot, and then you feel that spark of a what-if flare deep down once more.

No, fucking stop it.  Stop it.  Maker, your eyes do everything they can to not look at him while you concentrate and work to tap into your anger, stoking the flames of your fire to avoid feeling… temptation.  How dare he?  How fucking dare he do this to you, especially when there’s no chance to get out of here, to abort mission and cut your losses?  You clench your jaw and isolate that fury, magnify it until it’s the only thing you can feel anymore.

“My turn now,” Dameron eventually breaks the silence to clarify, blinking at you, and by this point you’re so fucking pissed off that you don’t recognize that isn’t actually a question.

“No,” you immediately snap, strung far too thin to deal with this new, treacherous territory with him.  Defaulting to normal is best, it’s easier.  “No, it’s not your turn, and fuck no, you can’t fuck me, not even if it means I win this stupid bet.  No to everything that has anything to fucking do with you, alright?  Don’t talk to me.  You’re lucky if I agree to sleep in the same fucking room as you tonight.  And—and?—I think your beard looks dumb.”

Okay, so maybe the last part was just a little bit childish, but you’re in such a bad fucking mood and you want to insult something he’s clearly just trying out for right now, hasn’t yet solidified as part of his usual appearance and unshakeable confidence in it.  It’s a downright lie—you think he might look more attractive with it than he ever has.  Effortlessly rugged and masculine, framing his face and making his eyes all the more piercing.

You don’t think it works, but regardless, he heeds your sharp words and says nothing for a good few minutes at least.  You had hoped the break in interaction would allow you the ability to reset a little bit, give yourself time to work through it, but it’s like the pressure in the air steadily increases regardless of how silent it is in here—or perhaps, because of it.

You can’t help it.  You flick your eyes to the transparisteel in front of you once more and catch his reflection staring directly at you, unmoving.  It jars you as much as it sparks your anger, and you glare down at your hands and give him a few seconds.  A few seconds of grace, of mercy, before you try again.

Sure enough, he’s still got his dark eyes pinned to you when you go to check once more, like he’s actually fucking thinking about something right now, which is just… astounding, for obvious reasons.  Mainly, the nerve of him.  The fucking nerve of him to be able to look at you like that, like he’s just entitled to study your every feature, searching your eyes for things you’ve never looked deep enough to find within yourself, making incredibly loud assumptions with his mind that he has absolutely no right to be making.

“Shut up,”  You snap at him defensively, feeling like you’re sweating buckets even in the freezing emptiness of dead space.  You can’t figure out if it’s a cold sweat or if your body is legitimately just malfunctioning under his stare.  “Shut up.”

You watch as his reflection suddenly drops his head back against the seat and rolls out the stiffness of his neck, blinking his eyes shut and raising his eyebrows like you’re completely overreacting, like he has absolutely no idea.  “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not that dumb,” you challenge.  “You’re… plotting.  Evil plotting.”

A thick eyebrow drops so that only one is quirked up, and a grin pulls at his lips.

“You’re right,” Dameron admits casually after a moment with his eyes still closed, his voice pitched low in the cramped ship.  “I was thinking about what it’s gonna take to get you to lose.”

You swallow against the dryness in your throat, starting to unintentionally bounce one of your legs up and down without even realizing it.  Fuck, this ship is small, it’s too fucking small in here—you gaze wistfully out at the vast endlessness of space, wanting to grit your teeth at the irony of being surrounded by the one thing you so desperately wish you had.

“I just have to find a weakness,” he shifts forward in his seat and reveals to you, bewilderingly shameless in his honesty.  Like all of a sudden you’re an accomplice to this endeavor instead of its target, as if he isn’t spoiling the secret by letting you in on it.  “Something that you like, that gets you going.  Something that riles you up, gets you all hot and bothered down there—”

“So you can exploit it,” you huff, slouching over a bit and trying not to sound like you’re pouting.

“—so I can exploit it,” he finishes happily, collapsing back into his seat like he’s glad you caught on so quick and he doesn’t have to explain further.  “Now we can do the whole routine—the bickering, the tension, the undeniable sexual chemistry we have—or we can skip all that and you can just tell me flat out what it’s gonna take to rev that pretty little engine up, because I want it purring.”

And, it’s so fucking weird, because the specific verbiage that would normally make you cringe just hearing it spoken aloud doesn’t inspire the typical response, even though it feels like it should.  It feels like you should be grossed out, it feels like a moment you should screw up your facial expression and act offended, but you’re… not.  This is actually fucking working, it’s unbelievable.  The undeniable fact infuriates you just as much as it stumps you.

“You do realize that everything you say is a game that two can play at, right?”  You point out, not really sure where you’re going with this but feeling heated about it all the same.  “What’s stopping me from exploiting something you like?”

“See now that’s a great idea,” Dameron announces, clapping his hands together happily and sending you jumping a few inches in your seat at the sudden sound, your hand automatically shooting up to rest on your thumping heart.  “I can tell you what I like, and you can just listen.”

Alright, no, wait—backtrack—

“How about I tell you what I don’t like,” you snip breathlessly, tucking your hair behind your ear and feeling all the blood rush to your cheeks.  Default to normal, default to normal.  “Your fucking attitude.  Your demeanor.  The way you talk down to me.  You don’t listen.  You walk around like you’re such hot shit just because you’re a good pilot but none of that means anything when you don’t ever fucking listen.  You’re terrible at it, doesn’t matter who’s talking—you don’t listen to me, you don’t listen to people who actually like you, you don’t listen to orders, you don’t listen to reason—”

“You think I’m a good pilot?”  He suddenly asks, and you have to take a second.  This cockpit isn’t designed for anything other than sitting, much less turning all the way around, but you’re sure you can find some way to throttle him from here.  He chuckles as you let out the loudest sigh you’ve ever heard yourself make—which, is an incredible feat you think both of you should be congratulated for—before Dameron eventually carries on.  “You could tell me that,” he admits with a shrug, a hidden smile on his face that he’s trying to bite back.  “Or you could tell me the truth.”

You shouldn’t encourage him, but you just can’t fucking help it.  There’s something inside you, something you can only compare to a morbid sort of curiosity.  Maybe you’re just a glutton for punishment, even more so than agreeing to this bet has already confirmed.  “And that would be—?”

“That you use anger as a defense mechanism because I touch a nerve you didn’t realize you had,” Dameron replies breezily.  “Have since the moment we met.  And that you maybe want me to touch something else, but you’re too stubborn and proud and committed to hating me to ever admit it.  You can admit it, it’s okay, I can touch whatever you need me to tou—”

“How about the emergency eject button?”  You hiss, finally feeling your frustration peak.  “Pop the top on this bitch.  Put me out of my fucking misery, right now.  You’ve got such a big head that the blood flow will probably keep your tiny little brain warm enough as long as you strap yourself down beforehand, I’ll wait.  And then you can go back to base, alone , and find another poor girl to emotionally torture since you probably don’t get enough of it from the ones you work your way through but can never remember the most basic things about.”

Remarkably, that actually shuts him up.  You’re doubtful the jab really hurts him, but you’re not going to feel bad about it either way.  He deserved that.  You cross your arms over your chest and don’t even bother looking at him, huffing and flushed with the climax of your ferocity, now left feeling strangely exhausted in its wake.  Eventually your breathing evens out and disappears into the silence, until nothing at all can be heard.

It’s like that for a moment—only a moment, before the loud tearing of velcro suddenly shreds through the quiet in the cockpit, completely rattling you.  Automatically your eyes shoot over to his reflection, watching large hands pull the orange jumpsuit apart at his chest and then shrug it over broad shoulders.  It’s not sexual.  It can’t be sexual, because there’s just no fucking room to allow it—it takes him forever to pull the long sleeves down his arms, but the way he drags it out somehow just increases your anticipation for an event you should have absolutely no interest in spectating.  He’s wearing a white sleeveless undershirt underneath and the jumpsuit bunches at his waist, making him look all the longer and more defined as he finally collapses back into his seat and reclines in it, the distant constellations bathing his lean torso in dim speckles of starlight.

Your gaze catches on every good part of him—it falls down the muscular lines of his neck and follows the thin gold chain wrapped around it, disappearing into the white of his scooping neckline.  His toned body finds a place to rest and stretch out without looking awkward or uncomfortable, coarse hair darkening his jaw and dusting the strong lines of his forearms—but it’s his eyes that make your heart stutter.  They’re endlessly deep and dark and knowing , and you can’t seem to look away from him, not even when he opens his mouth to address you.  

“You’re always so fucking mean to me,” Dameron remarks, and for just a split second—just a split second, you feel a stab of regret.  “I should eat you out tonight.”

Fuck, he hits the nail right on the head on his very first try, and just hearing the words come out of his mouth so effortlessly makes your pussy clench in on itself in need.  Nothing about his inflection changed from one sentence to the next, nothing in his voice made it seem like he just flipped the fucking galaxy upside down with just a few words.  To an onlooker who doesn’t speak Basic, they’d have absolutely no hint as to why your face is suddenly radiating heat at an industrial capacity, blazing hot enough to warm the whole cockpit.  You feel like you’re literally burning up with it.  You have to put a palm to your cheek to make sure it’s not actually on fucking fire.  “What— what did you just say to me?”

“That’s what you need,” he drawls, unbothered by the sharpness of your tone.  “What you’ve needed, ever since I can remember.  Should’ve done it a long fucking time ago, now that I’m thinking about it.  How long’s it been?  Tell me the truth, I know it’s been awhile.”

You feel like you’re being roasted alive like one of those hairy little Kowakian monkey-lizards that you’re pretty sure have sentient designation but are the first to be skewered and cooked over the firepit regardless.  Your heart is slamming against your sternum and you scramble to come up with an even slightly clever response after such an ambush.

“This is your plan?”  You raise an eyebrow at him, feeling a bead of sweat drop down your temple and onto the corner of your lashes.  Oh fuck, be cool, be cool.  “You think this is gonna work?  Ask me if I want a weak orgasm and rugburn on my thighs?”

“I can shave,” Dameron proposes quietly, lifting his chin and gently scrubbing the side of his cheek.  The sound of the thick bristles against his fingers makes you swallow thickly and push back very vivid thoughts of how his face would feel between your legs.  How soft and wet his mouth would feel at the center of that thick, coarse beard.  “Tonight, I’ll shave it off.  Make it nice and smooth for you.”

Something inside you surges up to assure him he absolutely should not shave, and you actually have to bite your tongue to keep it buried at the last second.  Stars, that was a close one, what the fuck prompted that?

“I don’t give a shit what you do,” you quickly return, resisting the urge to wipe your brow.  “Beard or no beard, makes no difference.  Foreplay is overrated, I’m not big on wasting time.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” he immediately laments—so quick , and the worst part is that the sympathy in his voice actually sounds sincere.  You’re having trouble looking him in the eyes right now, hearing the genuine pity come through in his tone.  “Who… who did this to you?”

“You said you want to figure out what I like, what turns me on,” you return, tucking your hair behind your ear once more and trying not to sound self-conscious.  Maker, how long until your shift is over?  You need to get out of here, this shit is… way out of your league.  “I’m not into it, so try again.”

“Really?”  Dameron takes a moment to look at you, furrow his thick eyebrows at you in barely concealed curiosity, before his head tilts sideways and drops to his shoulder.  “Normally I’d respect that, but I meant it when I said you need it.”

“We fucking hate each other, Dameron,” you hiss, a reminder to him as much as it is to yourself.  Fuck, you really don’t like where this is going.  “You don’t know anything about me, you don’t know what the I n—”

“I bet you think we’d fuck hard,” he murmurs, low enough that you have to take an unsteady breath and physically brace yourself for whatever is going to come from that dirty mouth next.  “You think that maybe I’d throw you around a little, give it to you from behind, teach you a fucking lesson for always talking back to me.  But that’s primitive shit, Gold-Ten, that’s not for you.”

Resist.  Resist .  You’re part of the fucking Resistance, for Maker’s sake, you’re taught to hold out until death in torture scenarios.  Since when did this tin can suddenly become a new POW camp simulation you have to train for?

“I want to take you apart so slow that you can’t talk at all,” Dameron continues quietly, and you close your eyes, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.  “We don’t even have to fuck—I mean, I want to, but mostly I just want to taste you.  Go nice and slow.  I want you on your back, so I can look in your eyes and see all that anger just… fade away.  I want to watch you try to fight how fucking good I’ll make it.  How hot it’s gonna be when you can’t glare at me anymore, when your pretty doll eyes go all soft and sweet and you finally realize that I’ve never hated you at all.”

Maker.  This is a trick.  It’s not a question, it shouldn’t be presented like one—this is a dirty rotten trick , and you’re not gonna fall for it.  You can’t fucking fall for it.  It’s a low blow, and you refuse to even acknowledge he said anything at all.  He’s lying to get your guard down.  He laughed at your flirting.  He’s a shit person, he’s using you, this isn’t real.

Real or not, you still gulp loud enough for him to hear it.

“We could go back to our room after our shift is over,” he offers out of the blue, and you have no clue why, but when he pauses and lets it hang in the air for a second, you don’t interrupt him.  You stay completely silent while he waits for you, waits for your typical snarky comeback.  You have it in your head instantly, you know what you’d normally say.  Your room.  It’s not ‘our’ room, it’s fucking your room that you’re generous enough to let him bunk in, a privilege he’s this fucking close to losing—but you can’t find it in yourself to say it right now.  Your anger is gradually losing the war to your arousal and you’re forced to watch every single small defeat inside you happen from the sidelines.

His reflection blinks at you through the transparisteel, his eyebrows raising just slightly at your prolonged silence, before he suddenly sits up a little and leans forward.

“And I could lock the door,” Dameron continues, lowering his voice, both in volume and register.  “The lights in there are way too fucking bright but I don’t want to be in complete darkness, so maybe we can turn them off and open the port shade, let just enough light come through to see.  I could turn on the radio, find something quiet, easy to listen to.  Something you like, I’ll let you pick it out.  And then… Wait, hang on, which bed?”

You clench your jaw and purposefully say nothing even as your pussy squeezes, glaring right through his reflection into the black void of space.

“Mmm.   Your bed,” he eventually decides.  “I want you comfortable.  You shower at night.  Your hair will be wet and you’ll be in those baggy pajamas that you think I can’t see your nipples through, the ones that I know you take off under your covers and then put on in the morning when you think I’m still asleep.  That’s good, I want you relaxed, so that maybe… maybe you’d let me take your panties off at some point.  And you could lay back and open your legs, and I could go down on you for a little while.  However long you need.”

Fuck.

No, this isn’t fucking happening.  Your lower muscles aren’t twisting in so hard that it actually fucking hurts, your pussy isn’t leaking through two layers of fabric under your jumpsuit, your body isn’t outright revolting against the sheer neglect you’ve put it through.  Maker, it’s fucking painful.  You have to clench your hands into fists and dig your fingernails into your palms before you can open your mouth.

“You want to know what I need?”  You nearly wheeze, a drop of sweat sliding down the back of your neck this time.  Your body feels like it’s three sizes too big for this cockpit and your skin feels like it’s three sizes too small for your body.  “I need you to shut the fuck u—”

“What you need,” Dameron purrs, sliding up closer behind your seat and sighing soft against the worn material of your headrest, “is a warm mouth to cum in.  Don’t be shy, pretty baby, you can tell me.”

You growl out his last name as threateningly as you possibly can before he purrs yours right back in your ear, and fuck, you’ve never heard it sound so sexual before.  Last names allow pilots to maintain a respectful distance from each other.  Flight designations are Resistance-wide, but last names are just… allies.  Not friends, not companions, but a vast network of people brought together by a common enemy.  It hurts to lose a first name.  But the way yours sounds rolling off of Dameron’s tongue is just too sinful, too intimate when calling you that is meant to sever intimacy by design.  He says it slow and makes it dirty, muddies it in the back of his throat as he slides up even closer to you, until his face is right next to yours as you stare at each other through the transparisteel.

“I’m really…” he pauses, before exhaling through his nose and swallowing thick enough to make his Adam’s apple drop and bounce up again, his tongue coming out to wet his plush lips as he blinks slowly at you with a heavy gaze, “… really good at it.  Call me Poe and I’ll do it for you all night.”

Shit, your pussy is just a fucking mess right now.  It feels like it’s melting sweet and syrupy all over your thighs, throbbing and pounding and clamping up and screaming at you to do something, at least press your hand down there to alleviate some of the aching tensi—

No— stars, no touching yourself is rule number two.  You drop your hands to your thighs and squeeze them, trying to reign yourself back in.

“I think you’re—just projecting,” you try, but turns out responding in general is just an all-around bad idea.  Nothing about it comes out right.  The ‘just’ sounds like your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and your voice cracks on the word ‘projecting,’ but you don’t even have time to be self-conscious or embarrassed at how much you’re giving yourself away—all your energy has to go towards fighting the tightness between your open legs, how you’re so fucking turned on that you’re worried you’ll cum without even touching yourself.  Oh Maker, can you imagine?  How fucking proud of himself he’d be?  You can’t let that happen, but fuck, holding back something so appealing is so much harder than it sounds.

Tap into that anger, tap into that anger—only, you can’t suddenly find it.  Where’d it go?  Fuck, doesn’t matter, conjure it.  Quick, before it’s too late, get mad —don’t let him lure you into a… a false… 

Dameron tilts his chin down towards the line of your shoulder and then slowly turns his head towards your neck, breathing you in gently.

A false sense of…

His soft exhale makes goosebumps break out all the way down your arms.

… What?

“Maybe you’re right,” Dameron acknowledges, talking just under your ear.  You watch his eyelids dip and the dark beard brushes against your skin and you catch just a hint of that woodsy, spicy scent engulfing you.  Like… teakwood, maybe?  Stars, you don’t know, you think you’re starting to lose your mind.  What the fuck does teakwood even smell like?  “Maybe it’s just what I need.  You should exploit it, chances are I’ll still cum first.”

That rockets another painful spasm down low.  It hurts so fucking bad—fuck, maybe you could… rub yourself up against these weapons controls?  Just a little bit?  That joystick, right there, just ease yourself up against it just to nurse this wound a little bit…?

No, fucking— bad.  That’s bad, you have to stop—

“This isn’t real, this isn’t—y-you just…”  You flutter your eyelashes shut, digging your fingernails into your thighs like it’ll help break through the fog of his lulling voice, how fucking amazing he smells right now.  “You just want to win th-the b—”

“ Fuck the bet,” he tells you quietly, his head dipped low enough now that his lips brush against your neck, and you shudder so hard at the sensation that your shoulder almost knocks into his chin with it.  “You really think I’m doing all this for a fucking bet?”

Don’t trust him, don’t trust him, don’t—

Your deep breath is so stuttery and uneven that it’s technically just a series of shallow inhales all anxiously strung together, too desperate for oxygen to go about it legato.  It’s painfully obvious to him by now, it has to be, but you very quickly miss the shaky breathing as soon as he takes away your ability to do it all together.

“Let me taste you,” he whispers, his voice almost breaking with how gentle it is, how it sounds like it flips in and out of his register when he speaks this low.  “Right now, let’s make it real, let m—I know you have to be soaking fucking wet, baby, just let me try a little bit of it, please—I’m… holy shit, I’m so hard just thinking about it.”

“You c-can’t,” you stammer, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.  At him, at the situation, at the painful throb of emptiness between your legs.  “Fuck, it’s not allowed, it’s against the rules—”

“It won’t be,” he assures you, and you hiccup when you suddenly feel his hand brush against your side, strong fingers branching out to curve against your ribcage.  “You don’t have to do anything, you can stay just like this.  Just a few seconds and then I’ll stop, I promise.”

Oh, Maker, it’s on the very top of your tongue, so unbelievably close to telling him something—but you don’t know what it should be.  You’re right at the tipping point, on a tightrope right between what you want and what you should want.  And, knowing you’re this close to giving in, Dameron slowly eases his hand down your side and starts to trail it inwards, and just the lightest brush of his warm tongue against your neck shatters any composure you have left.

You whimper and instinctively try to close your legs, but you fucking can’t— your knees are forced wide apart by controls and your whole body freezes when his hand slides down and folds gently along the curve of your pussy through the thick fabric of your jumpsuit.

The feeling of being held like this by him is just too good , cradled so perfectly in his palm as he opens his mouth and flutters his tongue out to taste your skin again, giving you a little more of it this time and letting you feel the roughness of his beard with the way his lips move.  Your breath catches, then he hooks his fingertips up just the slightest bit and pulls back, and you suddenly have to smack your whole hand over your face in a terrible attempt to stifle your loud gasp.

“Oh, Maker, I c-can’t,” you stammer against your fingers, not being able to trust him or your own body.  You continue to protest even after he moves back up, resting his palm low on your abdomen, letting the heat bleed through the fabric and transfer directly to your floor muscles as he lifts his head up from your shoulder.  “I can’t, we can’t, I…”

You can’t see him, but you know he’s looking at you.  He’s staring right at you through the reflection, studying the way you’re hiding your face from him, how you’re still melting, still losing your composure just from the warm palm pressed tight your tummy.

His touch leaves you for a second. But then the deafening sound of velcro ripping at the crotch of your jumpsuit has you dragging your hand down your mouth and your eyelids dipping.

“Dameron,” you breathe into your fingers, just as his carefully slip into the small opening and begin to work at the button to your pants. “Dameron, this isn’t—you don’t want—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I don’t want,” he grunts at you, and you try not to bite yourself at the sound of him unzipping things and yanking fabric to the side.  “What I really fucking want is the real thing, but I guess this’ll have to do for now.”

“I—”  Your mind whirs desperately, trying to process when his fingers wedge under your panties and down.   But he doesn’t give you a single fucking second.  As soon as the tip of his middle finger reaches your slit, he’s dropping it and sliding it through your slick, hot, unbearably neglected cunt.

“Fuck,” he spits, and you feel like you might be about to break your own fucking jaw with how hard you’re clutching it, trying so desperately not to make a noise.  The pad of his finger is rough and calloused as it drags against your clit in slow, tight circles, and you clamp your eyes shut and try to breathe normally, but it’s no use.  Fuck , it’s been so long .  You’ve been aching for it for a full fucking month and a half now and you know that even if he couldn’t feel it, he can hear how drenched you are right now.  It’s making an obscene sound as he steadily masturbates you with one heavenly finger, giving your body what it’s desperately craved for so many weeks.  “Fuck, baby’s pussy got fucking wet hearing me talk about how good I’d lick it, huh?”

That sends a bright flare launching through you and you gasp raggedly, both hands whipping out to snatch at his forearm where it disappears between your legs.  “No, shit, wait, stopstopstopstop stop , I—”

His hand slips out immediately and yet you continue to tremble like his finger is still right there, like your clit is just imagining it so vividly that it’s successfully convincing itself of the illusion.  The aching bit of flesh is burning, that good burn, the one that’s searing and bright that makes your muscles continue to chase the sensation long after the stimulation is gone.  Fuck, he almost made you cum.  He barely touched you for a few seconds and yet your fingers have to tighten into claws to slow your body down the fuck down, flexing against your thighs and trying your best to halt the impending climax.

By the time you’re able to wrangle yourself back from the edge and look at his reflection, his middle finger is already in his mouth and he’s blinking slowly at you, his pupils blown wide.  You’re breathing hard at him, staring open-mouthed at the way his lips are closed below his second knuckle, how he takes forever dragging it back out again.  You have to close your eyes.  You have to clamp them shut and keep them that way, knowing you won’t be able to look at him through whatever he’s going to say next.

Except, oddly, he doesn’t say much.

“Shit,” he breathes, dropping his mouth to your neck once more.  “Shhhit.  I…”

Your eyes snap open in sudden, blind panic when he doesn’t continue, horrified at the possibility that he doesn’t like it.  Dameron always has something to say, he doesn’t go speechless.  “Oh—Maker, is it not—?”

“Mmmfuck, just—” he grits, panting hot air against your skin, “—fuck.  Give me a second.”

You can only see the crown of his head with the way he’s angled, but you can see his shoulders a little further back.  They start… moving slightly.  Just the littlest bit, a smooth motion, like his whole body is slowly easing back and forth—

The nav controls are between his legs, you immediately realize.  He’s grinding up against them with how close he is to you and your seat.

And suddenly, it’s like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.  A ray of sunshine that breaks through the raging storm.  Dameron might cum in his pants like this.  Which means you’ll win, and arguably more importantly, you’ll finally be able to cum.  You don’t even take a moment to consider the potential consequences—how you’re going to have to withstand the stimulation until he succumbs to it, how you’ll have to outlast—but you’re not thinking straight.  You’re not really thinking at all.

“You can…” you suddenly hear yourself whisper, and your heart pounds in your throat when he instantly stops moving.  “One… one more.  If you want.  You can put your finger inside this time, it’s where I’m the… w-wettest.”

“Fuck,” Dameron croaks into the crook of your neck, his voice scraping low and rough and sending a tremor through you.  “Fuck, okay, yeah—”

His hand slides across your hip and down, but you catch him just in time.

“But don’t touch my clit.”  You try to sound as firm as possible through the breathlessness, still trying to put your foot down even when you’re giving in, and Dameron’s teeth come out as he stifles a soft groan into your neck in response.

“Yes, baby,” he murmurs obediently as his hand sinks down once more, and so diligently, he avoids it altogether.  His fingers slide under your panties and fall straight down to your entrance, down to where you know you’re the hottest, where your pussy is flexing and pushing wetness out with a steady, wicked throb.  The pad of his middle finger presses gently against the tight muscles there, rubs just the slightest bit to feel that resistance, and then the length of it eases inside you so slowly that your knees rattle against bulky metal.

“Fucking Maker , ” he hisses as he slides it in, his body making a sudden jerk against the controls.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of something inside you after so long, after such a torturous buildup, and you grasp at his forearm again when it curls naturally up against searing pleasure.  Oh, it’s so good, it’s so good, your hands shake while he very carefully moves it in and out, the raw sparks of heat threatening to incinerate you as your muscles cling to every ridge of his finger.  He gets it sopping wet, bathes it so completely in your slick that you’re almost certain it’ll come out pruny and drenched.

“Shit, okay,” you pant, squeezing desperately around his finger, “o-okay, fuck, that’s enough.”

His hand pulls out… slower this time.  He slips his finger out of you quick enough, but he drags the tip of it through your folds as he retreats, just barely grazing your clit and making you jolt in your seat.  Shit, you don’t know if it felt intentional enough to fault him for it—mostly it just excites you, thrills you to have him edge you like this without really needing to put any effort at all into it.

Dameron lifts his head to sink his finger deep into his mouth once more, and you tremble as you watch him enjoy it, staring at the way his shoulders seem to relax as soon as your taste is on his tongue, how his face goes soft with it and he almost slumps.

Relief.  Genuine, not embellished.  He still doesn’t say anything after he slowly slides it out and blinks at you, no sugar sweet drawl telling you how amazing you taste, no candied words to make you give in and let him have another go.  You’re both breathing hard at each other, staring, waiting to see who will break first.

Stars, you… fucking like this.  You want him to keep going, but you can’t offer it again.  It’s just too exposing, too revealing to let him you’re actually really fucking enjoying this, you can’t—

“Do you w—?”  Your voice automatically comes out through the silence without your permission, sounding just absolutely fucking wrecked by this point, but his palm is already slithering back down as soon as you speak, and you make the softest little submissive noise in your throat at him taking immediate initiative like that.  He’s not as careful about it this time—his hand finds its target with less frill, his finger slides in quicker, sinking deep into your heat with little hesitation, lighting you on fire from the inside out, and you bite the meat of your thumb to stay quiet.

“Fuck, this is so hot,” he suddenly breathes next to your ear while your legs spasm and you gasp brokenly.  “This is so—fuck, pretty baby letting me do this to her, I can’t fucking believe—”

Dameron eases a second finger inside you this time, letting you feel that delicious stretch from this angle, unable to lift your legs or shuffle around to help and subsequently resigned to simply experience it the way he gives it to you.  Your teeth have probably permanently indented your bottom lip from how hard you’re clamped down, a testament to how much you’re trying to hold back the loud moan you miraculously haven’t released yet.  Somehow it makes it sexier, not letting him hear you, not having your own noises to drown out the spark of urgency in his voice beginning to peek through.

Shit, it’s too much.  You can only let him touch you a few seconds at a time before you feel that familiar tug towards mind-numbing bliss, and the more he does it, the more appealing that feeling then becomes.  It’s teasing you, floating right in front of you and calling into question what could possibly be so bad about just reaching out to meet it?  You could.  You could cum right now.  What’s two weeks of pay?  You could cum all night long if you want, that is a thing you can do—

Quickly snapping out of your hypnotic downfall, your trembling hands snatch at his forearm once more, and Dameron, the fucker, drags his fingers slowly over your clit on the way out— so not accidental, not even close to it this time, but the sensation makes your hips stutter upwards and chase it nonetheless.

“Fuck you,” you groan at his audacity, your chest arching as you drop your head back, “I said don’t touch my—” but two wet fingers slipping past your lips and onto your tongue muffle the rest of your sentence.  Your heart does half a somersault before slamming down early, the taste of your pussy filling your mouth as you automatically start sucking on them.

“None of that,” Dameron tells you softly, massaging his fingers along your tongue before pressing a sweet kiss under your ear.  “Be nice.  I’m being nice.”

You should bite him.  Instead, you just close your eyes and mphh weakly around his fingers, your body sagging as you give into it and let him explore your mouth with them, your lower muscles cramping up in painful desperation even when he’s not anywhere near that part of your body right now.  Your tongue even comes up to lick between them, swirl around them so soft compared to how hard you’re puffing through your nose.

Dameron slowly inches his fingers out, letting the tips of them rest against your bottom lip for just a brief moment, before his hand is moving again.  Not down, but back and around, so he can open his mouth and taste you another way this time.

Shit, you feel like you’re dying.  You need air.  Your hands clench into fists and you use the back of one to wipe the sweat from the bridge of your nose while he takes his time sampling you like this.  If anything, he looks just as blissed out as before, continuing to rub his crotch up against the solid metal between his legs and teasing you with it as much as he’s teasing himself.

“Maker, let me do this for real tonight, okay,” Dameron pants after dropping his fingers from his mouth, sounding like he’s fighting for his breath while you can’t find yours at all.  Your eyes flick down to watch the way his hand disappears behind the chair to grab the controls and push his cock up against them even harder, how he drops his forehead to your neck like he just can’t fucking handle it anymore.  “Fuck, I’ll shave, I’ll do anything you want, just let me—”

“Cum,” you gasp out before you can stop yourself, and there’s a moment after it where his hips suddenly stutter against the controls, and you both freeze.

Shit.  Shitshitshit, did that actually work?

No, you very quickly realize, his body isn’t spasming like it would if he finally emptied his load after a month and a half.  He’s just… holding there, his head buried in your neck, completely still.

You didn’t mean it like that.  Well… fuck, you did, but you didn’t realize you’d be that reckless about it, that upfront about reissuing the challenge.

Dameron pulls back to look at you from the side this time, but it’s too cramped—he keeps his head turned facing you even as his eyes flick up to the transparisteel to take in the finer details of your features, the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead, and the slightly alarmed way you’re blinking back at him, worried you just shot your blaster at him in the midst of a mutual ceasefire and you fucking missed.

You see the understanding in his eyes instantly fall into place, and it’s not fucking good.  Ohhhhhh no, it’s not good.  Your chest starts rising and falling rapidly, suddenly registering the position you just put yourself in.  Fuck, you didn’t think—you saw your opening, so clearly, you didn’t have time to think about the consequences.

“D-Dameron…” you try your best to placate.

“Don’t touch your clit?”  He asks quietly, the raspiness of his voice ripping a hole through you while his hand suddenly shoves its way back down your body once more.

“Dameron,” you whimper, your heart stuttering in panic as you grasp weakly at his arm reaching between your spread thighs, “Dameron, this is—this is against the r-rules—”

“You keep saying that,” he comments, his fingers easily finding the opening in your jumpsuit no matter how hard you flex your thighs against bulky mechanics to try and close them.  “How clearly do you remember the rules?  What were the rules again?

You open your mouth to respond but his hand sliding under your panties and down just obliterates any chance you were going to attempt.  No words, nothing comes out but a shaky whine as his finger sinks into your soaking heat, going right for the kill.

“Come on, baby, the rules,” Dameron reminds you when you never give him an answer.  “Tell me.  No fucking, no jerking off, and…?”

You suddenly struggle forwards in a last-ditch attempt at preventing the inevitable, hoping you can scoot up enough in your seat to escape his reach from behind.  But fuck, your thighs have been shoved wide open for nearly eight hours—none of the muscles are working the way they should be anymore.  There’s just enough room in front of you to get there and you probably would’ve been able to do it at the beginning of the shift, even with his hand between your legs like this, but you’re sluggish and your thighs pull sharp and urgent with the movement.  The frantic maneuver enough to veer his fingers off course just slightly, moving one of your lips to the side at an angle, and you keep pushing against the pain no matter how useless it is.

“—No cumming,” he finishes for you, and his other hand is slithering up under your arm and groping one of your breasts through the jumpsuit before shoving you back tight up against your seat once more, totally helpless against it.  “Probably have another fifteen minutes or so before our shift ends.  Better hold it in, pretty baby, because this one is all you.”

“This—this isn’t fair, this is—”  The second the slippery pad of his finger presses hard against your clit, you’re biting your lip to cut off a breathless whimper that slips out.  “This is… is sab— sabotage— ”

“Oh, I know,” he moans next to your ear, mocking your high plea of distress with a fake, overly sympathetic whine.  “Feels so fucking good though, doesn’t it?”

Fuck, it does.  The build feels like an orgasm in itself, just working your way to it.  You’re already so unbelievably close after just a few seconds of direct stimulation, an obvious consequence of originally agreeing to such a hardcore edging workout.  You’re pouring sweat, so swollen and tight between your legs as you do everything you can to revolt against your body’s needs.

“Oh fuck, stop touching my clit—” you gasp raggedly, heart thundering in panic while your lower muscles start to immediately seize up, “oh—fuckfuckfuck— Poe, take your finger off m—”

Instead of doing it, his hand just slows down until the tip of his finger comes to a halt, maybe less than an inch over top of it.  You still can’t catch your breath though, not when you feel yourself throbbing against absolutely nothing, the calloused pad holding perfectly still over the bundle of nerves.  The swollen bud still arcs and flares at a steady frequency, building and building, and you choke out a wordless garble, absolutely fucking furious that this is what’s gonna make you cum.

“Don’t make me cum,” you switch up your sentence but not the terrified plead in your voice, the way it’s pitching up and out of control in the dead quiet of space.  He doesn’t even acknowledge it.  “Don’t make me cum, don—”

“Say it again,” he prompts instead, and lightning arcs up your spine.

“Poe,” you wheeze, the words coming from you without thought, your fingernails digging into his forearm even as your hips jerk up into his touch, “fuck, don’t make me cum, Poe—please don’t make me c—”

“But it’ll be so good,” he counters lowly, and your clit throbs in desperation at the richness of his voice when he speaks like this, saying things from deep in his chest.  “It’ll be so fucking good when it happens.  Stars, you’ll feel so much better, won’t you?  Cum right now and I’ll give you as many as I can until we have to go home.”

“N-No,” you whine, feeling his teeth scrape at the crook of your neck.  “No, I can’t—”

“Cum for me,” Dameron raises his voice, sharpening it into a direct order.  “Right now.  Come on— fucking make yourself lose.”

“But I—I—” you sob, starting to feel your body curl inwards, nearly about to succumb to the burning, the tightening, right on its last breath, “I-I don’t want to cum—”

“And I don’t fucking care,“ he hisses while your hands start flexing unintentionally, grasping helplessly at his immovable forearm where it disappears between your legs, the dark hair sliding under your fingertips as you claw desperately at it.  “You’ll fucking cum when I tell you to cum and you’ll like it, you disrespectful, cock-deprived, bratty little—”

And then everything goes dark.

No, literally.  The stars disappear.

The cockpit is suddenly shrouded in pitch blackness, and you’re almost certain it’s because you pass out, except then Dameron is all but ripping his hand out of your jumpsuit and cursing repeatedly in alarm.  You crumple in on yourself, eyes clamped shut and not hearing anything, right at the peak of your ecstasy and ready to soar into the light completely unassisted, your muscles doing all the work on their own—

“—shit, they’re way too close—” you hear his voice shout, “—we have to turn the engines on—Gold-Ten, baby, turn the fucking eng—”

You’re almost there, you’re almost there, you’re gonna cum, you’re gonna fucking—

Your first name, roared out in startling, blinding panic.

You don’t often hear it.  Just during roll calls mostly, but only if you’re flying with a different squadron and need a new temporary flight designation for the day.  First names hurt.  You can’t remember a time you’ve ever willingly told anybody yours.

Your head jerks up to look at his reflection but something else beyond the transparisteel takes immediate precedence.  Your brain takes about two seconds to catch up before thundering terror slams through you and halts your previously inevitable orgasm in its fucking tracks.  A runaway train about to launch off its tracks suddenly slamming directly into a megaton force-field of cold, hard fight or flight instincts.

A staggering fleet of First Order ships silently plunging out of hyperspace on all sides—your powered-down x-wing stationed right in the middle of the drop location.

***

Stay tuned for part two coming soon!!