#like if you stick an empty arm out even as a stranger they will land on you

[despazito]

I control them with my mind.

[catflorist]

omg that sasusaku art you reblogged... i would pay so much money for your take on that prompt!!!

hi anon! here you go! :) thank you for this prompt, it's been a long time since i wrote anything and it was really fun! i hope you like it!

inspired by this incredibly beautiful artwork by @millientea!

dreams [post-war sasusaku, rated T] ao3 / ffn

In the brief time between the break of his fever and the break of dawn, Sasuke was absent of all his guilt. He held onto Sakura’s hand, and fought sleep to experience the sensation for as long as possible.

After the war, Sasuke's injuries keep him stuck in the hospital. Sakura visits every day.

First Sasuke lost a war with himself. Then he lost an arm. Then the infection and the fever struck, making him keel over then shiver feebly in his hospital bed for three days straight.

His more lucid moments were filled with strangers whizzing into his room to poke and prod him and stick needles horribly into his arm. And when the fever took hold, it carried him downstream to delirium. His nightmares were kind enough to visit him in waking hours, magnified and painted in strong color and detail. And each time he drifted briefly back to consciousness he was greeted with hot, billowing pain at the stump of his arm and the sound of his vitals blaring.

Later a team of doctors inform him that he’s survived a deadly case of sepsis and avoided a second amputation of his left arm. He’ll need bedrest and continued close monitoring. Naruto’s healing well, he hears. Figures.

The days blur. An IV chains Sasuke to bed, where he chokes on boredom thick as smoke. He memorizes the markings of each bird that lands on his windowsill. He watches a ball of dust in the corner move three riveting inches to the left over the course of twenty-four hours. He whips out his sharingan to memorize the lines of his palm, and compares that image to a corresponding record from the last time he was bored to death in a hospital. His heart line has grown longer.

Monotony breaks whenever Sakura breezes into his room.

“I brought you apples.” She smiles at him, a little knowingly. The apples are cut neatly into decorative slices.

She visits at the beginning and end of each shift. In the mornings she smiles brightly in a crisp white coat, and twelve hours later she still smiles brightly, with tired circles under her eyes and loose uncombed hair. This time she’s wearing civilian clothes, here to see him even on her day off.

She’s fearless, for her part. He’s quiet.

When he thinks back to the haze of fever, he remembers slender and cool fingers smoothing damp hair from his brow. A swirl of healing chakra that felt like the way her voice sounds. When he awoke, a nurse mentioned the doctor attending his case invented a new chakra technique on the spot to siphon away the infection.

Sasuke didn’t need to ask who. She never said anything, and he never asked.

He suspects Sakura’s involvement elsewhere, too. When he thinks about why he’s not kept in handcuffs or locked away entirely. In the roasted tomatoes that appear on his meal trays. The reason why Naruto is allowed the occasional visit, shuffling in on crutches and staying until the nurses chase him away.

Sakura sets the plate of apples at his bedside. Today, they resemble rabbits. Sasuke has never eaten more apples in his life, but he does not think of complaining.

“Good news. Your IV is coming out tomorrow!” She smiles, waiting for his reaction.

Right. He should be happy. The feeling flickers dimly and goes out like a damp torch.

Sasuke doesn’t know what his life will look like from here on out. There’s nothing left to hunt after. The main sources of his suffering have all vanished or changed form. All that awaits him is empty space and time—time to reflect, to let the cumulation of all his actions and decisions sink in.

He doesn’t regret the desertion, the treason, as much as others might hope. If he were to go back in time, knowing what he knows about the village, his choices might even look similar. But he regrets hurting the people who cared for him.

He regrets hurting her.

Sakura’s smile has faded. “What’s wrong?”

Sasuke wants to sink under his blankets, to be alone with his guilt. “Nothing.”

“Are you in pain?”

He throws her a glare. “I said it’s nothing.”

Years ago, this would have been enough to scare her away. Now green eyes meet his with full force. “Don’t do this. Don’t be distant.” Sakura’s fingers flex and curl at her sides. “Whatever is on your mind, you can tell me.”

She treats him with such kindness, such patience, though he’s certain he doesn’t deserve it.

“Why are you here, Sakura?” he asks quietly.

“I’m a doctor,” she says, with a flash of irritation.

“You know what I mean.” Sasuke’s vision swims like the beginnings of a migraine. “Leave me. Get on with your life.” He wants the words to carry a touch of contempt, but the lump in his throat filters it all out.

“Why would I leave you?” The pure sincerity of her voice cuts him through. “We just got you back.”

His tongue feels thick and heavy. “I’ve hurt you.” How could she forget?

“I’ve hurt you, too.”

He manages a shake of the head. It’s not the same.

“It’s in the past,” she insists. “We want you in our lives—we always have!”

“I don’t understand why,” he bites, gaining strength.

“Because I love you!”

Birds take off from the windowsill.

Wringing her hands, Sakura clarifies, more weakly, “I love all my friends.”

An icy flame tears through Sasuke’s entire body. He doesn’t believe her. Somehow, he must have tricked her. After everything he’s done, how can someone lower themselves so deeply as to love him? Hot pressure rises behind his eyes. He opens his mouth to recite every reason why she’s wrong.

“So get used to it,” Sakura snaps, recovering and doubling down, like she knows what he’s about to say. Sakura, who has always been a little brazen with her affection, who has so much love and care to give that it confounds him and most others. “I don’t care what’s happened or how long it’s been. You’re still my teammate.”

Sasuke feels a phantom of his past self crouch on his chest. It whispers, push her away, break the plate of apples. Trust yourself and no one else. Be alone. This is the way he knows to protect himself. It’s worked so well, all throughout his life, he can’t imagine anything different.

Does he need to protect himself, from her? Did he ever?

“And…you’re still my friend.” Sakura’s shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath. “If that’s what you want.”

Outside, a raven’s feather drifts in a slow spiral of wind. Sasuke nods.

Sakura straightens. “Good.” Her eyes are jade reflecting fire. “Being friends won’t kill you, I promise. See you in the morning.”

In the morning, Sakura arrives to remove his IV. She’s still carrying an air of quiet victory. To inch this close, to insist on picking up their friendship exactly where they left it, that’s some audacity. Bravery, even.

He needs it.

His heart would crack without it.

Sakura carefully loosens the adhesive and presses gauze over the IV site. Sasuke is already looking away, taking a shallow breath to prepare himself.

“There’s no needles at this part,” she says.

It’s true, he hates needles—one glimpse and he breaks into a cold sweat. But he’s never told anyone. It bothers him that she noticed. “How did you know?”

“I’m a doctor,” she says, which explains very little. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Still hate it,” he breathes.

“I know,” she says. “Done.”

He looks back. She smiles when their gazes meet, holding down pressure on his arm. He didn’t feel a thing.

“You make a small sound.” Her voice is soft. “Under your breath. Like you’re trying to speak but hold it back.”

Sasuke thought he hid the discomfort well. If he can miss such small details about himself, no wonder he was wrong about almost everything—what path to take, and where to place blame, and who to trust. His world has turned over too many times to count.

His senses hone in on Sakura’s touch, muted as it is through gloves and layers of gauze. She’s never changed. Never failed to ease his hurts.

He wants to ask about the fever. The infection that strode in like one last attempt by the world to kill him. She saved his life.

He feels his hand float through the air, stretching towards her face.

Empty air buzzes where his fingers should be grazing her brow. He’s still not used to the loss of his dominant hand. His stump lowers back to his side. Sakura’s expression remains calm, unknowing.

“Thank you,” he says instead.

He knows what the words will mean to her. And so he says it.

A soft smile overtakes Sakura’s face. Sasuke is known for his infamous gaze, but now he doesn’t know where to put it. When to meet her crinkling eyes and for how long. If it’s considered normal to observe the rise of her cheek, the strands of pink hair falling around her face. If he should risk a glance at her smiling lips. The decisions overwhelm him, and he finds he must look away.

Something is different, he thinks.

.

.

“He’s on your roster today? Good luck.”

Sasuke’s room is stationed at a quiet bend of the hall, a blind spot between patient rooms and administrative offices where hospital staff stop to gossip before continuing on their rounds. Whether he wants to or not, he’s often forced to eavesdrop.

“—ripped out his IV. Yes, just ripped it out. Three times. Maybe four. Wouldn’t let anyone touch him.”

“Have you noticed all those horrible birds outside his window? The crows?”

A laugh. “Never seen anything like it. Like a curse, I swear—”

“Excuse me.” The conversation grinds to a halt at Sakura’s sharp voice. “Room Four is still waiting on warm blankets.”

Footsteps scatter in two different directions. Sakura sweeps into his room. Her face is a storm. If he saw that expression on a battlefield, he would reach for his weapon. He pictures her cutting apple slices into playful shapes to reverse the effect.

“Don’t listen to them,” she mutters, and throws the curtain divider closed.

“I don’t care.”

“I care.” Absent-minded, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth, Sakura does something she’s never done before: she sits on his bed. All Sasuke’s attention is pulled to the hand’s width of space between his ankle and the slight dip of her weight on the mattress. He slowly shifts his legs away, careful not to draw her notice.

Sakura pulls a velvet pouch out of her coat. “Here. I brought something.”

The most exciting part of Sasuke’s day was when the scent of antiseptic wafted through the door a little stronger than usual. His interest spikes. “What is it?”

Sakura opens the pouch and pours dozens of black and white Go pieces onto the bedspread. She begins arranging the board among the folds of his blankets, and after a moment, Sasuke leans forward to help. He hasn’t played Go since he was a child, but the smooth, round stones feel familiar in his palm, and the rules come back quickly. They play five games in a row without speaking. Sakura wins the first, and he wins the last four.

When they look up again, it’s dark. Sasuke’s neck is stiff from bending over the game for so long. Time has never passed so quickly for him in the hospital.

Sakura is sitting fully atop the bed now, as she has for the past three games, legs crossed with a pensive hand held to her chin. She packs away the game pieces in silence and pulls the drawstring shut. A crease lingers between her eyebrows.

“You could have died.”

Her eyes swell with tears. She doesn’t make a sound.

“I didn’t,” Sasuke says, soft as he can.

“But you could have.” The tears flow faster than she can wipe them away.

“You didn’t let me.” It makes his gut twist to see her cry, even if she cries because his life matters to her.

“I almost didn’t bring the flowers that day. I didn’t know if you’d want them.” Sakura lifts a sleeve to her face. “If I wasn’t there when the shock hit…”

Sasuke struggles to follow. His memory of the whole ordeal is hazy. He has a vague recollection of a nurse removing a vase of wilted flowers from the bedside in the days after the fever lifted.

Sakura’s shoulders tremble with a sob. “I could have lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me.” He catches her hand. Fingers slide together like whispering a secret. “You have me.”

She lifts her tearstained face. Sasuke feels feverish as his words echo back in the silence of their breathing. Her lips part, bitten and red.

“You only ripped out the IV twice, Sasuke-kun.”

Her expression is knit with determination. Sasuke can’t stop himself—a smile twitches onto his mouth. Sakura seems confused by the reaction, studying him hard.

Movement flashes in the corner of Sasuke’s eye as a large black bird lands smoothly on the windowsill. He recognizes this one for a miniscule nick in its leftmost flight feather.

“And the birds. They’re ravens,” he says evenly. “Not crows.”

Sakura smiles, sudden and shining and wide. Sasuke doesn’t fully understand the meaning of the exchange, but contentment sweeps over him.

The warmth of her hand lingers long after she lets go, and he remembers something about the fever.

.

.

The infection stalls for days, but when the worst comes, it comes quickly.

First Sasuke’s mouth fills with saliva, then arrives a tsunami of inexplicable dread, and that’s all the warning he receives before an important current in his body shifts off-course and begins to sweep him away. Sasuke breathes deep. A sweet scent hovers in the air. Sakura arrived a moment ago with fresh-cut flowers.

His stump throbs with such a sick, bleeding ache that he loses his grip on his senses. His limbs are all trembling. Another breath. His lungs allow just enough air to call out her name.

Footsteps, a sharp voice. “Sasuke? What’s wrong?”

Healing chakra skims over his body. Sakura lets out a tense breath.

Sasuke knows suffering like he knows the face of an old friend. He can feel it loom over him, its breath ghosting the back of his neck.

“It’s—it’s serious, Sasuke-kun.” The air thickens with chakra, a thrum strong enough to detect by ear. “But you’re going to be fine.”

The breath returns to his lungs, but in exchange, screaming hot pain erupts at his arm and reverberates through every corner of his body. Each pain that flares and fades is replaced quickly by another. His mouth and the tip of his nose go numb. His vision cuts in and out. He is a boat tossed by angry waves, kept afloat solely by the light touch of Sakura’s fingertips.

“Don’t leave,” he hears himself say.

Her voice finds him like sunlight. “I won’t.”

“Do you hate me, Sakura?”

Not long ago, Sasuke hated her. The ache of hatred never left his chest. He hated her so much that her face sometimes replaced his nightmares, and he would wake up blinking away tears. He understands if she feels the same.

He never hears her response. A dark, turbulent quiet rushes over his head, and his old friend follows after him.

At dawn on the day his fever breaks, Sasuke floats awake, greeted by swirls of light floating on the inside of his eyelids. His body feels like his own, but different, like he’s been pulled apart and put back together in a different order. He curls his fingers—the numb tingle of phantom pain lights on one side. The fingers of his other hand tighten around something.

He opens his eyes to a world washed in soft grey. To Sakura’s sleeping face, her hair silver in the light. A dream? No, his mind doesn’t grant him peaceful dreams.

Her head rests tired and heavy on the edge of the bed. Between them lies their hands, tightly clasped, as if they met in a moment of turbulence and held on ever since. Long enough so he can’t distinguish her touch from his own. Flowers watch on the windowsill, shedding petals.

.

.

Sasuke plays more games of Go. Less needles are stuck into his arm. He begins to walk again. He feels fresh air on his face. Sakura’s visits continue like clockwork, until one morning she fails to walk through his door.

He sits and watches the birds as morning stretches into afternoon. The chair that has never left his bedside remains empty. After years apart, how quickly he’s grown accustomed to her presence. But this stretch of time is coming to a close. When he leaves the hospital, he doubts he will see her so often.

His window looks out onto the hospital roof, crisscrossed with pipes and exhaust vents, and a small sliver of the street. When the wind blows just right, the branches of a sakura tree wave into view, buds unfurling.

Hard as Sasuke tried to shunt away his past life, he could never escape the spring. The torture of falling petals, of green and pink. The world around him transformed as if to ensure he could never forget her.

Daylight is getting long when Sakura wobbles in, rubbing her eyes. “Hi.”

Sasuke’s spine straightens. “Hey.”

She sits in her spot by the bed, where he’s been playing a game of Go with himself. “How’s the game?”

“I’m losing,” he says.

Sakura smiles and shifts one of the white stones to a dangerous location. Warmth floods Sasuke’s chest, though now he’s certain to lose. Their hands move back and forth over the imaginary board, bold and quick.

Sakura yawns victoriously as she captures his last tile. “Another?”

Exhaustion shadows her eyes, but if he answers yes, she’ll delay sleep even longer. Does she ever sleep? Hospital staff are always wandering the halls to seek her opinion, or pull her into surgeries, or hand her a stack of paperwork. Yet she carves out a portion of her valuable time for him.

Sasuke shakes his head. But he’s not selfless enough to give up her company so soon. “How are you?”

Her tired gaze lifts and flicks away. A faint blush dusts her cheeks. Why? Is it strange for him to ask? He’s still ruminating when she answers. “I’m okay. It’s been a long day. Emergency surgery, complications, everything. I can’t remember the last time I slept…” Their fingers brush twice as they put away the game pieces. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t come earlier.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Sakura leans against his bed and drops her head onto her arms. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

What can he say? He did miss her.

Springtime has come again. The season used to drive him mad. The sakura flowering all at once, all over the continent, wherever he looked. The petals scattering like rain in the wind, catching in the folds of his cloak. The sight of blossoms on bare wood, crossing over his head in a blooming lattice. The five-petaled flowers, the five fingers of a hand he would never touch again. The color. It tested his patience, his devotion to his goal like nothing else.

Sasuke skims his fingers over the pink wave of her hair. He’s always wanted to, deep down. Sakura cracks open her eyes, catches him red-handed in his affection. He runs a thumb in the barest caress across her cheekbone. He is at his weakest in the spring.

“Come here,” he mumbles, fairly certain that she will. Terrified that she won’t.

“Where?” she whispers.

Sasuke lifts his chin. He rests his hand on the blanket. His fingertips burn from touching her. “Here.”

In the brief time between the break of his fever and the break of dawn, Sasuke was absent of all his guilt. He held onto Sakura’s hand, and fought sleep to experience the sensation for as long as possible. He did not deserve her, but he pretended he did.

Even as Sakura slides into the bed, rests her head in his lap, he cannot fully believe what he’s seeing. She presses closer to him, as if she wants to be close, and her eyes drift shut, as if his presence soothes her. A spell falls over Sasuke as he listens to her breathing. His hand lowers to her back.

Maybe, in the end, it’s as simple as she said. She loves him.

Sleepy green eyes blink open with a trace of shyness, of the girl that used to blush each time he spared her a glance. He will never admit how often he tested his powers. “You don’t mind?”

“No,” he says.

Sakura climbs higher. She folds her arms across his chest like he’s a pillow and tucks her cheek into the crook of her elbow. Sasuke’s heartbeat grows unsteady. Her hair smells the same, like jasmine.

Sasuke never imagined a future beyond his revenge, that his life could continue on and contain moments lit in a glow like sunlight through petals. Holding her awakens desires that have nothing to do with pain and sacrifice. He wants to stroke her hair until she falls asleep. He wants to visit her dreams. He wants even more. His chest aches in the way he once thought was hatred.

He touches her cheek, straightening out a lock of silky hair. She doesn’t stir.

Sasuke closes his eyes, and like he’s never had trouble with it before, dreams.

.

.

.

.

[verai-marcel]

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 1 of 27)

Summary: Not every adventurer wields a weapon. You, a hearth witch living near the banks of River Chionthar, are witness to a craft falling from the sky, and wondering if anyone needed assistance, ran down to find survivors. That was your first mistake. Going along with the survivors on their crazy adventure? That was your second mistake. Will you survive your next mistake of letting a hungry vampire bite you?

Author’s Notes: Full disclosure: at this point, I’ve only played through act 2 without romancing Astarion. So why the fuck am I writing some wholesome Astarion x F!Reader? Because I’m dumb and got spoiled on Youtube, and now I can’t stop thinking about the poor guy. Also this is heavily influenced by a couple of wholesome manga (“Life in Another World as a Housekeeping Mage” and “The Forsaken Saintess and her Foodie Roadtrip in Another World”), but I won’t be writing an isekai. You (reader) are from Faerun like everyone else. I’m just here to have some wholesome feels and hurt/comfort. Let’s go go go.

Tags: wholesome, cozy camp time, Astarion x F!Reader, slow burn, good alignment, BG3 Spoilers

Chapter Word Count: 1,843

Ao3 Link here, Darling.

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

Act I, Chapter 1 - The Beginning

You are a hearth witch, living on the banks of the River Chionthar, making potions and herbal remedies for the small villages nearby. For the past three years, you’d been happier than you’d ever been in your life. You loved helping people, but you made sure not to reveal your real name, nor why you always wore long sleeves and gloves, even in the middle of summer.

But the nearby villages had been emptying as of late. News of the goblin camp that recently appeared nearby had first scared off the traveling merchants, and then the locals. You realized that you too should leave, otherwise you’d either have no more customers or goblins on your doorstep. You only had a dagger and a few spells that did little in ways of actual damage, so defending yourself against a horde of enemies was out of the question. So you began to pack up, figuring out what you could bring with you, and what needed to be repurchased once you reached your new home, wherever that might be. 

On a warm sunny day, you decided that this would be your last day here. Your pack was filled, your cottage cleaned out. Tomorrow morning, you would take off to the east, following the river to the next closest town. For now, you decided to grab a few more ingredients for the road, and so, you were out by the river bank, gathering fresh herbs and mushrooms. 

A booming sound followed a strong gust of wind that whipped around you, twigs and grass flying everywhere. Then you saw a ship crash nearby, the land and water being torn asunder, debris flung in all directions. After the chaos died down a bit, you went to go check for survivors. You couldn’t, in good conscience, walk away if someone might need help.

That was a poor decision on your part.

The first survivor you found was a young, dark-haired woman, passed out on the shore. She seemed standoffish, but after helping her up and giving her a drink from your waterskin, you convinced her that the best thing to do was to get out of the area and rest at your cottage while she regained her bearings. 

A little while later, the two of you came upon the strange sight of a single arm, sticking out of a glowing purple rune. You and the young woman, Shadowheart, pulled the poor man out. He introduced himself as Gale, and also joined your party.

As the three of you continued back to your cottage, you came across another stranger. Skin as pale as marble and hair to match. Had some scars on his neck. Perhaps he got them on the ship? He seemed harmless enough. Another escapee of the craft that fell from the sky.

That is, until he tricked you into looking for something in the bushes.

If only he hadn’t touched your exposed neck with his bare hand. Then you wouldn’t have felt the fear, underlined by a desperation you knew all too well. 

The leash is cut.

It made you empathize. And that was one rule that had been burned into your mind at a young age. 

Do not empathize with the enemy.

Fortunately, Gale and Shadowheart talked him down from stabbing you. The man even apologized to you, though it seemed more for show than for sincerity. 

Astarion was his name. He introduced himself with aplomb and decorum, and your hackles raised at the sight. A noble.

After a bit more conversation, they agreed that their shared affliction was enough of a reason to travel together and find a cure.

Swallowing down your general prejudice against nobles, you ignored him and made small talk with the others as you led them back to your cottage. 

***

Your cottage had only one room, enough space for your bed, some storage for herbs and tools, and a work table for your alchemy. Most of your things were packed, but you pulled out enough to take care of your guests. 

The yard to the side of the building was set up as a small campground for travelers to rest. You had figured out a couple years ago that for a small fee, traveling merchants would gladly rest on your land where it was safe, while you made them fresh, nourishing meals and cast spells on their bedrolls to make them feel warm and comfortable. You even managed to get a small tub built in the back to provide a warm bath for an extra fee.

It had been a lucrative idea, one that made you enough money to be quite comfortable out here in the sticks.

You may only know a few cantrips, but you had manipulated them beyond what most people did. Your mending cantrip could fix whole swaths of cloth, your prestidigitation cantrip could keep bedrolls warm all night, or baths hot for hours. It was why you had several repeat customers, traveling merchants who would alter their routes to come to your place to rest. 

You told them of the surrounding area and cooked a meal for them, a simple stew with seasonal vegetables and herbs.

The noble said he wasn’t hungry. You supposed your poor peasant food wasn’t to his taste.

He can suit himself.

While the others were eating, you set up the campground. While you were quietly casting the comfort cantrip on each bedroll, you sensed someone watching you.

“Yes?” you asked, biting the inside of your mouth to keep from being snippy.

Astarion stepped closer to you. He remained standing, looking down on your kneeling form. “What an interesting way to use prestidigitation.”

You shrugged. You had nothing to say to a noble. You finished your spell and started to shuffle over to the next bedroll, but he remained standing in your way.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all, darling.” He didn’t budge.

You let out a short huff and crawled around him. One bedroll left. Ignoring the man, you began the cantrip.

By the time you finished, you looked up to see all three of them watching you.

“What?” you asked, a little disturbed by the attention.

“I hadn’t thought to use that cantrip like this before,” Gale said as he knelt down to touch the bedroll. “How long does it last?”

“All night,” you responded, feeling a little proud of yourself.

Shadowheart was already crawling into the bedroll. “This feels amazing.” She buried herself into the cloth. “It feels like I’m sleeping on a warm cloud.”

Gale shrugged and followed suit. “Gods, you’re right.” He sat up and looked at you. “I don’t know how you manipulated that spell, but it’s absolutely brilliant.”

You felt a zing of joy. Your little custom cantrip impressed a wizard!

The noble watched you for a few more moments before he too, crawled into a bedroll. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh. My, this is rather comfortable.”

You jutted out your chin, but refrained from being too catty about it. Instead, you switched to being polite. 

“Sweet dreams,” you said to everyone, and went about cleaning up around camp. By the time you were done, the three of them were fast asleep.

***

The motley crew thanked you and took off in the morning to explore the area, seemingly never to return.

You looked around at your unpacked things, and decided that it wouldn’t hurt to start off tomorrow morning instead.

Your plans were sidetracked once more, however, when the group returned that evening with a fourth member, grouchy and prickly as a threatened porcupine. After a couple of bowls of your herbal soup, she became a little bit less prickly. Lae'zel was her name, and she punctuated her Common speech with her Githyanki tongue. You found it a bit endearing, the way one finds a stray animal that always hisses at you endearing. 

You cast a warming spell on their bed rolls once more, burned incense to keep the insects away, and made sure they were all comfortable in your little camp area outside of your cottage before going to bed.

The next morning, you got up early to make breakfast for them before they left to explore the ruins that they had found the day before. As you checked your rabbit traps, you noticed one of them was tripped, but the rabbit within was a mere husk, as if it had been dehydrated. 

Curious. 

You reset your trap and returned to camp.

“What’s that?” Shadowheart asked when she saw the husk of a corpse in your hand.

“A dried up rabbit.”

“That doesn’t sound appetizing,” Lae’zel remarked. 

You shrugged. “I can at least sell the pelt later. Sorry, you’ll have to make do with another vegetable stew tonight.” You furrowed your eyebrows. “That is, if you’re coming back here.”

The four adventurers looked at each other.

“I think we’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough,” Gale said. We’ll start heading west from here.”

*** 

The group had finally left, and you had finished packing. You had been delayed by their arrival, but no longer. They truly seemed gone now, with the sun setting and no sign of their return. Tomorrow for sure. Tomorrow, early in the morning, you would set off—

You heard your name being called. Off in the distance, you could see Gale, waving sheepishly at you, followed by the others. 

You sighed. Biting back your annoyance, you smiled and waved back. A customer was a customer. At least this group was entertaining, and quite generous with their gold. And this time, they brought you back some boar meat.

There was one new face, a man with a stone eye. He introduced himself as the Blade of the Frontiers, Wyll. He seemed nice, charismatic even. Someone who had the manners of a noble but the heart of a commoner.

They set up camp once more in your yard, and you unpacked just enough of your supplies to make them a meal. 

"You look like you're ready to go on a journey," Gale commented as you all sat around the campfire, eating a boar roast with herbed potatoes.

"I'm moving. Many people have moved away because of the increase in goblins in the area, and a lot of my business has dried up. And having goblins this close doesn't make me feel all too safe."

“Any plans on where?”

You shrugged. “Not really. I was just going to travel until I found a place to settle.”

"Well, why don't you come with us?" 

Everyone looked at Gale in shock, but then they all looked at you. 

"You do make camp much more comfortable," Shadowheart finally said. 

“And one of us would be standing guard at camp as well, so you would be safe,” Wyll added.

You saw no reason to decline. You liked most of them, save for one snotty noble. A constant flow of income would be nice, for once. You negotiated a decent wage and agreed to head out with them at first light.

That, dear hearth witch, was your second poor decision.

--------

Chapter End Notes:

Yeah, I basically made up a “hearth witch” class as a combo of druid, wizard, and cleric, but hey, welcome to Dungeons & Dragons, where homebrew classes happen all the time. Hope you enjoyed the fic! I'm actively working on the next chapter!

Update 4/4/24: All chapters are here!

Act I - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Act II - Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | 

Act III - Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 (18+) | Part 28 (END)

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 3 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur are both faced with decisions that will change your lives.

Author’s Notes: Chapter three of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Three: Hunger and Desperation

Word count: 2307

You awoke like it was your first breath, startled into your body, taken back by the feeling of being alive. You sucked down air and felt before you saw. But seeing came on quickly, and with it brought panic.

You were laid in someone’s wagon.

Everything came flooding back to you. It took you a moment of lying there before you could find the strength to move, to lift yourself, to escape. Only you couldn’t. You looked down at the immense pressure at your side to see that your torso had been wrapped in bandages. They delayed your movement enough that the pain wasn’t unbearable. But it was close.

“Welcome back, miss.” A rough, gravelly voice. A gray and red haired head sticking up and obscuring the light pouring into the wagon. A stranger. Was there no shortage of them?

It took all you had, but you pushed up onto your hands. You meant to get up but couldn’t before needing a break. A breath.

“Arthur got you stitched up well enough. He’s not exactly our finest, but you should live to see another day.”

Arthur. The name rattled around your brain a moment before landing on the man who had brought you here—under the watchful eye of all these people. The thought made your skin crawl. Just like that, you found your strength.

You got up and worked through the pain, ignoring the protests of the man and pushing past him. The drop down from the wagon seemed a mile, but you did it anyway and allowed a small cry to escape before you were shuffling away—your best attempt at a run.

“Miss! I really don’t encourage-”

“What the hell’s going on?” The lone voice you knew, the one you didn’t want to hear. Because it was the only one that could stop you.

You continued on, blindly running into the trees, trying not to trip when your vision blurred.

The men behind you squabbled before you heard footsteps. They gained on you so fast you almost laughed in pity for yourself, unbelieving you had ever let yourself get so weak.

There was a hand on your shoulder in seconds. You shook it off and kept going. Even when its owner said, “Hey, I’d stop if I was you, lest you hurt yourself worse.”

You could only feel panic rising in your throat at where you had woken up. Around all those people, inside a wagon. How dare he bring you there. The feeling of the wagon wood digging into your back, your side, the world coming down around you—you tripped up and crashed to the ground without warning, the woods rushing up to meet you.

“What did I say?”

You felt hands hook under your arms, drag you back to a sitting position. You couldn’t do a thing to stop them. You felt like you would be sick again but knew you were beyond the capability. Too empty.

Rough hands steadied you, bringing into focus the same man you wished more than anything you had turned down. You could be lying dead with them now if you had.

“You okay?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

Always. Your blank stare must have given you away. “Lie back then, let me have a look at you. Make sure you didn’t pull your stitches.”

You did as he said, the soft, enveloping ground like a final resting place. You wished it were.

The pressure in your side heightened as the man pulled at your bandages. You couldn’t make out what he was doing when he got them undone, too busy being accosted by memory to care. You wanted to crawl out of your skin so as not to feel that wagon against your back again.

“Looks fine. You’re lucky. Really could have hurt yourself.”

Lucky. What was the opposite of luck? What was this feeling clawing to be free from your chest? It gripped you like a vise when he spoke. “Let’s get you back-”

“Don’t touch me.”

He paused, one hand hovering over your still-open bandage cloth.

“How could you.” It was a breath, all the energy you had left poured into the hurt of those words. Not a question but a declaration.

“What, save your life? Ride you all this way, keep you from getting yourself killed?” The anger in his voice made you want to melt away into nothingness. You shut your eyes. He sighed like he always did, like he didn’t have the patience for this. “Look, I know you don’t like it here with these folk, but they’ll help keep you alive. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Did you? Truly? The fact was you were too hurt to cling onto life for your parents’ sake. Too broken. You hadn’t factored that into your decision to come here.

You must have been quiet too long for the man’s liking. He scoffed, making you look at him as he stood. “Stay here then, see if I care. Ain’t my job to make you see sense.”

He was right in that at least. You watched him walk away, back toward all those wagons. Each step of distance made your chest well up with sadness. It wasn’t that you were ungrateful. You just couldn’t do this. He was pushing you to live too hard and too fast.

You laid there contemplating what to do. If you truly wanted to live, there wasn’t anything he or any one of the people in that caravan could do for you. It would have to be your decision, your strength. But it was a difficult task when you had such little strength left. Like hanging off a cliff, holding on with two fingers while the world urged, up.

Would you climb or let go?

You looked down at the cloth wrapped around your middle. The fall could have killed you, but it didn’t. The wound could have too. All manner of things—the wrong man finding you under that bridge, an animal sniffing out the carnage. The ride here, these people. You could be dead ten times over. But you weren’t, and your parents were, and there had to be a reason for that. They wanted better for you. You wouldn’t have gotten here if that wasn’t true.

You recalled the last conversation you had with them and felt guilt creep in and make a home within you. You had been arguing over the trip’s outcome, what happened once you reached Nebraska. They were trying their best not to admit it, but they wanted you to stay there without them when they went back home to Montana. They insisted the new place would grow on you, that you wouldn’t want to leave when the time came. You were trying to spell it out for them—you wanted to die on the land you were raised on, keep the homestead running after they were long gone. Had that been too much to ask?

The conversation was cut short when your father had mentioned dinner. Then darkness fell, and with it, the whole world.

You shut your eyes tight against the memory. It had felt like being ten years old again. The whole trip had with all the decisions being made for you. But this was your decision now. The first time out from under their heavy-handed guidance, would you trust their judgment or spite them?

As eager as you were to do what you wanted, you knew your answer. Owing it to them wasn’t enough anymore—you had to want it for yourself. You had to want to live, because doing them the favor didn’t give you the strength to stand up, walk back into that camp of people and prove it. It was all in your hands now. And your parents didn’t raise you to quit when things got hard.

You were a living legacy. What would the world see when it saw you?

You opened your eyes. You were defiant at your core, stubborn and true to your word. You had taken the stranger’s hand, you had held onto the edge of the world. You would not falter now.

Through gritted teeth, you sat up. You swallowed your fear and tightened your bandages. You rose to your feet. The world swayed, but you stood firm. All thought of obligation behind you, you took the first step.

You would live.

~

“She’s your responsibility now, Arthur.”

“In case you ain’t noticed, she don’t want me around. Any of us for that matter, and I ain’t forcing her to act otherwise.”

Hosea leveled Arthur with the same knowing look that never failed to rile him. Like he knew better. And maybe he did, but that didn’t make the situation any less impossible.

“So what, you’re gonna leave her out there? Let her die?”

“I’ll help,” Arthur shot back. “But I ain’t convincing the woman to live.”

“Arthur,” Hosea chided. “It ain’t about-”

“Leave it, you two,” Dutch said, ambling over. Arthur was ready to argue with him too, his anger having nowhere to go until Dutch nodded his head toward an approaching figure. You. You looked miserable, curled in on yourself whether from pain or embarrassment Arthur couldn’t tell. He was willing to bet on the latter given that you wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye.

“She ain’t talking. To me at least,” Dutch said.

Hosea looked to Arthur, though he wouldn’t meet his gaze. He didn’t have to look to feel that knowing attention. Instead he watched you shuffle over with your hand over your bandaged side. When you were finally close enough, you stopped and stared at him like no one else was there.

“Take me to Nebraska.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up at your nerve.

“Please,” you added.

He had already considered it when you asked the first time and had already thought better of it. Colorado was easier.

“Why there? Why not just-”

“Family’s there,” you interrupted.

Tired of talking in circles, Arthur looked to Hosea for help. He shrugged.

Dutch spoke. “I thought you said you didn’t have family.” You flinched at his voice but otherwise ignored him wholly, eyes planted on Arthur. Why he had had the fine idea of rescuing you in the first place when this was what it landed him…

“Just come with us. It’s a hell of a lot quicker, and we won’t starve to death in the meantime. Or I can let you off at the next town.”

You shook your head as soon as he got the words out. He felt his patience nearing its end.

“Forget it. Stay here or find someone else to take you then, cause I done more than enough already.”

“Arthur,” Hosea chided.

“What?”

“He’s got a point, Hosea,” Dutch said. “We need him here.”

Hosea studied you long enough that silence took over. It seemed to make you uneasy—you finally met the old man’s eye.

“Why don’t you take her?” Arthur muttered to him.

“Now, hold on. I ain’t having him going out and getting killed on account of-” Dutch started before Hosea held up a hand, silencing him.

“I can take her. What do you say?” This to you. Whatever hopes Arthur had of you accepting plummeted when you met his gaze again. You were afraid, eyes wide like an animal’s, pleading.

“You should go with him,” he assured you. “He’s a whole hell of a lot easier to get along with than I am.”

You shook your head and whispered, “Please.” And damn you for looking so helpless—it tugged on something deep within Arthur he normally had a better hold on.

“If I say no…” he started, wondering how desperate you really were. “What’s your plan? Running off on your own?”

Tears started to form in your eyes. And again he had that nagging feeling—the want to help where help was needed. The same feeling that had made him take you all this way.

“Please,” you said again, this time with the hint of a sob in your voice. Begging him.

Arthur tore his gaze away. He couldn’t stand that.

“Take her, Arthur,” Hosea urged.

“We can’t spare him,” Dutch replied. “We need him here.”

“John can scout,” he shot back. “And anyone can hunt as well as he can.”

“Hosea…” Arthur met his eye, unspoken words passing between them. He was tired of being pushed to do these things, to do the right thing. At the end of the day, none of it would matter. They were still a bunch of no-good outlaws. But Hosea didn’t budge. And Dutch didn’t argue. And you were starting to cry.

He took a long breath. “Fine.” The way your eyes lit up made him add, “But I got preparations to make before we start off.”

For the first time, a smile crossed your face. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” You turned to walk away, and Arthur was left feeling like an idiot. “Goddamn Nebraska,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know it’s the right thing,” Hosea said.

“I know it is, and I also know it’ll take me months to get back to you lot. Not to mention the trip she and I could both die on in the meantime.”

“You’re savvy enough,” Hosea said. “Your hunting could use a little work, but that’s nothing a little hunger and desperation can’t fix.” He slapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and smiled. “It’ll be good for you.” Before Arthur could argue that particular nonsense, Hosea left him standing there. He rounded on Dutch for help.

“He’s right, you know. Infuriating as always, but right.”

Arthur brooded as Dutch walked away too. He wondered for the first time in his life what those two fools would do without him. But, it seemed, he was about to find out.

_________

Chapter four is here.

tag list: @tommys0not0beloved @ultraporcelainpig

[libraryofgage]

Too excited to not share after finishing, so here's the full (unedited) Cheerleader Steve chapter of the Modern Steve in 80s Hawkins fic lmao

Featuring: Cheerleader Steve, Hellfire Club, Eddie's tragic split ends almost (almost) eliminating Steve's attraction to him, and Steve’s cheer routine living rent free in Eddie's head forever after (not that he knows it)

Anyway, here we go:

The theater room is mostly empty except for three more teens. A table is set up in the middle of the stage area, a DM partition at the head of the table and a grid-map spread across the middle. Little figurines are placed across the grid, each of them seeming to be in specific positions related to monster-like figurines. Steve can see two teens sitting at the table clearly, but the third one is behind the DM partition, slouching in their chair so only one hand with rings decorating the fingers can be seen dangling from the arm.

Flannel Teen leads Steve into the room just in time to hear the tail-end of someone saying, “-ill not convinced they won’t show up.”

“Eddie,” Flannel Teen says, cutting off whatever would have been said in response, “got a visitor for you.”

The one behind the DM partition---Eddie, Steve realizes---straightens up in his chair, a pair of brown eyes peeking over the top of the partition and landing on Steve. The eyes widen slightly, something like amusement and wariness dancing in them as Eddie stands and walks around the table and…

And Steve is fucked. He didn’t even know the whole metal-grunge-80s thing would do it for him, but here is with his heart skipping a beat. He wants to trace the rings on Eddie’s fingers, wants to study all the patches and pins on his vest, wants to grab him by the belt loop and wallet chain and pull him in close and kiss until they’re breathless.

The thing is, Steve doesn’t believe in things like love at first sight. But he does believe in things like his imagination and following his gut and knowing when the two are working together. Right now, his imagination and gut are doing a fucking tango with how they’re offering him visions of a semi-awkward dates, sweet kisses, incredibly satisfying nights, and little stolen moments together that make both of them smile for years to come.

He just knows in his gut that it could be so good, they could be good, but he still isn’t entirely convinced that Eddie isn’t a murderer. He’s, like, 98% sure, but that 2% is what keeps him in check, stops him from flashing a charming grin at Eddie. He’d really prefer to not be like those true crime girlies who want to fuck Dahmer, thanks.

“So,” Eddie says, effectively pulling Steve from his thoughts as he walks up to him, “what made you bring a stranger into our lair?” Despite looking straight at Steve, he knows the question is aimed at Flannel Teen.

“Some of the swim team cornered me in the hall,” Flannel Teen says, shrugging nonchalantly when Eddie glances over at him with a concerned, questioning look. “He…talked them into leaving and said he needed to talk to you.”

Steve thinks that’s an understated way of saying he implied they were all gay and then used high school social hierarchy and expectations to make them leave, but sure. Eddie hums with appreciation, apparently thinking Steve is worth a few seconds of his time, then, and asks him, “What’s your name, big boy, and what do you need from yours truly?”

“My name is Steve. It’s nice to meet you,” Steve says, smiling politely and ignoring the urge to ask how a theater room qualifies as a lair as he sticks his hand out.

The amusement in Eddie’s eyes instantly vanishes, replaced with indignation as he ignores Steve’s hands. His lips curl up in a sneer, circling Steve like he’s sizing up an opponent. “So, you’re the Steve I’ve heard so much about. How bold to show your face after making my campaign unplayable,” he says, coming to a stop in front of Steve.

This close, Steve is almost distracted by the absolute travesty that is Eddie’s hair. He wants to reach out, cradle the poor locks with their split-ends, and ask Eddie why he’d neglect something with such potential. He looks like he uses the 80s equivalent of a fucking 3-in-1 shampoo, and Steve almost loses all his attraction to Eddie in that moment.

Almost.

Steve drops his hand, keeping his polite smile even as he raises an eyebrow. “Unplayable? You could just reschedule it, dude,” he points out.

Eddie’s nostrils flare slightly, a scoff coming from him in the next second as he leans back, waving his hand dismissively. “Of course you don’t understand the sanctity of DnD. Let me guess,” he says, spinning on his heel and raking his eyes up and down Steve. “A jock, right? Balls in laundry baskets or tidy-whitey swimming? I’m surprised you aren’t with the rest of the brainwashed conformists at the game right now.”

Oh, Steve has been handed such a golden opportunity on a silver-platter here. He could blow Eddie’s assumptions right out of the water. But what would be funnier? Blowing the expectations out of the water now, or playing into them for now and confusing the hell out of him later? Well, it’s easier for Steve if he’s just honest and himself right now. Plus, he can't wait to see Eddie's face when he truly realizes he was wrong.

“I did play basketball,” Steve admits, ignoring the absolute elation on Eddie’s face that’s probably from being right and getting to rub it in, “and I did swim. But I’ve also played DnD a few times. I’ve been told my DM was shit, though, so I probably wasn’t playing right. Oh, I was a substitute cheerleader my senior year of high school and joined the chess club, too. I’m not at the game because Dustin asked me to talk to you. And because I just didn’t want to go.”

Eddie’s elation morphs into confusion, then curiosity, and then disbelief. “Somehow, I’m doubting the cheerleader and chess club part of that, Stevie,” he says, drawing out the nickname into something that’s supposed to be mean and goad him into reinforcing Eddie’s initial assumptions.

“What, want me to prove it to you?”

“Sure, Stevie, prove you were a cheerleader.”

Steve sighs, nods, and takes a few steps back. “You know, I fail to see what any of this has to do with Dustin and his friends asking you to postpone the campaign,” he says, shrugging off his jacket. He glances around, notices Flannel Teen standing next to Eddie, and holds it up questioningly.

Flannel Teen starts to reach out for the jacket only for Eddie to snatch it up himself. “Careful, Gareth, we don’t want you getting infected,” he jokes, flashing a grin that makes Gareth snort and tells Steve this is some kind of inside joke. He looks back at Steve and adds, “This has everything to do with it, big boy. I gotta make sure you aren’t a liar leading poor little Henderson astray.”

There’s genuine concern in his tone, so Steve bites back his sarcastic response and nods. He thinks for a moment, looking at the space around him and counting the syllables in Hellfire. After cycling through the few cheers he still remembers well enough to recite, he finally chooses one that doesn’t require too much movement.

Steve shakes out his arms, rolls his shoulders, and takes a deep breath.

“Hold on!” he shouts, plastering a bright smile onto his face and holding his hand out in front of him. He then spreads his legs to be shoulder-width apart and uses his right index finger to tap his left wrist in an exaggerated manner as he says, “Wait a minute!”

He’s barely started, and the entirety of Hellfire Club is staring at him like he’s an alien. The looks only get more confused as his grin becomes a little more genuine and he shouts, “Hellfire puts some boom into it!” As he says the club’s name, he pushes his arms out to the side, and he jumps as high as he can when he gets to “boom,” touching his toes mid-air.

Steve manages to land steadily, subtly letting out a breath of relief as he places his hands on his hips. He keeps up with the momentum, bringing his fists in front of his face. “Ramp it up!” He punches above his head with his left fist. “Knock it out!” He punches the air in front of him. Gareth slides his foot back slightly when Steve punches forward, and he’d feel bad if not for the clear fascination in the guy’s eyes.

“Hellfire Club always stays on top!” Steve brings his arms up and flexes them, a little proud of his muscles when he sees the way Eddie stares at his arms. “Hellfire Club never drops!” Steve, however, does drop. He drops into a split (and holy fuck, he’s grateful he wore the looser jeans today) with jazz hands thrown up in the air.

Silence reigns supreme in the wake of his cheer, and Steve can’t help his intense satisfaction at seeing the way Eddie’s grip on his jacket tightens, his knuckles surely turning white under the rings. Steve drops his arms, carefully moves out of his split, and stands up. “So, good enough for you?” he asks.

Eddie stares at him for a few seconds before looking away and roughly throwing his jacket back. “Yeah,” he says, his tone significantly less combative than before, “I guess we can fucking reschedule the campaign.”

Steve smartly refrains from asking what his cheer routine has anything to do with rescheduling the campaign when he was originally doing it to prove he wasn’t, in fact, leading Dustin astray. If this works in his favor, then he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, he shrugs on his jacket and says, “Maybe everyone could tell me their names now.”

And so Steve learns their names are Gareth, Jeff, Asher, and---of course---Eddie.

[snipsels]

CHAP. I Strangers ── qimir x jedi!reader

fic masterlist | next chapter | wc 1.1k | content alcohol consumption, tension, qimir staring you down

note i listened to my sex playlist while writing this. help.

Your pouch of credits sang out a seductive melody, cutting through the bustling cantina as it landed on the bar with a definitive clink. "I need information."

"Regardin' what?" The besalisk behind the counter regarded you with apathetic eyes. One pair of his hands meticulously cleaned the inside of a glass. Leaning forward, you shielded the pouch with your elbows, casting a wary glance over the cantina crowd before returning your focus.

"A scroll," you said in a subdued tone, as though sharing a secret with one another. "An ancient one. Ya heard any whispers pass 'bout it?" The besalisk straightened, stowing the glass in a cupboard with deliberate movements.

" 'M afraid not, lady. Where'd ye get that idea?" He frowned, resting two of his arms on the bar.

"It's been goin' around," you shrugged, "They sayin' the Hutts got it."

The man cackled. "Then ye truly got some nerve poppin' in here askin' 'bout them. Nar Shaddaa ain't no place for those lookin' to take from the Hutt."

"C'mon, you're Ohnar aren't you? Thought you were the best source 'round these parts." Your hands travelled back to the credits. You pushed the pouch towards him. "Sure you don't wanna take me up on that offer?"

Ohnar scoffed, pushing the pouch right back at you. "Pleasure doin' business with ya," he spat sarcastically before turning back to his drinks.

Swimming in disappointment and rejection, you pursed your lips and sighed, snatching the pouch from the counter and returning it to your coat. You were clad in a smuggler's outfit —tight and dark, far from what Jedi were expected to wear. The council had sent you on an undercover mission to retrieve an ancient Sith scroll allegedly in the hands of the Hutt clan.

Though which Hutt possessed it exactly, you weren't sure of. You were growing restless in your search. This had been your third possible lead already, and none have brought you any closer. You rubbed your forehead in defeat. Great. Now what?

A drink appeared before you, pulling you from your haze. You looked up at the besalisk. "I didn't order this—"

" 'S not from me." The besalisk nodded towards the end of the bar. You slowly turned your head in the direction he was pointing at. A dark presence –a pathetic-looking man clad in loose robes– sat slouched comfortably over the bar, playing with an empty membrosia glass.

Something alluring surrounded his presence, making your eyes stick to him like caramel. Only when the man did look up and right at you, did your gaze snap back to Ohnar, questioning. He shrugged in response. Not his problem.

You took a sip from your drink, feeling the sweet burn of alcohol trickle down your throat, and stood. A Jedi shouldn't waste time entertaining frivolities such as this. Against better judgement, your feet carried you to the empty seat beside the stranger.

Sitting down, you turned your body towards the man. You didn't say anything, only studied him. His hair was long –reaching just beyond his ears– and greasy. His arms were completely hidden beneath his clothing, revealing nothing of his physique. Only his shoulders betrayed him: wide and imposing, even in his hunched-over position.

You weren't sure how long your eyes were dissecting his figure. There was something distinctly unusual about him. The longer you looked, the tighter the air seemed to get, coiling around you like vines. There was an uncanny itch enveloping you, waiting for you to dig your nails into your skin for relief.

He shifted beneath his moss robes. Coloured like poison ivy you had unintentionally grazed yourself on. With his movements, it almost seemed as though the fabric was alive. Slithering onto you, exacerbating the prickling sensation that tickled your nerves. You wanted to get rid of it.

Your fingers twitched.

"Nice smuggler accent you had there... Little flawed though," he spoke up finally, and your attention shifted. His voice was smooth and lyrical, like a song. The timbre of it sent vibrations through the air. You could feel his presence overwhelm you in the force. He was everywhere, and it was suffocating.

He leaned back and locked his eyes on you and at once you were itching again. His eyes weren't of any notable colour. Only a dull void. Despite that, it seemed as though something more was swirling in them. Something you couldn't figure out. Something that had you taken aback.

His gaze held a question now, a challenge. He was trying to read you. You shifted in your seat. "Who are you?"

"Someone who can help you." He leaned in closer as he said it.

You blinked in surprise. "Why would I need your help?" you muttered with a frown. Looking up at him, you attempted to analyze the expression in his gaze, searching for motives and reason.

He tilted his head and let his eyes roam your face. The vines coiled tighter. Your breath hitched. It was embarrassing. The whole ordeal was embarrassing. The thought of simply standing up and leaving the cantina at once was a tempting one.

"I work for them," he whispered. So close now, your breaths were mingling together. Even tighter. "The Hutt?" you wondered aloud.

He scanned the cantina before giving you a curt nod and leaning in further. "I know what you're looking for and I know where to look. I've got intel and resources that are highly valuable to you."

"What would you be getting out of this? Payment?"

"You aren't the only one looking to... 'retrieve' some items. And stealing from the Hutt isn't a one-man job, I assure you." His eyes shifted to your lips. "...But with the right partner, the risks become that much more enticing, don't you think?"

You leaned back, his words hanging in the air like a torturous promise. The intensity of his gaze unnerved you. You couldn't breathe.

You turned to your drink and downed the thing in seconds. The vines around your neck disappeared. You could breathe again. But leaning on the bar, you didn't see him raising his eyebrows at your actions. Didn't see his eyes shine with the same pride hunters do after having caught their prey.

Would consuming alcohol at this rate clear your head as intended? Not likely. But you were tense. And desperate. Your mission so far had not been a success —it had stalled, and if this man had knowledge about it, word must be spreading. Speeding up was an imperative now, and an accelerator for those plans had conveniently appeared before you. Albeit a distracting one.

You were certain this was the riskiest decision you were ever going to make. But you were not stupid. You knew what you would be getting into. Besides, you were a trained Jedi knight. What harm could some smuggler possibly pose to you?

"I don't even know your name," you said, shifting back to him.

"Qimir,” he smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you.”

[aparticularbandit]

Finding Family: Part Five: Chapter Forty-Three

Summary: When America begins universe-hopping again to try and find her moms, she realizes that’s too much scope for her.  She looks for smaller scope, and instead she finds Wanda.

AO3

America slides through the roots of the now very real tree, bare feet catching on bits and barbs, regretting that her boots are gone because they would be so much better about kicking these things out of the way and then she wouldn’t have to worry about getting things stuck between her toes while she’s going this fast.  She is aware, on some level, that this should hurt, that in a normal world, it would hurt, but she doesn’t feel any pain at all. Bumpy and uncomfortable as the slide has been, there’s no pain.  None. Not even when she lands, bare foot, on soil much rougher and harder than that of the yellow dirt road that led her here.  Her toes dig into the dirt, and she – by instinct – lands in her superhero pose.

When she straightens, America scans the room and finds it exactly as she had left it.  Piles of pillows and blankets on the ground.  Hammocks set at differing levels everywhere.  Pan, swinging his back and forth, one leg crossed over the other, head of shockingly silver hair resting on one arm.  “Told you,” he says, not even looking down at her. “I told you my sister was sick.  But no one ever listens—”

“Hush, you silly ass.”

America glances up to the hammock that had, once, been hers and sees a frumpled mess of dark corkscrews first, then bright blue eyes through thick black frames peer down at her.  “Pixie?” she whispers, unable to keep the horrified awe out of her voice.  “You’re alive?”

Pixie stares down at her.  Her right hand moves to the edge of the hammock, fingers curling around the fabric, and as she shifts into better focus, a thick, oak hook, twisted and gnarled and more ornamental than useful, its edge blunted, as though it had its tip chopped cleanly off grows out of her left arm where a hand should be.  She reaches up with it, rubs the side of her nose, and then curves and flops down on her hammock the way a cat might, head hanging over the edge, back flat along the fabric, still just staring at her.  “Star light, star bright,” she sings, “first star I see tonight—”

“Stop,” Pan commands, although he doesn’t move from his hammock.  “You’re not supposed to speak to strangers, are you, Pixie?”

“Wasn’t speaking.”  Pixie shoots a look at Pan.  “Was singing.  ‘S not the same thing.”

Pan glances over to Pixie. “Yeah?”  His brows raise.  “You try telling our Wendybird that.  See what she thinks.”

Pixie just sticks her tongue out at him. Then she turns back to America, still hanging down over her hammock, and flashes her a brilliant grin, more cheshire cat than anything, but even it had been some sort of magical, hadn’t it, able to appear and disappear at will?  She opens her mouth as though considering to speak and then decides against it, covers her lips with her wooden hook, and giggles, smile still bright.

All of this makes America wildly uncomfortable.  She unties her jacket from around her waist and pulls it over her mostly bare shoulders.  It’s only as she does so that she notices Pan isn’t in his normal tattered jeans and shirt, but instead in clothing that seems to be made from tree leaves – mostly green, but also a mixture of fall colors: gold, orange, yellow, but no red. She swallows.  “Pan,” she starts, “where’s Wendy?”

If she were there, Wendy would be in her own hammock, hung high at the very top, far above the other two, but the hammock that rests there is completely empty.  Wendy is nowhere to be seen.

Pan just sighs, pulls a forest green alpine hat from somewhere in his hammock, and places it over his face. “If Wendy wanted you to know that—”

“Pan.”  Pixie cuts him off with a singsong tone as she throws a crumpled up piece of paper at him. “You should be a good boy.  Where’s your medicine?  Don’t you need to take your medicine?”  She pulls the last word out so that it sounds like three – med-i-cine – instead of one.

The paper bounces off of Pan and falls to the floor.  Pixie’s hook hangs over the side of her hammock, pointing down to it.  America’s gaze drops to it then returns to Pixie, who looks at her briefly before turning back to Pan.

Pan still has the hat covering his head, so he misses all of this.  “I don’t have to do anything with that until Wendy gets back,” he says with a huge yawn. He stretches his arms and then pulls them back under his head.  “Unless it’s time for you to take it.”

Pixie’s face scrunches up.  “Yuck.”

America carefully kicks the crumpled bit of paper up and shoves it into her pocket.  “Look, Wendy led me here for a reason,” she says.  “I don’t think it’s to argue with you two.  So if you could just—”

Pan yawns again, louder this time. “Wish we could help you, Starlight, but we’re just puppets.  Can’t tell you anything she doesn’t want you to know.”

“But she brought me here—”

“Probably just to keep you cooped up here with her favorites,” Pan interrupts.  “There aren’t a lot of us she hasn’t changed.”

America raises an eyebrow.  “She hasn’t changed Pixie?”  She glances to the girl in question.  “Pixie has a wooden hook for a hand, and you’re saying she hasn’t changed Pixie?”  Before Pan can respond, she puts her hands up in a feigned defensive position.  “Look, you two can stay here all you want, but I’m gonna get out and explore.  It’s still Neverland, right?  If I go far enough, I’ll find something.”  She starts towards the tunnels.

“Starlight.”

“Yeah?” America pauses and turns back.

Pan sits up on the edge of his hammock, hands clenching the fabric, and stares at her.  “Where’s your present?”

Present? America glances down at her gauntlet, at her middle finger where the ring should still be.  She pulls her jacket sleeve back and holds her arm aloft so he can see it.  “It’s right here.  Wendy changed it when I got here, but...it’s still here.”

But Pan just shakes his head.  “Not that one.”

At first, America isn’t certain what he’s talking about, and then she reaches up to the bootstring still holding her hair back, even if it’s only the half-ponytail instead of the high one she’d had before.  It’s more tightly wound around the smaller bunch of hair, multiple times around a few inches down, ending in what feels like a tidy little bow.  Knowing that it’s still there makes her feel much more comfortable.  “Pixie,” she says, and she steps forward to the other girl.  “If I remember correctly, you were the one who gave these to Wendy in the first place.  It must have...it must have hurt when she gave one of them to me, right?”

Pixie stares at America.  Her eyes grow wide, but she doesn’t say anything. Still, her gaze focuses on the bootstring wrapped in America’s hair.  For a moment, her bright blue eyes seem to glow green, but that could just be the reflection of something else.  It disappears as soon as it’s there.

America bites her lower lip, then gently unties the bootstring from her hair and hands it up to Pixie. “Here,” she says.  “This was yours first.  It should be yours again.”

Pixie doesn’t move.  She stares warily at the bootstring dangling from America’s fingertips.  Her gaze flicks to meet America’s eyes, and then she reaches out, snatches the bootstring, and disappears into her hammock.

“I’m going to go now,” America says, still focused where Pixie is, even though the other girl isn’t looking at her.  It’s weird, having her hair down, and she wants to snatch the bootstring back, just so she can put her hair back up.  But she won’t.  “You keep that.  It’s a present from me, okay?”  She glances over to Pan, who gives her a little nod.  For some reason, she expects that the gesture might prompt him to tell her where Wendy is, but he says nothing.  Finally, she shoves her hands into her pants pockets again and starts off through the tunnels that lead away from the tree.

Halfway down one of the tunnels, when America can just see the light filtering through on the other end, she finds something in her pocket that wasn’t there before.  When she pulls it out, she finds the bootstring – or one exactly like it – waiting there.  One corner of her lips lifts in a little smile.  “Thanks,” she murmurs, and she pulls her hair up and back out of her face.  “I guess that means it didn’t piss you off too much that I gave the other one away.”

There’s no answer.  She’s not sure why she thinks there should be an answer. She keeps talking anyway.

“That’s a really mean thing you did to Pixie.  I know she did some horrible things to you, but....” America’s voice trails off.  Wanda had done the same thing to her.  Wanda had wanted the same thing done as a punishment to her.  Her lips press together.  “I don’t think forcing her to be good or to be what you want her to be is the right way. It...it would mean more if she chose it herself, you know?  I think....” She sighs.  “I think she would choose to be good, if she could.”

To be honest, America isn’t quite sure if she’s talking to Wendy about Pixie or if she’s talking to herself about someone else entirely.  It could be both, couldn’t it?  She’d...she’d be fine with both.

The sunlight at the end of the tunnels beckons.  As she draws closer, she pulls out the crumpled piece of paper Pixie had thrown at Pan and smooths it out against her thigh before holding it in front of her. Find the center, the paper says, writtten in a scribbled handwriting that had to be Pixie’s.  Find the center.

America instinctively shivers.  She remembers what had been at the heart of the original Neverland.  She doubts Wendy would have kept a bomb frozen by the Time Stone in the middle of the new reality she had created, but she can’t be too sure.  Whatever’s at the center – if Wendy even lets her get to the center – if that’s what Pixie is trying to break through to tell her (or what Wendy is forcing her to tell her), then...then she’ll listen.

When she steps out into the sunlight, America raises a hand to shield her eyes.  The yellow dirt road stretches onward before her, but she steps away from it, into the forest she sees just on the other side.  That looks much more like the Neverland she remembers.

Time to go exploring.

~

You are you again.

Sort of?

But not quite.

Agatha Harkness continues to hum softly in the back of her own mind, in a little space that seems to have been created just for her.  She can see through her own eyes, even though she isn’t quite controlling what those eyes can see, and she can still breathe through her own lungs, although she isn’t quite controlling when she breathes, and—

You don’t feel like you’re a few pixels shifted off of your body, only something moving and weaving just beneath the surface, and if you can just stretch far enough, maybe, just maybe—

“Agnes,” you whisper in the back of your own mind, and she startles.

That’s new.

You stretch just a little farther, and you whisper a little louder, “Agnes.”

Agnes startles again, jumps, and looks over her shoulder.  She doesn’t see anybody new there, and she certainly doesn’t see anyone close enough to have whispered just so against her ear.  Or. Not against her ear, because if they had whispered against her ear, certainly she should have felt their breath against the shell of it, and the only thing she’s felt like that is just the general flowing breeze.

And yet.

It’s nothing, Agnes thinks, and she turns back to the Wanda who still doesn’t know who she is and is dressed completely differently and—

Agnes. Close your eyes.  I need to talk to you.

“I—”

“You what?” Wanda asks, and she speaks in an accent that Agnes can’t really place but that you know is Sokovian.  Her eyes narrrow.

Poor thing.

You sigh, and Agnes jumps, and you say it louder this time, form it into a command that she has to listen to, and say, Close your eyes.  Now.

Agnes closes her eyes, squeezes them shut, and all at once, there she is, standing, across from you Agatha, hands clenched into fists, shivering.  Agatha smirks.  That’s something.  The smirk fades.  She purses her lips and crosses the distance between them, placing a hand on Agnes’s shoulder.  “Look at me, dear.”

“You told me to close my eyes, hon. I wouldn’t want to—”

“Look at me.”

“Okay.”  Agnes opens her eyes – but she doesn’t open her eyes, not really – and she sees Agatha, the mirror image of herself standing across from her, and she jumps again.  Her gaze sweeps the endless empty expanse around them.  “Oh, no.”  She takes a sharp breath in.  “Oh, not again.”  She turns and meets Agatha’s eyes.  “Can you tell me where I am, hon?  I seem to have gotten myself—”  She cuts herself off.  Her eyes narrow and then widen in shock.  “You,” she murmurs.  “You were at Wanda’s house.  You’re the one who visited me when Ralph was....”  Her voice trails off, and she sniffles.

Agatha pats Agnes’s shoulder gently. “I’m not the woman you saw at Wanda’s house,” she corrects just as gently, “but yes, I am the one who visited you.  I saved your life doing that.”

“Saved my—”  Agnes shifts out from Agatha’s touch.  “Hon, you broke into my house.”

“Let’s not be rude.”  Agatha glances to the left, where she had been able to see outside of this endless expanse, out into the actual world.  But the body has its eyes closed, so there’s nothing there now.  “I need your help.”

Agnes stares at her curiously. “Help?”  She almost visibly brightens, despite how much she didn’t trust Agatha only seconds prior.  “What can I do, dear?  Just point me in the right direction.”

~

She’s unsteady.

Of course, she’s unsteady.

Agnes is acting as a conduit for magical powers that throb and thrum throughout her entire body, that she didn’t realize she could access likely because she shouldn’t be able to access them, that if she were still Wanda’s construction she wouldn’t be able to access.  But Wendy has left the backdoor open, so to speak, and Agatha can reach through so long as Agnes allows for it.

Just put your hands on either side of her forehead, hon.  It’s not that hard.

“Like you did with me?” Agnes asks, still uncertain.  She hesitates, holds her hands up, fingers spread, and tentatively touchs Wanda’s forehead.  As soon as she does, a jolt of violet magic leaves her fingertips like static.  She pulls her hands back, shaking them as though she’s been zapped.  “What was that?  What did you do?  You didn’t just—?”

Wanda reaches out, clasps one of Agnes’s hands in her own, and holds it in front of her face.  “How did you do that?” she whispers, thumb pressing gentle against the center of Agnes’s palm.  “You shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

“Wanda?”  Agnes doesn’t answer the question because of course, she doesn’t answer the question.  Her eyes search Wanda’s instead.  “Is that really you, hon?  You remember me?”

“Yes.”  Wanda’s gaze moves from Agnes’s palm to her eyes, and her head tilts dangerously to one side.  “Now tell me how you—”

Wendy likes me.

Wanda startles, ignores the stuttering that filters through Agnes’s lips (this is not as hard as it should be, and yet it is surprisingly easier than she thought it would be), and shoots a thought to the woman standing in front of her, angling it not to the one speaking but to the one who should not be able to send a thought into her mind and still could.  What do you mean she likes you?

Agatha shrugs, unsure if Wanda can see the gesture or not, since Agnes isn’t shrugging.  Tell me why you let her change you.

This time, Wanda doesn’t startle, but she does flinch.

“Wanda, dear.”  Agnes reaches out and touches Wanda’s cheek gently.  “You’re okay now.  You don’t have to—”

But Wanda steps away from Agnes’s touch, pinching the bridge of her nose.  She still looks the same way she did when Hydra experimented on her – all pale, bruised skin; long, tattered, dirty white nightgown; bare feet; stringy, dark, unwashed hair.  Her skin feels stretched taut and tight along bones too big to hold her.  I didn’t want—

You let her change you.  You let her retstrain you.  Why?

“Wanda—”

“Agnes, I need you to be quiet for just a few seconds,”  Wanda snaps. “Please.”  She glances up and meets Agnes’s eyes, sees the hurt in them, and sighs.  “It isn’t you,” she says, cautious, forcing herself to be gentler.  “You did a very good thing, bringing me back.  But I need to figure out what’s going on, and I need quiet for that.  I want to make sure that we’re safe.”

The hurt slowly disippates from Agnes’s eyes, and she nods slow.  She mimes zipping her lips shut and locking them before tucking the key safely in one of her pockets.  Her lips curve into a gentle, gentle smile, but there’s still pain in it.

Wanda closes her eyes, focuses on Agatha, and finds herself within a small space that must be within her mind somewhere.  Agatha looks much like she had when they’d fought – in that purple and cerulean gown, although she’s thinner within it, although the tips of her fingers are no longer scorched black, although her face doesn’t seem nearly as hollow – and when she glances down, Wanda finds herself in her Scarlet Witch garb, back cleaned of the corruption the Darkhold had given it – somewhere between what she’d worn in Westview and what she’d worn hunting America.  Something middling.

If I act like you, Wanda says, choosing her words carefully, should I not be punished like you, too?

Agatha glares at her.  We are here to rip Wendy out of this Westview bullshit she’s put herself in, and you think now is the time to be punished?  My dear sweet summer child.  She steps forward, places her hands on Wanda’s shoulders, and shakes her.  Wait until we’re back, and I will punish you as much as you want, but right now—

Promise?  Wanda glances up through her lashes and meets Agatha’s eyes.

Agatha stares at her.  Her hands tighten on Wanda’s shoulders, fingers digging so deep into her clothes she can feel them in her skin.  Wanda, what you actually deserve and what you think you deserve are—

Do you think maybe this is what we—

Babe, stop. Agatha glares at her.  I don’t know what our little super star out there said to get into your head, but we have other things to worry about that aren’t—  She gestures with one hand.  —whatever this is.  Get your head out of your ass and....  Her voice trails off.  She examines Wanda.  Then she sighs.  We’ll deal with this later, hon.

Agatha takes a deep breath in.  She stretches herself out, thin, thinner still, and when she opens her eyes, she is where she always should be, in her body, controlling it.  Agnes scuttles like a bug in the back of her mind, but for now – for now – she is contained.  It won’t last long.  The question is if it’ll last long enough.

The multiverse-hopping child went in the tree.

She’ll go there next.

~

The forest is familiar.  It shouldn’t be, maybe, but it is.  And America expects that leaving the path Wendy laid out for her would come with certain consequences: the forest should be fighting her, there should be vines wrapping around her arms and pushing her, pulling her back away from wherever she wants to go, the leaves should feel razor sharp against her skin, the roots should be tripping up her bare feet, there should be thorns and venom and flies and—

Nothing.  None of that.

If anything, the forest welcomes her. The path beneath her feet soothes, leaves crunching pleasantly under her weight.  Every now and again, America catches sight of something moving behind the trees, and when she stills herself enough, she glimpses what looks like a mother deer walking with her fawn alongside her.  The doe meets America’s eyes with her equally wide, dark eyes, licks the top of her spotted fawn’s head, and then continues to walk away, completely unstartled.

This isn’t the only time something like this happens – as America walks through the forest, a fox scurries up next to her, rubs against and through her legs, and then disappears further into the wood. A hummingbird flutters up next to her, whistles something pleasantly, musses with her hair, and then flies away.

“This is beautiful, you know,” America murmurs into the quiet as she moves a few branches out of the way, ducks underneath them, and steps over a fallen log.  “I always thought Neverland was.”

It’s weird, speaking into the silence, expecting Wendy to hear her and getting nothing back in return. Honestly, America doesn’t know what she expects.  Wendy made a path and she left it.  Wendy replaced the bootstring she gave to Pixie.  Wendy turned Agatha back into Agnes (again) and Wanda into...something else, America’s not sure what. Wendy could be making this very hard for her, but she’s allowing it to be oddly...pleasant.

Maybe she wasn’t ever supposed to follow the road in the first place.

Then America hears the screaming. Her eyes widen, and she runs – full on sprint – in the direction of the screaming.  Again, she expects the forest to stop her, but it doesn’t.  If anything, it parts for her, allowing nothing to get in her way as she runs.  She comes to a complete stop when she sees what looks like a hunting party – the Lost Ones, as she remembers them, covered in furs that make them seem almost animalistic themselves, wooden masks covering their faces, spears or bows and arrows or blunt axes in their hands.  No daggers.  Absolutely no daggers.

And one of them lying on the ground, holding their leg up against their chest, blood spurting through their fingers, screaming.

America pushes through them.  “Why aren’t any of you helping?”  She kneels down next to the Lost One on the ground and holds out a hand for them.  “I’m here. I’m a friend.  I’m gonna just—”

The Lost One’s eyes widen and fixate on the golden medallions fixing America’s lavender tunic in place. “Starlight,” they murmur, reaching out and running their finger along the metal, feeling the imprint of the two stars.  “Second star to the right and straight on until morning.”  There is a kind of hush to their voice, a kind of awe.  Their finger leaves a smear of blood along the medallion.

“Yeah, Starlight, that’s me,” America says, but she doesn’t explain more than that.  She reaches out and rips a bit of fur from their outfit in a long thin strip before starting to wrap it around their leg, trying to press it to the wound, trying to—

As soon as the Lost One’s hands have moved completely away, America sees the wound stitching itself back together, blood slowly drawing back within the wound from where it’s splattered down their leg, sucked back in from even the smear on her medallion, its ripping slowly rewinding, flesh patching itself back to flesh, until it looks like there has never been any wound at all.

Something – not a breeze, but much more familiar – brushes the sweat from the Lost One’s brow, and the Lost One slowly sits up, stares with bright, mossy green eyes through its wooden mask.  They smile, full teeth, and for a moment, in the trappings of their mask and the way their fur is draped around them, America thinks they’re a bird.

America’s eyes narrow.  “Wendy?”

The Lost Ones around her quietly begin to giggle, and the one in front of her does, too, before breaking forth with a loud enough guffaw that the others all quiet.  The one with the green eyes, the one who has been healed by a rewinding of time, stands, brushes their hands together, and then grabs a dagger they’ve left lying on the ground.  They hesitate and then take America’s hand, uncurl her fingers, and place the dagger in her open palm.

“Why are you giving me this?” America asks.

But the Lost One with the green eyes only holds a finger to their lips.  Their smile shifts, half of one, tinged with a deep dissatisfaction.  Then they pull a spear from where it rests next to a nearby tree, hold the spear aloft, and then give a bright yell – one echoed by the other Lost Ones.  The others run off first, but before America can start to join them, the green-eyed Lost One leans forward, kisses her cheek, and murmurs, patting America’s cheek, “Please don’t follow me.”  Then they run after the others.

This time, when America tries to follow, the forest does just as she originally expected it to do – it prevents her passage, wraps vines around her arms, pulls fallen trunks in her path, and obstructs her until she stumbles, falls to her hands and knees, breathing heavy, and chooses not to get up and run after them again.

America pulls the crumpled paper out again – Find the center – and glances up. Sunlight filters through the green leaves overhead, piercing through its protective canopy, and as she closes her eyes, she feels the pull, easy as a heartbeat, towards what she can only guess to be center.

Of course.

Of course, that’s what’s at the center.

Of course, that’s where she needs to go.

America turns, and the forest opens to her as she starts forward again.

~

Agatha skids to a stop at the bottom of the tree’s innards.  Her body thrums – she is not sure how much longer she can maintain this control without letting Agnes out; Wendy might like her well enough to allow for this sort of redirection of what she wants, this sort of shifting, but she cannot fight it too terribly long.  There’s a limit to what she is given.

But as she skids to a stop amid a forestlike floor covered with plush pillows and velvet blankets, as she glances up among hammocks strung high within the tree’s hollow shell, as she notes the two children at almost the highest places they can get (with only one higher, empty, which she expects must be for the Wendybird who has flown the coop), the shivering within her skin pauses.

That’s...new.

A lot of this is surprisingly new, and while Agatha doesn’t like it, she’s not going to fight it either.  Not if it allows her to live in Agnes’s place.

The boy at the top right startles. He sits upright, knocking an alpine hat from his bed.  It falls down to Agatha’s feet, but she does not bend to pick it up.  “You,” he says, blue eyes staring straight at her, pushing hands through his shock of silver-white hair.

“Pietro.”  It isn’t a question.  Agatha recognizes the boy easily enough.  “Where’s your sister, dear?”

“Pan,” the boy corrects.

“Well enough, hon.  I take it she left you to protect all of this while she ran?” Agatha gestures at everything.  Then she pauses, realizes what he’s said, and then looks back to him.  “You know me?”

Pan jumps down from the hammock – an impressive distance, if his superspeed didn’t allow him to jump from one to the other, to run around the inside of the tree, and then to land with an impressive flourish in front of her.  “Dr. Harkness,” he says, although as he scans her, his expression becomes less certain of itself.  “Wendy brought you back at the beginning.  She thought she needed something from you.  You taught her for a while, and then she let you die again.  All dust.”

Agatha represses the urge to shiver. “Was it me she brought back,” she asks, “or was it that Pixie she kept comparing me—”

But as soon as she says the name, the head of the second child pops up, all frizzy corkscrew dark hair, almost like how Agatha’s had looked when Wanda had played eighties sitcom in Westview, only pulled up and back and less eighties – that hair and glasses with black frames and bright blue eyes with hints of green at their center.  “Wendy mentioned me?”

“Go back to your dreams, Pixie.”  Pan doesn’t even look up at her, instead still focused on Agatha.  “She brought Pixie back, too, but I mean the first Dr. Harkness.  You.  Pixie’s just a—”

“A pixie!”  The girl above grins brilliantly.

Agatha glances up at the girl.  “Come down here, girl.”

Pixie sticks her tongue out at her. “Wendy says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, only I guess you’re not a stranger, if Pan’s met you before, only I wasn’t supposed to talk to Starlight either, even if she’s not a stranger.”  She sighs.  “I don’t think Wendy likes me very much, but I do my best to help her, and I don’t know what I could do more than that.” Her lips purse into a pout.  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

“Because Wendy wants you to say it.” Agatha gives Pan a look.  Then she holds one hand out.  “May I?”

Pan glances at her hand.  “Try if you want, but I don’t think you’ll get much from it.”

Agatha pushes a hand through Pan’s hair the way she’d always wanted to do with her own boys’, lets her fingers trace down the side of his head, rests at his temples, and then sends a spike of violet within the way she’d had Agnes do with Wanda only a few moments earlier. She hears Wanda landing behind her at the same moment as she asks the boy in front of her, “And how many times have you died, kiddo?”

“Three, nearly,” Pan admits freely, “if you count when we went back.”

“Three?” Wanda echoes as Agatha moves past him and looks up at Pixie. “What do you mean three?”

Agatha gestures for Pixie.  “Come down here, hon.  I think you’ve dealt with this enough.”

Pan looks up at Wanda.  He seems to smile, but there’s only sadness in it. “She looks almost like you now, when she lets me see her.  I...don’t get to see her very often.”  He brushes a hand along his clothes made of leaves and takes a deep breath.  “Am I not dead where you come from?”

“Not three times.”  The words hiss through Wanda’s teeth.

“Ah.  It didn’t hurt you as much, then,” Pan says, “or maybe your orphanage didn’t explode.”  He reaches back and rubs the back of his neck.  “You didn’t make Neverland, though, did you?”

Agatha listens to this idly in the background as she continues to keep an eye on the teenage girl now clamboring down from the hammocks a little less eloquently than Pan had.  When the girl lands, staring up at her with bright eyes and a brighter smile, Agatha reaches for her the same way as she had with Pan, only to find something she can’t see holding her back.  She grits her teeth together.  “You let me go right now, my little Wendybird.  I know you can’t hurt me.”  The touch disappears, and she presses  her fingers against Pixie’s forehead the same as she had with Pan, sparking violet through her fingertips.

All at once, Pixie’s entire mannerisms shift and change, and she falls back against the inner wall of the tree behind her, cradling her head in her hands.  She lets out a thin keening noise, high-pitched, and rocks herself slowly.

For a moment, Agatha waits to see if Wanda will do anything at all about this, but Wanda is too caught up in learning what is going on with Pan – of course, she is – to notice another child hurt and crying just across from her. So she steps forward, crouches down, and gently places a hand on the other girl’s shoulder.  “Who are you, dear?  Not who Wendy made you to be.  Who are you really?”

The girl looks up, eyes flashing darkly. “Agatha Stephen Harkness, heiress of the Salem Magitech fortune, the tenth of her name, although,” and here her teeth grit together, and the words come out as a hiss, a growl, a high-pitched keening, “none of that means fucking anything to anyone anymore.”

Agatha brushes the tears from the girl’s eyes, cups her cheek, and says, voice soft, “I am Agatha Harkness, sole survivor of the Salem Coven, the first and only of her name, and all of that means a great deal to me, hon.”

~

Technically, there is no bomb in the center of the forest, but really, that depends on how you define bomb.

America finds a clearing in the heart of the wood, and within that clearing is a scarlet and green barrier that allows her to pass through easily enough, although the cat that walks alongside her turns away, fur standing on edge, as soon as it sees it.  In the very center of the clearing sits a woman she knows well, sitting cross-legged on a scarlet robe that might once have flowed from her shoulders as a cape, what might have once been a pirate’s hat now crumpled and covered with dust setting just next to her, hands resting on her knees, back straighter than America has ever seen it, dark hair flowing about her, though there is no breeze, that hair once so dark now streaked through with white, eyes closed, brow speckled with beads of sweat, threads of scarlet chaos magic and bright green time magic curving, twisting, spiraling around her.

She looks like the Scarlet Witch.

Like Wanda had, when she’d possesed Ash, when Ash had forced America to open the portal directly back to her, when Ash had thrown America through, when Wanda returned to herself and grabbed her—

America doesn’t want to move.

This isn’t Wanda.  This is Wendy.

It is still the Scarlet Witch.

(America remembers, then.  In her nightmares – sometimes the Scarlet Witch was hunting her, and sometimes she was hunting the Scarlet Witch.  She wonders if the witch she hunted was ever Wanda at all, or if it was ever only always Wendy.)

America clutches the dagger in her hand.  It won’t be much better than her own fists, but she clings onto it regardless. Another present – like her ring turned gauntlet, like her bootstring turned hairtie.  A dagger that will, eventually, be turned into something else, if the other gifts have been any indication.

“Wendy?” America says as she moves forward, but the woman in front of her doesn’t move.  She steps closer, closer, expecting nothing in specific but something in general, and there is nothing of either.  She makes it to Wendy much more easily than she expected and sits down next to her.  There isn’t enough of the scarlet robe for her to sit on it, too, so instead she sits on the rock just next to her, pulls her knees up against her chest, and looks out in front of them.  It’s just a clearing.  Just a forest.  And they’re just two kids with far too much power sitting and staring out at all of it.

Only Wendy isn’t staring out at anything. Her eyes are still closed.  If America couldn’t see her chest moving, she’d be convinced that Wendy isn’t even breathing.

Tentatively, America reaches out and touches her.

Nothing.

She takes a deep breath, reaches out again, and wraps an arm around Wendy’s shoulders.

Still nothing, although the chaos and time magic swirls carefully in patterns that avoid touch America at all.

America scoots closer instead of pulling Wendy to her – not wanting to do something that will backfire too spectacularly – and, in the same gentle motion the Lost One with the green eyes had before, presses a kiss to Wendy’s cheek.

A tear drips from Wendy’s eye, but it remains closed.

America reaches up to wipe the tear away and then shifts as though to kiss her.

“Don’t.”

The voice is Wendy’s, but it isn’t Wendy’s, too rasping and croaking from who knows how long of disuse.  Her eyes still don’t open.  “Don’t,” she croaks again, as though she’s struggling to speak at all.

“Wendy.”  America moves in front of her, starts to place her hands on Wendy’s, hesitates, and then pushes through and does it anyway, interlacing their fingers, the dagger clattering to the rock next to her. “Stop this.  Wake up.  Please.”

“I told you not to follow me, Starlight.” Her voice is so much deeper now.  “I asked you not to—”

“And you let me get here,” America interrupts.  “That has to be what you want, right?  I couldn’t have gotten here if you didn’t...if you didn’t want me to....”  Her gaze flicks to the dagger.  She wets her lips.  “Wendy, why did you give me the dagger?”

At first, Wendy doesn’t say anything. She seems as she did before, sitting there, breathing slow and easy, not focused on anything but the magic surrounding her, as though America isn’t there at all.  Then, finally, she says, voice strained, “Close your eyes.”

“Wendy—”

“Don’t you trust your Wendybird?” Wendy asks, cutting her off.  “Please, Starlight.  Just for a moment.  For me.”

America bites her lower lip.  She keeps her hands on Wendy’s, keeps their fingers interlaced, and nods, although she isn’t sure how Wendy sees it.  She must, but she isn’t sure how, with her eyes closed as they are, that she sees anything – everything.  But she does as she is told, and she closes her eyes.

~

Closing her eyes in one world is opening them in another.

America closes her eyes in Neverland, and she opens them in a place Wendy has crafted for the two of them, a Neverland much like the one they are already in, only Wendy looks as she did when they were first in Neverland, dark hair down her back, ragged clothes, ripped jeans, black combat boots, nothing of the Scarlet Witch or the pirate about her. One of her boots is propped up against the rock, while her other leg hangs down, and when she turns to see America, she smiles.  “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“I couldn’t just let you....”  America presses her lips together.  “Wendy, I don’t even know what you did.”

“I fixed everything,” Wendy replies, although if that was really true, she would look happy, not tired. She gestures to the world ahead of them. “I know you haven’t seen it, but...there are no wars.  No more bombs.  All of my Lost Ones are safe and alive.  You saw Pan—”

“And Pixie,” America interrupts.  “You did a very cruel thing to her—”

“She did a very cruel thing to me, America,” Wendy snaps back.  “I don’t know why you think she’s worth protecting—”

“You’re doing a very cruel thing to a lot of people, Wendy, and I think you’re worth—”

“I fixed things!”  Wendy stands up.  She walks to the edge of the rock, rubbing her hands together, saying nothing, as though she expects America to say something, but in the silence, she turns back. “You saw what Neverland was like, didn’t you?  You saw the ash?  Everything was dead. Pixie was gone.  The world was gone.  Pan should have been...Pan was....”  She shakes her head.  “I took him, and I went back, and I made Neverland right this time, and I made it cover everyone, and I got rid of their stupid bombs and their stupid Ultron puppets and Ultron and all of it, and I made sure we were all still alive, and if you go into those cities, you’ll see that every single one of the people there is happy.  I made them happy, America!  You can’t tell me that’s wrong.”

America nods slow.  “Why didn’t you take us to any of the cities, Wendy?”

“Because you wouldn’t care!”  Wendy rubs her arms, as though she’s cold, and she turns away from America again, staring out at the forest in front of them.  “You wanted to find me.  You found me.”  Her fingers twitch, tapping on her arm, unable to settle.  “I’ve been doing this for two years now—”

“Two years—”

“I told you – I was in Neverland for two years before, and I went back to the beginning, and I fixed it, so.  Two years.”  Wendy runs a hand ragged through her hair, and the bootstring wrapped tight around her wrist shows dark against her pale skin.  “I can’t just stop.”  She holds to a little ruby star dangling around her neck, runs her fingers along it.  “I saved them, and they’ll just...they’ll all die.”

“Who will die?”

Wendy shakes her head.  “It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t matter.  I’m still here, and I’m...I’m keeping everything going, and it’s all fine, it’s all...it’s all fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine.”

“It is.”  Wendy doesn’t snap this time.  She lets out a haggard sigh and moves back to America, sits down next to her, pulls one knee to her chest, and slumps forward.  “It just isn’t what I thought it would be.  That’s all. There’s a me out there, you know.  You saw her.  But it isn’t...it isn’t really me.  I’m just...here.  Maintaining everything.  And I’m so....”  She shakes her head before she can say it.  “I’m keeping them alive.  I’m keeping them happy.  That’s the...that’s the important thing.  I fixed things.  Everything.  I fixed it. I did it.  So...this is...this is the way it...this is the way it has to be.”  She wraps her arms around her knee, rests her head atop it, and then stares out, not looking at America.  “So I can’t...I can’t go with you.  I have to be here.”

America nods.  “So that sounds like you’ve decided.”

Wendy nods along with her.  “Yeah.”

“Is that why you gave me the dagger?”

Wendy shivers, but she doesn’t say anything.

America just nods again.  She leans back, palms on the ground, and stares up at the sky, at all of the stars shining down on them.  “Wendy?”

“Hm?”

“If you could have anything in the world, anything in the universe, in the multiverse, what would it be?”

“Home.”  The word comes out exact and final.  “I want to go home.”

“What does that look like?”  America gives Wendy a curious glance and then turns back to the stars before Wendy catches her.  “Is it all of this, or—?”

Wendy shakes her head.  “No.  It doesn’t look anything like this.”  She sighs, pushes a hand through her hair again.  “I....”  She shakes her head, chuckles.  “What would you want, Starlight?”

America doesn’t even hesitate.  “The same thing.  I would want to go home.”

“So why don’t you go, then?” Wendy asks, still not looking at her.  “You can still do that, you know.  You don’t have to stay here with me.”

It’s easy, then, the way America’s gaze drops, the way she stares at Wendy and says what she already knew, “It’s not home without you.”

Wendy smiles.  She tilts her head to one side and finally turns to America.  “Thank you, Starlight.  I needed to hear that.”  She reaches across and cups America’s cheek.  When she does, America curves into her touch, and Wendy brushes her thumb along her cheek.  Easy, easy. Then she smiles with an unexpressed sadness and murmurs, “Goodbye, Starlight.”

~

America’s eyes open with a gasp. Wendy sits in front of her just as she already was, eyes still closed, magic still swirling around her.  America closes her eyes again, but nothing happens. Whatever was connecting them before has disappeared.

But she’s still here.  Wendy hasn’t shoved her away.

And there’s the dagger.

~

Agatha straightens.  “We have to go.”  She turns to Wanda and grabs her shoulder.  “Now.”

Wanda turns to her, eyes wide.  “We can’t go.  I’m still trying to—”

“They’re already dead, Wanda.” Agatha meets her eyes.  “Unless you want to do some magic of your own—”

Wanda hesitates.  She looks down at Pan, who looks back up at her.  “He’s—”

Pan holds up a hand with three fingers, wiggling them a few times.  Pixie swallows and lowers her head, refusing to meet their eyes.  “We’ve had a longer run than we deserve,” she murmurs, “and I’m so tired.”

“I know what that feels like,” Wanda murmurs, “but that doesn’t mean that—”

“We can’t save them, hon.”  Agatha squeezes Wanda’s shoulder.  “But if we leave now, we might be able to—”

“Fine,” Wanda snaps.  She presses her lips together and wraps her arms around herself.  “Do you know where we’re going?”

Agatha nods, slow, and wraps an arm around Wanda’s waist.  “I have a fairly good idea.”

A dark purple cloud surrounds them, and they disappear.

Pixie turns to Pan.  “I suppose we just wait now, don’t we?”

Pan nods.  “I think we’ve been waiting long enough, Agatha.”

Pixie – Agatha – smiles.

~

The world collapses on the edge of a knife.

The dagger shouldn’t be that sharp, and yet it slides into Wendy’s stomach the same as it would, hot, through a block of butter.

America would much rather hear the cracking of bones than this silence.

The magic around Wendy slows.  She stays upright for a matter of seconds, blood pooling on her shirt, dripping from the wound.  Then her eyes open as she takes in a deep shuddering breath. She doesn’t even look down, instead looks up at America and meets her eyes, blood trickling from her lips.  “Thank you,” she mutters before falling.

The barrier cracks.

The world cracks.

America stands where she is, takes a deep breath, and looks up at the stars.

A dark purple cloud appears behind her as the world begins to shudder, and Agatha reaches out, grabs her shoulder the same way she’d grabbed Wanda’s, and then pushes her to one side.  She looks down at Wendy, nods, and then murmurs, “That should do it, kiddo.”  Then she pats America’s shoulder again.  “Pick her up.”

America blinks twice.  “What?”

“No, better yet—”

Wanda pushes past Agatha and grabs Wendy’s body.  She leans down just enough.  “Still breathing.”

“Make us a portal, hon,” Agatha says, staring at America.  “We need to get out of here before everything comes crashing down, or it’ll kill us, too, and death is not a look I wear well, or so I’ve been told.”

“Who told you that?”  Wanda shoots her a look.  “Have you died already and no one told me, because—”

“Focus.”  Agnes doesn’t look away from America.  “Take us home, girl.”

America glances to Wendy where she’s cradled in Wanda’s arms, dagger still sticking out of her stomach.  “She’s—”

“Home first.”

In a motion that shouldn’t be so easy, except that America wants nothing more than to punch something right now, she punches through Neverland into the only universe that feels like home anymore. The universe splits into a star-shape, and through that, she sees Wanda’s house, waiting for them.  She gestures for them to go first, but Agatha hesitates. She reaches out for something around Wendy’s neck – a bright green stone on a length of black cord – and holds it out to Wanda.  “Think you have time to destroy this?”

“Not now.”  Wanda lowers her head.  “Put it on me.  I’ll take care of it until—”

Agatha throws the stone away from them, out into the Neverland wilderness.  “Nah.  Too much work.  Let’s go.”  She pushes Wanda and Wendy through the portal before following them through.

America stands in Neverland.  She doesn’t move.  “I didn’t want to—”

Agatha groans, reaches back through, grabs America’s wrist, and pulls her through.  “You did what you needed to do, girl,” she says, “and you got us home.” She glances over America’s shoulder, back through the portal, as Neverland begins to rip and shread and tear itself apart.  “Whatever you do, don’t look back.”

[angeloddity]

Summertime Storms

Slow Afternoons

steve harrington x fem!reader

You visit Steve at Family Video on a rainy day.

genre: fluff

word count: 1,400

a/n: every time I watch stranger things I fall in love with steve all over again. No spoilers for season 4 

part ii || series masterlist || masterlist

The firmament spirals, a dark threat above you. Storm clouds, almost formed to completion, are ready to crack at any moment. It’s supposed to rain all day, at least that’s what the weatherman said on the news this morning. The caption at the bottom of your TV read: Summertime storms roll through Midwest. You hadn’t paid it much thought at the time. 

Now, looking up at the sky while you bring your bike to a stop in the nearly empty parking lot of Family Video, the bag you packed on your back swinging slightly as your motion slows, you wonder if you ought to have brought an umbrella. You balance precariously on your bike, toes barely finding solid ground as you lean your weight back onto the seat—you’d raised the seat too high one day only to find it stuck, unable to lower it to a more fitting height—to get a better look at the sky. 

A single fat raindrop falls from the clouds, landing heavy on the space just above your eyes and splattering against your face. You reel backwards from the unexpected impact, the shift in weight nearly causing you to tumble, bike and all. 

More raindrops begin to fall around you, not too many, but they’re all just as heavy as the first, excessively large but not unusual for the season. The threat of more rain to follow forces you to stumble off your bike and wheel it to the portico, the overhang offering protection for the sidewalk in front of Family Video and the surrounding stores in the strip mall. 

You lean your bike against the windows of the store. The green borders and various movie posters hanging on the glass are likely to make it impossible to see anything but the handlebars from the inside, but it’s not the first time you’ve left your bike here and it won’t be the last. 

It’s then that the rain finally comes, a tremendous downpour, loud and weighty. The rushing hiss of rain hitting the pavement drowns out any other noise and blurs your view of the empty asphalt, streaking everything in the parking lot into shades of grey and splotches of green. There are only a handful of cars in the lot, all of them likely belonging to employees in the plaza, but Steve’s is the only one you recognize—the only one that hasn’t lost all form in your sight line from the torrent of rain. The stream of rushing water shrinks your world until nothing exists beyond the downpour and the store behind you. 

You can’t help but edge your way towards the downpour, sticking your hand beyond the protection of the roof above you until the rushing rainfall catches on your skin. Drops splatter against your hand and the pavement below you, smaller droplets sinking into the tops of your shoes, but you hardly notice. 

Behind you, the door chimes, signaling an end to your muffled solitude.

“Well, if it isn’t my best girl. Did you come to rent a movie?” Steve stands in the open entryway of Family Video, leaning back against the glass door to keep it propped open, an easy smile resting on his lips. His words make your heart flutter, they always do, and you can’t help but smile back, stepping towards him as though some magnetic pull is tugging you in his direction.   

“I came to see you,” you chirp, too happy to mind how ridiculously lovesick he makes you. 

Steve settles against the door, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. He’s not allowed to leave the store, not when he’s the only one working at the video rental for the day, even if it’s unlikely that, between the already slow weekdays and the threat of storms all day, there will be any customers. But he can linger just on the edge, as close to where you currently stand as possible. The magnetism, it seems, pulls both ways. 

“Are you coming in? You’ll catch a cold from the rain,” he urges, warm, brown eyes taking in the state of your slowly dampening clothes, slightly darker dots marking where the water splashed up against you.

“It’s a warm shower today,” you state, holding up your now wet hand to prove that you would know, you’ve felt it. But the rain is cooling the air down, and you don’t really want to be wet when you finally enter the air conditioned video rental.     

You walk towards Steve, wiping your still rain-wet hand on your shirt as you do, leaving even more marks behind on the fabric. 

As soon as you’re through the door, Steve throws his arm over your shoulder, pulling you in close to his side to provide you some warmth, at least you think that’s what he’d claim if you asked him about it. You both know that he just wants you close. 

He brings you around the counter even though the space is meant to be for employees only, so he can stand by the phone and register, just in case someone does decide to call. Then he helps you up to your usual perch on the countertop.

It’s dark in Family Video today, the store’s old lights buzzing overhead, working far harder than they should to emit such a small amount of light. The store relies mostly on natural lighting, something which doesn’t exist today, the storm casting a deep grey across everything in its reach.

The rain outside shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. 

In the near silence you can hear the sharp clatter as the shower falls in sheets against the roof. The darkness, the sound of the storm, and the comfort of Steve leaning so close to you all come together to bring hints of sleep back to the edges of your eyes.  

It reminds you of the bag you brought, still settled on your back to survive the bike ride over to Steve’s work. 

“I brought you something,” you exclaim, pulling the bag from your back and placing it down beside you so that you can dig through it. The bag clunks as the contents inside make contact with the countertop.  

“Yeah? What is it?” Steve asks, but you ignore his question.

You pull out two mismatched mugs, setting them down before reaching back in the bag to pull out a dented thermos. A puff of steam floats up from the metal container when you open it, carrying with it the scent of hot coffee. You pour some into both mugs before putting the lid back on the thermos, setting it aside so Steve can have more later if he wants it. 

You each grab a mug and take a sip. The coffee is nothing special, cheap grinds turned to liquid fuel in your family’s coffee maker, but you made it to Steve’s taste rather than your own, and he seems pleased. 

“You're an angel,” he practically moans. He crowds in between your legs, bringing his free hand up to your cheek to hold you steady while he places a gentle kiss just above your eyes—right where that first raindrop landed. 

You can’t help the peel of giggles that pass between your lips at the reminder. Steve doesn’t question it, just smiles at you softly before pressing another kiss to your cheek. You’re impossible to kiss properly like this, something your boyfriend has learned by now, so he settles for whatever skin he can reach. 

Three more kisses against your cheeks leave you grinning like a fool when Steve finally pulls away from you.

He takes one more sip of his slowly cooling coffee, before turning his attention to the various items placed on the counter, meant to tempt the nonexistent customers to spend more money. He grabs a small bag of cookies, halfway to stale, from one of the little snack racks set up on the counter. The packaging crinkles as he rips it open, sounding much too loud in the empty video store, before popping one in his mouth.

“Are you allowed to do that?” you practically whisper, as if drawing the attention of the universe to yourselves could get you in trouble, as if the rushing water against the roof and the low buzzing lights and Steve himself aren’t the only things there to witness you. The storm has made sure of that. Steve merely shrugs.

“As long as you don’t tell, I won’t,” he says around a mouthful of crumbs, a cheeky, closed lip smile growing as he chews. He washes it down with another sip of coffee. Steve holds the bag up to you and you grab one of the cookies, popping it in your mouth. The texture isn’t great, too old to be considered fresh, even with the preservatives, but the sweet taste is pleasant. 

You take another. 

[tsukishumai]

pairing: tsukishima kei x f!reader wc; 2.2k tags; fluff, coworkers to lovers? a/n: quick fic for my bby lol happy birthday tsukki <33

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tsukishima Kei was tired.

Stepping out into the cold, autumn evening, he rubs his hands together in an attempt to warm his frozen fingers. He thinks the blister he feels forming on his pinky toe was a sign for him to get a new pair of shoes, and this fact was solidified by the ache in his arch with each step he took towards the bus stop.

The day had been longer than most. Maybe if he hadn’t let his brother drag him to the gym and play pick-up games last night, then perhaps his body wouldn’t have felt so sore this morning. And if his body hadn’t been so sore in the morning, then he might have had the energy to grab coffee before work, possibly even pack himself a quick lunch. His mood would have presumably been at least mildly better throughout the day, and he had no doubt that he would have been able to continue on with his work swiftly, and efficiently.

But Tsukishima had learned at a young age that things don’t always work out for him the way he wants them to.

He wasn’t trying to be rude when you came to ask him about his tour schedule, but did you have to burst through his office door so loudly? He felt bad for 2.3 seconds as he watched your smile slowly melt into a frown, but he was way too irked when you rolled your eyes at him when he asked you to knock.

And it wasn’t his fault that he bought the last tuna onigiri from the food stand outside the museum. He forgot to pack lunch, and he was hungry, too. He probably shouldn’t have unwrapped and eaten it right in front of your face, but he doesn’t appreciate getting dirty looks for ordering a meal.

You’re newer to the museum, he knows that. As someone with seniority, he should be a little more helpful, and he could probably work on improving his sociability just a tiny bit, but his patience could only run so thin. It’s not like you ever listened to him anyway.

Should he have told you to figure out the volunteer’s schedule on your own because ‘even a monkey with a banana could do it on their own’? Okay, maybe not.

But did you have to snap at him to ‘keep the stick up his own ass and leave yours alone’ when he warned your tours took too long, and you’d end up leaving late? No, and that’s the last time Tsukishima will ever try to offer advice to a newbie.

Tsukishima sighed. He was tired.

His stomach growled out loud as he pressed the button for the crosswalk, slowly moving to rub his palm along his belly. He’s wondering if he has anything he could make at his apartment. When an image of a rotting bunch of scallions and moldy tomatoes dying in his refrigerator drawer comes to mind, he thinks he’s probably better off grabbing a bento from the convenience store down the street.

The light switches from red to green, and just before Tsukishima steps down from the curb, he feels an arm delicately wrap around his own.

“Hey, babe,” a familiar, annoyingly cheery voice greets him, and he has to stop himself from grimacing when he looks down and his eyes meet yours.

Tsukishima doesn’t think you’ve ever touched him once — not in the last six months since you’ve become his coworker. He had bowed when you were first introduced, and Tsukishima had never been one to hand out hugs or high fives.

He attributes the deep blush that spread across his cheeks to this fact, and not to the feeling of your chest pressed tightly against his side.

“What the —“

“You almost left without me,” you pouted, and Tsukishima nearly tripped over his feet when you swing your body around to switch positions with him, “You’re so silly!”

“Uh,” Tsukishima stammers at the situation at hand, but he stills when he feels your grip tighten painfully around his bicep, and your eyes narrow and widen.

From behind your shoulder, Tsukishima sees it.

The streets were not too crowded, but they weren’t empty. From both sides of the sidewalk, Tsukishima watched as people silently walked past each other in a valiant effort to get home.

This was why Tsukishima almost didn’t notice the man standing beside the lamp post just fifteen feet back, his face half covered by a mask, hoodie pulled all the way over his head with the bill of a black hat just peeking out.

Tsukishima’s blood ran cold when he realized the man is watching you clutch onto him, and Tsukishima does not react when he can feel your nails dig through the material of his sweater.

A look of panic briefly flashes in your eyes when Tsukishima places his hand on top of yours and gently pulls your grip off his sleeve.

“You’re going to ruin my sweater,” Tsukishima mumbles as he drags his hand down the length of your arm and intertwines his fingers with yours. Your mouth drops open in shock when he gives your hand a tight squeeze, “Sweetie.”

He doesn’t wait for you to regain your composure before he drags you across the street. As soon as Tsukishima’s foot lands on the other curb, he glances back at the direction from which you came.

The capped-man was now slowly walking forward, reaching the crosswalk just as the light turned red once more.

Tsukishima quickened his pace down the silent sidewalk, globes of orange light shining down each lamp post you walked past. You said nothing of the sweat that accumulated between both of your nervous palms, still gripping onto Tsukishima’s hand tightly. The size of it nearly engulfs your own, and your hold on him was the only thing allowing you to somewhat keep up with the pace of his strides.

“My bus stop is right over there,” you mumble quietly, and Tsukishima silently thanked the gods you were going the same direction.

He could feel your fingers trembling against his, and Tsukishima gives you a light squeeze.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He was never one to comfort another, and he had never really been in a situation before. But something akin to an ember of rage had been stoked within him as soon as he saw some strange man’s greedy little eyes stuck on you.

The bus arrived just five minutes later, and Tsukishima stayed close behind as you climbed inside. You were lucky enough to find two vacant seats, and you slid into the one beside the window. Tsukishima occupies the aisle seat, stretching his legs out slightly as he watches the stream of people entering and leaving the bus.

It was after an old woman carrying groceries clambered into a seat behind the bus driver did Tsukishima notice him.

He sat by the very front while the two of you occupied seats in the back. A pair of sunglasses now completely masked all of his features, but Tsukishima didn’t need to see his eyes to know who they were trained on.

When you look up at him, dazed and slightly terrified, he gives you a tight-lipped smile. He lets go of your hand, and his heart breaks a little when he sees your eyes dart around in panic. Wordlessly, he reaches over and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you close into his side.

You had always been so hot-headed — loud, and passionate, and animated about everything that you do. Tsukishima had known you were trouble from the moment you rearranged one of his displays without even thinking about consulting him, and you had honestly been a headache ever since. You challenged him at every turn, corrected him when he didn’t ask for it, and it was obvious to Tsukishima that you were much too big for him to handle.

But at the moment, feeling so small as you trembled tucked beneath his arm, Tsukishima could only think that he never wanted to see you like this ever again.

His heart crumbles a little when you rest your head against his shoulder.

“So,” Tsukishima’s voice vibrated against your cheek, “The tours ran a bit too long today, didn’t they?”

Tsukishima bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing when you turn your head to face him, an incredulous expression decorating your features.

“Is now really an appropriate time for an ‘I told you so’,” You hissed, “You never miss a chance, do you?”

Now, a smug smile has fully settled onto his lips, “Never have, never will.”

You land a punch on Tsukishima’s wide open ribs, and he flinches to the side with a slight ‘oof’. But he tightens his arm around you even more. Swirls of pine and citrus began to calm your nerves, and it took you too long to realize you were inhaling Tsukishima’s cologne. He smelled as clean as he looked, and even after a full day of work, not a single hair of his was out of place.

Your stop was four after Tsukishima’s. He carried your bag from your shoulders as you climbed out of your seat. He stepped aside to allow you to lead the way, but Tsukishima’s chest was nearly pressed against your back with how closely he followed behind.

You hadn’t expected Tsukishima to follow you this far, and as you walked a few steps towards the direction of your apartment, you turned to thank Tsukishima for his aid.

You whip your head side to side when you find that he was no longer walking behind you, curious to see that he was waiting two feet away from the bus’ exit.

You briefly wondered what he was waiting for, and your heart shattered down to the ground when you see the familiar stranger that had been following you since you exited your office building slowly step out.

You didn’t even notice him climb onto the bus. Had he really been there the entire time? Oh god, was he planning to follow you all the way home? Your head begins to spin at the dangerous possibilities that could have unfolded.

“Are you lost?” Tsukishima’s voice was cold and stern, and you could hear it clearly from where you stood.

You watched as the hooded man jolted, clearly shocked at the question directed to him. His face still remained perfectly hidden, but you could tell from his body language that he was not expecting to be addressed.

Tsukishima towered over him, but his six foot five stature had towered nearly everyone. The eyes behind his dark-rimmed glasses were narrowed in a glare, and Tsukishima stayed planted in front of your intruder.

“Oh — uh, i— no, just —“

“It’s that way,” Tsukishima didn’t wait for the man to finish his stammering, pointing a long finger towards the opposite direction of your home.

The man didn’t need to be told twice. He twirled on his heels, looking over his shoulders only to see Tsukishima watch as he walked away into the night.

You were frozen, mouth hung so wide open, you were pretty sure bugs had flown in. Tsukishima makes his way back to you, stopping to wrap his arms around your shoulders once again. He tilts his head down at you, looking softly as he asks, “Which way?”

You were at a loss for words, choosing instead to simply lead the way. Tsukishima remained draped over you, like a blanket of protection warding off all evil.

The silence that engulfed the two of you felt comfortable, and on any other day, you might have been appalled to be in such close contact with Tsukishima Kei.

But today, you felt safe. You felt comfort, and relief, and you relax against him, perfectly protected under Tsukishima’s wing.

You sneak a glance up at him, biting your lip as you turn the words you want to say over in your head.

“Tsukishima,” you start, chewing on your lips, “Thank yo—“

“My last tour is usually at 4:45,” he interrupts you, squeezing his hand on your shoulder, “I try to catch up on some paperwork before leaving but…”

He trails off, and you stay silent in fear of ruining what he’s trying to tell you.

He shifts his head away from you as he says, “If you wait for me, I could walk you home.”

You stop in your tracks, looking up at him with a smile. Tsukishima pointedly avoids your gaze, but it’s difficult when he’s keeping you pinned beside him.

“I’d like that,” you mumble before pointing back at the apartment building he hadn’t noticed, “This is my place.”

Tsukishima finally deigns to let you go, stepping back and brushing his fingers through his hair.

“Shorten your tours,” he grumbles out, turning his body back the direction from where he came, “And don’t forget to itemize each piece that comes in for the Date Masumane exhibit tomorrow.”

You stare at him dumbfounded before bursting out in giggles, bringing your hand up in a mock salute.

“I owe you one,” you call out, watching him retreat back from where he came.

He waves you off.

“I like black coffee,” he calls back over his shoulder, “Do what you will with that information.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

rbs v appreciated <33

[no-droids]

Rumors, Freebies, and a Race for Last Place

Part Two of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

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

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

***

It’s recommended to read part one first.

***

Getting into the x-wings is always fun.

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

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

You came back in one piece this time.  Barely.

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

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

Dameron.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You request mission assignments together,” Rossi adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

You're finally alone.

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

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

And yet, you can’t seem to enjoy it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, this is so fucking… presumptuous of him.

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

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

You don’t even think you want to anymore.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His tongue softly grazes your knuckle as it works.

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

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

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

There.  There’s the drop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything except his face, you soon realize.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cum.

You lose.  Fair and square.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

You lose count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, that’s it.  That is it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you just start giggling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… to pull a bag of chips out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has a nice voice, you think.

[katsukisprincess-archive]

need | kiribaku x reader

a/n: jo asked me to reupload this from her birthday last year! for @lady-bakuhoe

summary: kirishima is hit with an aphrodisiac quirk on the job and bakugou knows exactly who can help him out.

pairing: mostly kirishima x reader, slight bakugou insert

word count: 2.3k

warnings: nasty. dubcon, rimming, fisting, implied pegging, dirty talk, squirting, slight threesome

“Shut up, shitty hair, you’re going to wake her.” 

“I can’t help it, dude, look at her.” 

The voices peaked through your consciousness, followed by a cold whisp of air that caused bumps to rise on the exposed skin of your leg. You let out a groggy noise, finally allowing your eyes to blink open to the scene in front of you. You tried to focus in and when the spinning shapes of morning turned into figures, you found it hard to believe that what you were looking at was reality. 

Katsuki Bakugou, your husband, was sitting across the room from you in a chair. His arms were crossed against his chest and he had a classic smirk on his face, already alerting you that something was off. What it was, you discovered, was the grown man in bed with you- one that smelled like battle and sweat and everything you didn’t want against your sheets. 

Eijirou Kirishima was someone you were very familiar with. He had been your friend alongside Katsuki since the Yuuei days and up through the present; he was at nearly every house function and worked in the same agency as Ground Zero. Kirishima was no stranger at all, but you just weren’t used to him in your bed. 

“W-What? Eijirou? Katsuki?” Your voice was so innocent, so meek, that it went straight to his already-stiffening cock. His reaction made your head snap to him, and then to your husband, and back and forth until Katsuki finally stood up at joined you at the side of the bed. 

His hot palm brushed your hair back while the other cascaded your stomach, easing the goosebumps from the open window. His lips came down to your forehead where he pressed a rough kiss before speaking. “Got hit by a quirk on the job today.” He motioned to your friend, who was having a hard time keeping his eyes off of your bare torso.

“And?” 

“Help me.” Eijirou rasped. “We joke about it all the time- fuck- right?” 

He wasn’t wrong. Conversations about your sex life were in no way private and in no sense of it all had Katsuki ever been closed off to the idea of his best friend joining in on the fun. You had just figured that when- if- it had happened, it would have happened on… different terms. 

But how could you say no to Red Riot on his knees for you, thick cock straining through his shorts and leaking through the fabric?

You crawled over to Eijirou as Katsuki sunk back into his chair on the other side of the room. Leaning back and legs spread, he watched as you closed the distance, your grabby hands urging Eijirou’s massive length out of his shorts. It was so large you could barely wrap your fingers around it, truly. He was bigger than Katsuki was, but you were sure that he had much less experience using it compared to his belligerent best friend. As you took in the sight of his meat, Katsuki was pulling his own out of his pants across the room. 

One upward tug on Eijirou was all it took for his first orgasm to hit him- and it hit him hard. Thick ropes of cum shot across the mattress and over your thighs, marking you up for the first time that night. He came with a guttural grunt, but by the time he was finished, you could tell he was in no way even close to being satisfied. 

“Fuck,” Eijirou exclaimed, toppling you onto your back and laying his weight on yours, attacking your neck with his teeth and drawing blood on the first plunge. “This quirk. I’m sorry, shit, I can just smell you from here-” 

Eijirou pulled himself off of you to yank your lacy panties off of your frame. With a yelp your hips landed back on the bed and you watched in shock as he brought them up to his nose and smelled your essence that was dripping against the material. A visible shiver ran down his spine and you caught yourself rubbing your thighs together, strangely turned on by the sight of Red Riot sticking his tongue out just to suck on your panties. 

“Taste her, Eij, it’s like fucking candy.” Katsuki’s voice was strained, and it only fueled your lust further to see him lazily jerking his own girthy cock in his hands. It was one thing to fuck your partner, but it was near etheral to watch them pleasure themselves with an outside perspective. With his hair fanned back and dirt still sticking to his skin, Katsuki looked delicious. 

You didn’t have much time to think on your husband as Eijirou quickly tore your legs open, dipping his head down to lick a clean stripe up your folds. You gasped at the sudden intrusion and your thighs moved down to clamp around his head, but they were immediately slammed back open and shoved back against your chest by two large, hot hands. 

While unexperienced, Eijirou was passionate. He was moving so quickly and so harshly against your sensitive skin that you couldn’t keep up, instead deciding to crane your neck to watch him suck and slurp. His eyes would come up to meet yours occasionally, shooting you a desperate look from under lidded eyes. Mewls and whimpers fell from your lips like a song, and you were unable to stop yourself from bucking up against his face and forcing your juices to coat his cheeks and chin. 

“Get her ass, too. She’s a dirty little slut, aren’t you, princess? You want Eij to rim you?” 

Both of you on the bed groaned instantaneously at Katsuki’s lewd notion. Since Eijirou’s hands were planted flat on your thighs, it was easy for him to push you up and use his thumbs to spread your cheeks apart, your back arched into the air and your ass leveled with his mouth. His tongue moved to prod at your tight hole before he began running circles around it. One hand moved to rub at your clit at the same time, and before you could react, you were cumming. Eijirou groaned as your asshole flexed against his tongue and waited for you to settle down before dropping your back onto the bed once more. 

“You felt so good Eijirou, let me feel your cock~”

Before you could continue, he had slipped three fingers at once into your cunt. It was tight, and it hurt, but he looked absolutely desperate above you, holding his weight on one arm and pummeling his hand into your heat to chase you along. 

“You’re so fucking tight.” He muttered, his cock twitching as he watched his fingers disappear inside of you. A fourth finger was slipped in and you cried out loudly, your hands flying down to grab at his wrist. Pain soon fell into pleasure and Eijirou climbed up on the bed, resting his forehead on yours and fucking you until he was sure you were warmed up enough for his thumb as well.

“Gotta stretch you out, babe.” He was so deliriously lost in lust that he was unable to form full sentences, but you got the gist of what he was saying. Under him, his cock looked dauntingly thick, and you wondered how it would feel inside of you compared to what was now his entire fist inside of you. 

Tears broke the surface and cascaded down your face as Eijirou’s pace picked up, burying himself wrist deep inside of you. Katsuki couldn’t keep his eyes off of the scene- it was so fucking dirty and something he had been dreaming about for so long. Watching his best friend wreck his little princess was a fantasy buried deep in his brain that was finally breaking the surface. 

“Please, please, please, Eijirou, please-” Your begging turned into sobs, unable to hold back when he was stretching you further than you had ever been before. “Please give me your cock, Red Riot. Ple~”

The use of Eijirou’s hero name snapped something inside of him. 

You had never felt an orgasm hit you harder than your third of the night, almost immediately after you began swiping at your clit in time with his thrusting. Eijirou didn’t slow his pace as you began to gush over the sheets, squirting all over his torso. “That’s a good girl, fuck, babe. Fuck.” 

The feeling of his fist pulling out from you left you feeling empty. His hand was covered in slick and your stomach churned as he brought it up to his mouth and sucked off as much as he could before bringing it to your mouth and making you taste yourself. Dizzy and overstimulated, your eyes drifted to Katsuki, who was covered in his own cum and panting heavily. 

Eijirou was reaching a breaking point. He wanted- no- he needed to cum again, and while the idea of him shoving his length down your hot throat sounded like a dream, he couldn’t pass up the way your gaping cunt was currently clenching around nothing.

“Fuck her, Eijirou, or I’m going to do it for you.” Katsuki hissed from the other side of the bedroom, already growing hard again at the thought of either option. There was something so fucking sexy to him about watching you get thrown around and used like a fuck doll, not being able to say anything to complain with his friend’s massive frame towering over yours. 

“I haven’t done this much.” Eijirou muttered as he positioned his cock to your entrance and adjusted himself accordingly. When you gave him a questioning look, he continued. “Haven’t been able to fit it in.” 

His words partly made your stomach flip while also sending you into desire overdrive, causing you to help pull your legs apart to give a better view. You wanted to watch his girth stretch you once again, this time helping his current problem and getting your husband off at the same time. He already knew you’d be getting him back for this all at some point, especially when your eyes drifted over to see that it was just past three in the morning, but you were going to enjoy it while it happened.

Eijirou pushed the tip in slowly, watching your face for any signs to stop. You only dropped your jaw and whined, pulling your legs closer to you and trying to get a better view of it. His cock was fucking insane, truly, and it was an thought in your mind that was finally being satisfied. “You are huge, Red Riot.” 

With a grunt, he thrusted himself all the way in. You should have known that your games were misplaced, especially during a time where Eijirou was in a completely different state of mind. He didn’t really know that his dick was so fucking thick that is was going to split you in half, and when he crawled forward and slammed you into a mating press, you knew he really was completely oblivious. 

“Tight fucking pussy.” His words were sloppy, but the force in his thrusts made up for it. His thighs felt enormous on either side of yours and you wondered how much cock he couldn’t stuff inside of you as you felt nearly overwhelmed with the sheer weight of it. “Gonna fucking tear you apart.” 

Animalistic was an understatement. His thrusts were so loud that it rang through the room and between his noises and yours, you were sure you could be heard down the street. Katsuki had moved over to you, watching and jerking his cock. He slipped his fingers into your mouth, watching you suck down on him as his hand moved frantically. 

“Fuck her harder, Eij, she’s not crying.” 

You would be crying if you could breathe. He was so close to you, radiating so much heat and so much force that you were lost for movements. You laid limp as he took you, his cock dragging against your walls and stuffing you beyond repair. His mouth found your nipple and soon his hand found your other tit, giving both so much attention and bruising while still tearing away with his thrusts. 

Katsuki pressed his hand down onto your forehead, giving him access to see your tear-stained cheeks and watch as your face morphed into one of serious pleasure. He was bearing his teeth as he came closer to you, signaling that he was about to cum and it was going to be all over your fucked out expression. 

Eijirou pulled out at the same time, crawling up your body to angle his swollen cock at your face and join Katsuki in covering it completely. You stuck your tongue out to catch both of them as white strings coated you, both of their scents mixing and both cumming enough to leave you overwhelmed. 

After he was finished, Eijirou fell back on his heels before crawling off the bed and over to your dresser. You watched in curiosity, still covered in cum but realizing that Katsuki must have mentioned that was where your toys were kept. You didn’t know what you were expecting him to pull out of there, but it definitely wasn’t a strap-on. 

“It’s our turned to be fucked, don’t you think, babe?”

[sabraeal]

Nomans an Island

[Read on AO3]

Written for the delightful @another-miracle for her birthday! Last year Yixin asked for a very specific prompt: the WFB version of the Tanbarun Tree Scene...and then I tempted her with something else entirely. But today she is finally getting what she asked for 🤣

Whatever Shirayuki expected to be at the end of this four hour tour of the New England coastline, it’s certainly not this: a derelict marina in the middle of the water, big enough to make the yacht look less like a mountain and more like some molehill. And yet it’s empty; both the pilings and the island itself, a wasteland of rusted out sheds and overgrown shrubs.

“Here it is.” Dad claps a hand over her shoulder, grip just a hair too tight. “Home sweet home.”

She blinks, watching his men scurry down the ship’s side, yelling out to each other as they set about mooring them to the dock. “This is where you live?”

Her father’s reticent right hand finally grunts. “No.”

“Ah.” A meaty hand rubs at his neck, right where it’s gone ruddy. Shirayuki recognizes that bashful smile, even if it’s just from pictures. “More of a home away from home.”

There’s a part of her that wants to ask where home is, or at least where home has been. It’s the same part that wants him to account for every moment he wasn’t with her being the dad he should have been, spooling out the conversation he’d been so willing to have up in that cozy crow’s nest of his and she...hadn’t. Not when she still had so much else to say.

“Can’t really stay at the Seiran,” Dad says, managing half a shrug. “Uncle Sam takes that whole desertion thing pretty serious. Gotta get creative.”

The government isn’t so fond of treason either the last time Shirayuki checked, but mentioning it felt like might be belaboring a point she isn’t even interested in making. “Where are we?”

“Nomans Land,” Kazuki chirps, appearing suddenly beside her elbow. She’s only known him a few days-- and most of them spent in some leaky cabin while the waves lapped menacingly against their porthole-- but she doesn’t startle. No, it feels natural to have him beside her, an extension to her own presence, the way Oma and Opa had. “Navy used to use it as testing ground. Whole place is filled with cool stuff, ‘long as you’re careful about it.”

“As long as you stick to the marked safe areas, you mean,” Dad says, every word clipped to a point.

Kazuki loses a few inches to his slouch. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, Old Man.”

Dad’s breath catches, the way Opa’s always did before he took her to task, but Shirayuki’s quick to head him off. “So you decided to avoid the US government by...squatting on their island?”

“Well...” He coughs, boots shuffling on the deck. “You know what they say, hiding under noses and such. Besides, it’s not like they come out here to check more than a few times a week.”

“And all Pops has to do is slip the coastguard a few Cubans and they forget all about us!” Kazuki chimes in, so helpful.

“Man.” Her father’s pale shadow unfurls from his side, shaking his head. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

“Whaddya mean by--?”

“Gangway’s down.” Dad looms over Kazuki, pointed. “Looks like you boys better make yourselves scarce.”

Kazuki deflates. “Aw, but I didn’t even do--”

“Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.” It wasn’t Dad who raised her, but shadows of her childhood cling to the way he folds his arms and in the angle he tilts his head. Oma used to look at her like that, that phrase worn down to that exact same pitch. “Get a mosey on.”

Maybe he’s as good as a stranger to her, but they’d been raised by the same parents. It’d been his initials she’d stared at every night in her cozy attic room, carved into a rafter she’d never been able to reach; his stash of Hardy Boys novels she’d found behind a panel in the wall and read beneath the blankets that summer. He’s her father, but her childhood shares as much with his as a sibling’s.

Weirdly, that makes this all...easier.

“I’m going down too.” She leans over the rail to watch his men swarm down the gangway like ants on a trail. “I’d like to look around.”

Dad grunts, every furrow on his brow reluctant. These past few hours have taught her he’s a slow speaker, a careful one, but he hesitates a bit too long. Long enough that she’s tempted to remind him she’s not asking for permission, but before she can suck in a breath, he says, “Be careful.”

A smile parts her mouth before she can think twice about it, and once she does, she lets it widen. “Are you going to tell me not to do anything you wouldn’t, too?”

He huffs, mouth twitching. “That one’s no good. Dad may have never done a stupid thing in his life, but, kiddo, I’m made of ‘em.” Softer, he adds. “You lookin’ for someone?”

It’s not until he says it that she realizes she’s been searching the gangway since it dropped, looking for a smudge against the deck.

“Yeah.” The wind picks up, too cold, spraying her hair against her mouth. Still, she smiles. “After all, the Orphan Club never eats alone.”

Intellectually, Shirayuki knows that the yacht is, well, big. She hadn’t gotten a good count on the number of men he kept on it-- however much it is, Kiki assures her it wasn’t anywhere near the actual count of soldiers on the Mountain Lion payroll-- but it’s more than could fit on some millionaire’s pleasure cruise. Three decks and then some, with storage enough to fit the houseboat plus a few more speedy option. It’s huge.

She just didn’t think there’s be so many stairs. And of course they can’t be right next to each other either; oh no, she goes down one to sprint across the deck to another, on and on until Shirayuki isn’t certain of any direction besides up and down, and she was proving pretty terrible at doing the latter.

Her hand grips the rail, steadying her as she leans over. There’s only one deck below now, the gangway jutting out from its side to lean on the dock. And of course, there’s no stairs in sight. She might even need to go back inside to find them.

Shirayuki sighs, settling her hip against the rail. If she were Obi, she could swing herself down from here; he’d done it often enough from one of the balconies at the frat, using a bit of roof to hop off to the ground. It made her stomach seize every time she watched him, but standing here, out of breath and sweat freezing against her neck, she gets it.

With a weary huff, she makes for the stairwell-- or at least, its most likely location-- only to realize the shadow peeling away from the ship is a person, a large one, and he--

He stops, just in front of her. “You’re looking for that friend of yours?”

Her mouth works, soundless until she manages, “I have a lot of friends.”

Ah, well. That wasn’t exactly what she meant.

“Saw a stray cat stroll down the gangway while we were talking. Headed for the forest over there.” Itoya nods toward a stand of trees not far inland. A sad excuse for a forest in her opinion, but maybe after a few months at sea, every copse looked like a canopy. “Probably could catch him if he wanted you to.”

That would be the problem, wouldn’t it? He’d barely said a word to her after the coast guard took Umihebi’s boat, just a fumbled, “Doc,” before Zen had rushed in, arms wide. It’d been chaotic after that, getting passed between boats like a game of hot potato, but still, she’d been sure Obi would find her when it all died down. It’s been hours, and--

She shakes herself. Things she can worry about later. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

“If he lets you.”

There’s nothing to say to that, nor to the heavy look her father’s right hand lays on her, so she just turns back to the stairwell. One foot’s poised to go through the door when he calls out, “Careful out there. Stick to the paths.”

A laugh huffs out of her. “I know my sense of direction isn’t the best, but I’m pretty sure I won’t get lost.”

“Not about getting lost.” He leans back against the deck, shadows swallowing him whole. “Gotta watch out for live ordnance.”

Her head swings over her shoulder. “W-what?”

“Like the kid said.” His teeth flash in the dying light. “Navy testing grounds. Whole bunch of bombs that haven’t gone boom. Make sure you don’t get a front row seat.”

Shirayuki hasn’t precisely lived a safe life. Farmlands might seem idyllic to cityfolk, but there’s animals to contend with-- not just foxes stealing chickens, but wild cats, wolves, even coyotes when the winters got lean enough. Oma swatted one of them on the behind thinking it was Ms Kino’s too friendly husky out for a ramble, and Animal Control said it was only the surprise that kept her from losing that hand. Bears came around too, though Shirayuki had only seen one once, digging through the garbage after they’d had a particularly full house.

Even barring all her recent excitement, Shirayuki’s no stranger to sticking her head into the lion’s mouth. She didn’t much truck with the kids who would jump trains and play chicken with combines, but she’d sure put fingers where they didn’t belong and was lucky to keep them. The machines had all been off, of course, but just thinking about it now made her shiver with what could have been.

But she has to admit, there’s something a little different about walking through a forest in the dying December light, knowing there’s bombs out there. “O-obi?”

The wind whips through the trees, buffeting her hair all around her. Most of it end up in her mouth. With delicate fingers, she picks it out, untangling a few hairs from her tongue before she calls out again, “Obi!”

Her nerves nearly get to her-- it’s going to be full dark soon, on an island with a population best termed as temporary, and one step off this path could run her into a warhead older than she is. An ‘exercise in stupidity’ has never felt so literal as it does now.

Still, she waits. Longer than someone sensible would, she suspects, but she can’t leave, not when she’s so sure he’s here, that if she waits just one more minute he’ll come sauntering around a tree trunk the way he always does. Really know how to ruin a party, he might tell her, but he’d be there at least, safe.

But she can’t stay out here forever. A cold wind rushes right through the jacket Dad tossed on her, no matter how tight she wraps her arms around herself and--

And there it is. The softest rustle above her. A breath, maybe, and a sigh, and suddenly Obi drops down. It must be eight feet from the nearest branch, but he does it casually, like he’s hopping down the science building’s steps.

“There you are,” she breathes, and oh, her worry hit her all at once, nearly taking her knees out beneath her. But she keeps herself standing, even if it takes every ounce of self-control not to faint from relief. “I hadn’t seen you since we got on the boat. You didn’t really--” look like yourself-- “ah, feel good. It seemed. Is everything--?”

“I’m sorry.”

Every muscle is braced where he stands, and at first that seems normal. A drop like that would make anyone’s knees remind them of their own mortality, no matter how well prepared. But--

But his head is wrenched to the side, eyes clenched in anticipation, and all of it is so foreign a reaction that it takes a full minute for the thought to coalesce in her head: he expects her to hit him. Or well, yell maybe. Something besides just being happy that he’s safe.

“I...” She blinks. “It didn’t take that long. To find you, I mean.”

It’s too dark to see more detail than his eyes opening, neck swiveling until she’s right in his sights. “Not for that. For...”

It’s hard to watch him struggle, his mouth pressed tight even as the muscles of his throat strain to vocalize something, anything. In the end, he settles for a shrug.

“Ah,” she hums, the sound nearly lost in the howl of the wind. “So you’re not okay.”

“Me? Are you?” he snaps, the way he never does at her, breath misting as he carefully doesn’t move. “I was supposed to have your back. I told Zen that I would--” his teeth grit down, and she’s seen this before, with animals back into a corner, wounded and half feral-- “I was supposed to take care of you. And I fucked up.”

“Obi.” She inches closer, just a shuffle of feet across the path, but his flinch stops her cold. “Zen never would have thought that something like this would...”

Happen. It would be easy to say. But even as she tests it on her own tongue, it feels sour, wrong. It’s not like this is the first time someone’s tried to take her off the street.

“You were here for moral support,” she says instead, a truer thing. “Not muscle. No one expected you to throw any punches.”

Really? he’s supposed to say, mouth pulling into one of those Cheshire Cat grins. You think bossman didn’t want me to give that Shenezard prick a good what for?

Instead he’s silent, a statue against the darkening night.

“Obi,” she breathes, wishing she could do something, anything, to get close to him. “Itoya and Kazuki are trained soldiers. No one could expect you to deal with them. No normal person could--”

“That’s the thing though,” he grits out, teeth stark in the dim. “I’m not some normal guy. You don’t even know--” his teeth bite down with a clack-- “just...never mind. I should have been able to handle it.”

“I think you’re being way too hard on--”

It’s impossible to finish that thought, not when he’s standing right here, hand clapped over her mouth. “It doesn’t matter what you think.”

There’s a sick seed a fear that’s planted in her belly for moments like this, for those few seconds in any encounter where she remembers that even though the physical superiority of the male form is a faulty understanding of statistics and body science, she is still small and they are still big and she could very easily be in over her head.

And yet, that’s not what shivers in her stomach as she stands there, shoulders squared as she stares over his hand. No, that’s a flicker of frustration, ready to kindle. Her breath huffs out of her, skittering over his knuckles, and she’s just...aware of him.

There’s calluses on his palm, a few at the knuckles and even more settled on the mounts. His skin smells like sap and salt and nothing like the sandalwood he’d been wearing at the river. Despite the kitten grip he has on her jaw, he’s standing far enough away Ryuu and a friend could probably stand between them with room to spare.

Something shifts; the sun in the sky, maybe, or just the wind, and the hard glint of gold peeks through his eyelashes, meeting her stare. And for a single moment, she’s filled with the perverse impulse to lick his hand.

He saves her the trouble. His breath hitches, and quick as a blink, he’s stepped back, cold air rushing over her lips.

“Oh shit.” His hand flexes at his side. “I didn’t mean-- I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to...”

“It’s fine--”

“It’s not fine!” He shakes his head, making a visible effort to lower his voice when he says, “Doc, I appreciate that you wanna let me off the hook, I do, but that’s because to you I’m just, I don’t know, some guy.”

“Obi, you’re not just-- just some guy,” she says, “you’re my friend, and--”

“That’s the problem.” He spits out the words, like they’re sour in his mouth. “You’re cool with me fucking up because you think that’s all I can do, not because it’s actually what I can do, and those are-- they’re two different things, Doc. They are.”

“I don’t think you’re a-- a--”

“Doc, please,” he sighs, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Believe when I say I could have hosed that guy. Easy. Hell, I did hose that guy.”

Shirayuki stares. “What was that?”

“Er...” Obi grimaces. “Long story. Suffice to say, if I’d been actually doing my job, and not--” he shakes his head-- “never mind. Just...none of this would have happened if it weren’t for me, so...”

His shoulders twitch, the barest suggestion of a shrug. Not his usual lazy lift, designed to drive Zen up a wall, criticism rolling off him like water off a duck’s back. No, this time he cares too much; too afraid of getting hurt to let down his guard even an inch.

“So what you’re saying,” she begins, slowly. “Is that you want to be mad at yourself.”

He hunches, hanging low, all the fight gone out of him. “No, I want you to be mad at me. Because you would be, if you knew.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen.” Her mouth curves. “Unless you want to tell me that what I think doesn’t matter again.:

Obi grimaces. “Ah, I swear, that wasn’t supposed to come out like that...”

“I hope not. I’m no soldier, but my Oma did teach me how to throw a mean right hook.” At least, so Mihaya said, though she has a feeling if she trots that name out here, he’ll be on the first boat back to Connecticut to give him a piece of his mind. “If you really feel you need to make it up to me...”

Obi glances up at her with such hope in his eyes, she can’t bear to add, which you don’t. As he said, her opinion on the matter doesn’t count. He might not have meant it, not the way it came out, but it’s clear-- it’s Obi who can’t forgive himself, not her.

Her shoulders tighten as she admits, “There is something I could use your help with.”

“Really?” He squints, like her forgiveness comes with fine print and he’s trying to read between the lines. “You still...you still want me to...?”

“I already told you, I’m not mad.” A wind blows through, and she tugs her jacket tighter. “You never lost my trust, Obi. Not for a second.”

There’s no spark of belief in his eyes, no hopeful glimmer of relief. Only a shuddering breath as he pulls himself together, piecing together his jester’s mask one shard at a time.

“Well, then I’m your guy, Doc.” He grins, and oh, it would be so easy to believe it was real if she hasn’t just watched him forge it from scraps in front of her. “What do you need done? Got something on a high shelf? Need a guy to get his shit kicked in--?”

“Please, don’t get ahead of yourself.” She waves a hand, as if that might help lower his expectations. “It’s not anything, er, fun.”

“Well,” he hums, brows furrowing. “Color me intrigued. What is it?”

“It’s...” It would be easy to warn him, to tell him just what terrible thing she needs him for but no matter which words she tries, none of them come close. “I have a storage unit that needs cleaning out. From when my grandparents died. It’s got...stuff.”

“Ah.” He nods, solemn, stepping up beside her. “Stuff. Well, lucky for you, Doc, it just so happens I’m great at getting rid of shit.”

[heyiwrotesomethings]

A Compulsive Gambler?!

Yumeko Jabami x She/Her Reader

A/N: Could you imagine Yumeko dating someone and they have no idea she’s, ya know, a gambling freak? I bet she would have a hard time pulling back like, she’d still gamble with her SO but in a sneaky, more subdued way. Something like, ‘if you can guess what number I’m thinking of you can pick what we eat for dinner’, or something like that. Seems innocent enough but she just can’t help herself into turning some interactions into gambles. Anyway, hope y’all enjoy! Word Count: 5,170

For perhaps the first time since Mary met Yumeko, the girl was a nervous wreck. The usually carefree gambling addict was pacing around the near empty classroom while she twisted the ring on her thumb around and around again with no sign of stopping. Finally, Mary had had enough. If Suzui wasn’t going to be useful and ask what the hell was going on, she would do it herself.

“What the hell is your problem? Are you going through withdrawals or something?” Mary asked with an annoyed huff.

“Oh Mary-san!” Yumeko practically moaned, the back of her hand raised to her forehead with over dramatic flair, “I don’t know what to do!”

“About what?” Mary asked, accompanied with an annoyed eye roll.

“My girlfriend is coming to visit tomorrow and she’s going to be staying with me over the weekend!” Yumeko blushed cupping her hands over her face at the mere thought of it all. It just made Mary more annoyed.

“And? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“You have a girlfriend?” Ryota blinked, the poor boy seemed to always be falling behind.

“Yes, we’ve been together since our last year of middle school. We went to the same high school too until I transferred,” Yumeko gushed while she hugged herself, twisting and swaying slightly on her feet, “I love her so much! It’s been hard to be away from her all this time!”

Ryota scratched his cheek. “Then... why do you seem so uneasy?”

“Well that’s easy!” Yumeko cheered, a dazzling smile over her lips. A moment passed by and Yumeko appeared to pale considerably and a nervous sweat dotted her face, her body trembled and yet, the smile stayed in place. Mary and Ryota side eyed each other before staring back at Yumeko, waiting.

“She doesn’t know about my severe gambling addiction!” Yumeko finally disclosed.

“What?!” Mary and Ryota spoke in unison.

“Yes, it’s hard to believe isn’t it?” Yumeko sighed. “I’ve kept it hidden from her all this time because I feared what she would think of me if she found out. That, and I wouldn’t want her to get hurt from tagging along. I love that girl dearly and I can’t risk losing her.”

“How are you going to keep your secret, Yumeko?” Ryota’s worry for his friend was plain on his face.

“That’s where I’m hoping you two will come in!” Yumeko grasped a hand of Mary’s and Ryota’s in both of hers, a pleading pout on her face. “Help me keep her occupied and away from any mention of gambling!”

“Are you an idiot?” Mary scoffed, not waiting for an answer. “This school is all about gambling! Not to mention we’re in the midst of this insane election. You’d be better off just having her wait off of school grounds rather than parading her around for all your enemies to see.”

“Please Mary-san, it’s only for one day!” Yumeko cooed. She tried to wrap the blonde up in her arms, but Mary stood and held her away at arm’s length.

“I’m not gonna go out of my way for this fool’s errand. I’ve got to go meet with Ririka now. Figure it out yourself, but if you want my advice you should just come clean.” Mary said, giving Yumeko one last shove as she made her way out of the classroom.

“Oh yes, do you think Ririka-san would help? Maybe we could get Itsuki in on it as well!”

“You’re on your own!” Mary called from the hallway, making Yumeko whine.

“I’ll help you Yumeko.” Ryota predictably volunteered.

“Thank you, Ryota!” Yumeko bounced giddily, “Hopefully everything will run smoothly tomorrow if we play our cards right!”

***

“(Y/n)!” Yumeko jumped the girl as soon as she saw her approach the gates of the prestigious academy and showered her face with dozens of little kisses that made her girlfriend laugh and try to wiggle away from the continuous onslaught.

“Yumeko! I take it you missed me too then?” (Y/n) smiled, catching Yumeko’s face in her hands so she could land a few kisses of her own.

“Of course! You know it was one of the hardest decisions of my life to transfer here. I need to make up for lost time!” Yumeko grinned in return. She was about to steal another kiss when someone cleared their throat behind her.

“Oh, right!” Yumeko recalled, pulling (Y/n) to her side until they were near flush together. “Ryota, this is (L/n) (Y/n). (Y/n), this is Suzui Ryota, one of my friends!”

“Nice to meet you.” Ryota said. He was no stranger to feeling out of place, but after that intimate display he had never felt more awkward.

“Nice to meet you too, Suzui-san. I hope Yumeko hasn’t caused you too much trouble.” (Y/n) joked.

Thoughts of millions of yen in debt, gambling for nails, house pets, guns in a seedy basement, among other things, flashed almost violently in Ryota’s mind but he managed to keep a somewhat pleasant expression as he answered.

“Not at all! Yumeko’s a model student,” he lied.

“Oh god, I thought you’d be in the classroom by now. So much for a quiet morning.”

“Mary-san! Good morning!” Yumeko pivoted, still holding (Y/n) close, “Come meet my (Y/n)!”

“Hi. Saotome Mary. It’s a pleasure. Excuse us a second.” (Y/n) blinked and Mary was halfway through the courtyard before she noticed Yumeko being dragged along with her.

“Are you stupid?” Mary whispered harshly with no preamble once she found a secluded spot in the trees.

“Mary-san, what are we doing?” Yumeko asked, tilting her head like an inquisitive puppy would.

“How about what are you doing?” Mary hissed back. “The whole school must know you’re dating at this point!”

“Well that’s good isn’t it?”

“It’s the exact opposite of good! Do you have any idea how many people are gonna try to use her against you now? Use your head a little!”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to help me, Mary-san.” Yumeko giggled, “but you really do care about my happiness, don’t you?”

“Shut up!” Mary blushed, pushing Yumeko away before she could hug her. “I just don’t want some innocent girl to get caught up in this crazy school. Just be more discreet from now on. She already sticks out like a sore thumb without the Hyakkaou uniform.”

“I���ll do my best Mary-san!” Yumeko clapped. “It’ll be hard though since she’s just so kissable.”

“I didn’t ask.”

When they got back to the gate, they only saw Suzui looking around desperately while sweating bullets. When he finally saw Mary and Yumeko walking towards him, he ran up to them, breathing heavily.

“Ryota? Where did (Y/n) go?” Yumeko smiled.

“Iki... Ikishima’s girls took her! Tried to.. stop them but—“ Ryota panted and wheezed, stopping the retelling of his account once Yumeko rose her hand to his lips, directing him to silence.

“See? What did I tell you?” Mary groused. “And Ikishima of all people...” Mary shut her mouth tightly upon seeing the look on Yumeko’s face. The pure disgust and hatred that rolled off of her made Mary’s skin crawl.

“Ryota, Mary,” Yumeko eerily called, “it’s time for me to get my (Y/n) back from her visit to the trash heap. You’ll accompany me won’t you?”

It went without saying that Mary and Ryota followed after their friend. Whether out of fear or support, it could have gone either way. Even Mary thought it wise not to berate the usually carefree girl with ‘I told you so’s’ in this state.

They hurried to the bowels of the school and pushed through the beautification committee members. The members didn’t retaliate, one look at Yumeko’s face was enough to make them part their ranks like Moses and the sea. Yumeko approached the big metal door and knocked three times, loud metal echoes rung out over the hum of generators and fluorescent lights.

A wild laugh sounded upon the knocks. An eager cry of, ‘she’s here!’ could clearly be heard from inside as quick steps over linoleum could be heard tapping in rapid succession towards the door before it was wrenched open with a heinous squeak from its hinges that nearly matched pitch with Midari’s own delighted squeal upon being face to face with Yumeko.

“Yu-me-ko!” Midari sang, “so glad you could join us!”

Yumeko breezed past Midari without so much as a glance and went straight for (Y/n) who was tied to a chair in the middle of the room like some crime movie.

“Oh my (Y/n), are you alright?” Yumeko cooed, freeing (Y/n) from the gag and turning her face in her hands to look her over.

“I think so,” (Y/n) shivered, “just what kind of school do you go to where people are kidnapped at gunpoint?!”

The thought of Ikishima pressing that dirty gun against (Y/n)’s head made Yumeko want to curb stomp Ikishima’s head into a fine paste, but the deranged girl would have just loved that, wouldn’t she? Instead she worked on untying the ropes from (Y/n)’s middle, comforting her girlfriend along the way.

“It’s alright my love! The beautification committee is just really serious about following the dress code. They won’t bother you anymore.”

“Yumeko,” Midari moaned from behind her, “I brought her her so you would gah—!”

Mary slapped the girl hard over the back of her head and gave her a warning look. Midari shut up more out of the delight of being hit more than anything else.

“...’Gah’?” (Y/n) flicked her eyes over everyone in the room, trying to get some kind of explanation for what the hell was going on.

“‘Gah?’” Yumeko repeated right back with a smile. “Whatever does that mean, my dear?”

“I don’t know, the girl with the eye patch said it.” (Y/n) replied, finally loose from her bindings, she rubbed her hands over her arms where the scratchy rope had dug in.

“Oh sweetheart, you must be seeing things. I see no such girl here.” Yumeko said, causing a whimper to fall from Midari’s lips. “Let’s get to my class now, shall we?”

“Anywhere is better than here.” (Y/n) sighed, choosing not to question Yumeko about the girl who had taken her. She clearly didn’t like her and after being dragged here against her will, (Y/n) couldn’t say she enjoyed the crazed girl’s company either.

“That’s my girl,” Yumeko cooed, pulling (Y/n) tightly against her side. They walked past Midari as she blubbered and crawled over the floor towards Yumeko only to have the metal door slammed in her face.

“Come on, we’re already late!” Mary griped. “Some of us have scholarships to keep!”

“I just can’t wait to be sitting in a classroom with my (Y/n) again,” Yumeko sighed dreamily, “it will be just like old times!”

“Yeah.” (Y/n) smiled though she was still coming to terms with being held at gunpoint for wearing the wrong uniform. Yumeko hadn’t even seemed to be phased by it. Like it was something that was part of the school policy. We’re all rich people schools like this? Whatever, (Y/n) wasn’t going to let this one setback, no matter how momentarily terrifying, ruin her weekend with Yumeko.

Before they could make it to their classroom, the were jumped by another second year student with literal stars in her eyes as she grabbed Yumeko’s hands.

“Yumeko, I’m so glad I caught you!” She cheered.

“Oh hello Yumemi, what are you doing outside our classroom?” Yumeko asked.

“Waiting for you! It’s been so long since the Dreaming Creaming Sisters have performed and I need you to pretty please join me for a concert!” Yumemi sparkled.

“Dream—“ (Y/n) tried to muffle her inelegant snort with her hand but the action immediately drew in Yumemi’s attention, the idol’s face darkened slightly.

“Oh? What’s so funny stranger?” Yumemi asked with faux sweetness.

“I, um, sorry. It’s just uh, a unique group name you’ve got there.” (Y/n) answered sheepishly.

“Well, I’d like to see you come up with a better rhyme for dreaming!”

“Scheming, beaming, redeeming... meme-ing.” (Y/n) listed the first words that came to her head, making Yumemi’s smile tighten further with every suggestion.

“Who’s your friend, Yumeko?” The idol asked, fake interest rolling off her tongue.

“This is my girlfriend (Y/n)!” Yumeko said with pride. “Isn’t she just so cute and smart?”

‘Smart ass maybe.’ Yumemi thought to herself.

“Anyway, I’m sorry but I can’t perform with you right now. I’ve got class and I don’t want to leave (Y/n) alone.” Yumeko explained, hugging the girl for emphasis.

“I didn’t know you were part of an idol group now, Yumeko.” (Y/n) said as Yumeko guided her towards the doorway.

“It’s just a side hobby really.”

Before they could enter Yumemi pulled (Y/n) out of Yumeko’s hold, hugging her from behind, her starry eyes dancing with mischief.

“You’ve never seen Yumeko preform then, have you (Y/n)-san?” Yumemi asked, still hugging the other girl close as she weaved her trap.

“Yumeko has sang to me before, so I know she can sing very well.” (Y/n) admitted bashfully. “I’ve never seen her act as a full blown idol before though.”

“Isn’t that something you’d like to see? We could have it all set up in a matter of minutes, wouldn’t that be great?” Yumemi coaxed.

“I wouldn’t want Yumeko to do something she doesn’t want to do. Besides, her class is starting soon.” (Y/n) said.

“I didn’t hear a no.” Yumemi sing-songed while (Y/n)’s face buzzed with heat.

“If you’d like to see then I don’t really mind, (Y/n).” Yumeko grinned, pulling her away from Yumemi, “I like the idea of singing directly to you in a sea of people. They’ll all know exactly how much you mean to me.”

“Yumeko..” (Y/n) hid her face in the giggling gambling addict’s chest.

“Oh for the love of— are we going to class or not?” Mary yelled impatiently.

“I’m afraid I have a concert to prepare for Mary-san. Will you come watch with (Y/n)?” Yumeko asked.

“Fine whatever.” Mary bristled.

They all made to leave when Mary halted Ryota with a hand to his chest.

“Wh- what?” He asked, jumpily.

“You are going to stay here and take notes. They better be good ones too.” Mary threatened.

“But—“

“Notes, Suzui.” Mary commanded. The poor boy gave a resigned nod and with drooping shoulders he sulked into the classroom.

***

While Yumeko and Yumemi prepared backstage, Mary and (Y/n) found their seats and made light conversation as more bodies filed into the seats around them. Despite dating Yumeko, Mary found that (Y/n) seemed to have a good head on her shoulders.

“Saotome-san, what is that boy taking bets for?” (Y/n) asked.

“It’s just some weird niche idol thing Yumemite does. Don’t worry about it.” Mary dismissed, though inside she was worried this would become a bigger gamble that she couldn’t possibly cover up.

“This rich people school is so weird.” (Y/n) commented offhandedly.

“Tell me about it.” Mary agreed.

The house lights dimmed and the stage was set aglow. Upbeat music began to play and the crowd around them cheered as Yumeko and Yumemi entered the stage.

They sang their opening song and (Y/n) watched with delight, her heart beating faster every time Yumeko would meet her eyes throw a flirtatious wink or smile her way. (Y/n) would wave the red glow stick she was given in return.

“Now it’s time for the event you’ve all been waiting for!” Yumemi yelled over the crowd, causing them to cheer again. “The rematch of the century!”

“Rematch? What is she talking about Saotome-san?” (Y/n) asked.

“Ah, there just seeing who can do best in various idol based competitions.” Mary responded, truly hoping that that would be it, but Yumemite wasn’t done talking just yet.

“Before you all got here, one lucky seat was chosen for the spotlight! Let’s see who it is, shall we?”

Yumemi swept her hand across the packed auditorium and one light after the other blinked across the sea of bodies while the audience cheered. A bright light shone on (Y/n) and she blinked at the sudden brightness, surprised when the light didn’t immediately flicker back off.

“And there we have it! Our visiting guest from another school, how lucky you are!” Yumemi said with mock surprise as if she hadn’t had the thing rigged from the get go.

“You’ve won the opportunity to go on a date with one of us, the Dreaming Creaming Sisters! How will it be determined who you go out with? Well, it all depends on which one of us wins this gamb—“

“Game!” Yumeko hurriedly interjected, a faint gleam of sweat streaked down her cheek.

“Well, yes, I suppose ‘game’ is also accurate.” Yumemi cocked her head at the strange outburst. Yumemi didn’t really care what Yumeko called the gamble, she just had to win it. What better way to get back at the girl than to steal her girlfriend away for a night.

“The rules to this game are simple Yumeko-chan! There will be three rounds: perfect pitch, name the tune, and choreography memory match. Win two out of three, and you’ll get to go out with our lucky chair holder! Lose, and you’ll be paying for mine and (Y/n)’s night out. I’ll warn you, I’m not cheap!” Yumemi said with a showy laugh.

“But, I’m already dating Yumeko,” (Y/n) frowned, “I can’t go on a date with someone else!”

“Just hope Yumeko wins then.” Mary sighed. At least Yumemi’s way of gambling wasn’t too obvious. Her gambles were big and grand, but to an outsider they weren’t immediately discernible as anything but stage entertainment.

“Let’s make this quick, Yumemi-chan!” Yumeko smiled, hoping she could keep her desire to up the stakes in check.

Yumeko won perfect pitch, matching nearly every note with perfect accuracy. Yumemi won name the tune as many of the songs were conveniently of a western selection. Last was the choreography memory game and (Y/n) was nervous.

(Y/n) knew that Yumeko had a splendid memory, but the girl also detested demanding physical excursions such as this. She was probably already tired from dancing at the start of the show. To (Y/n), it was not looking to good for her girlfriend.

But to (Y/n)’s surprise, Yumeko followed the impromptu routine like a champ. Yumeko refused to let Yumemi outdo her, all for the sake of keeping (Y/n) close.

“She’s going to be so sore after this.” (Y/n) marveled. “You know I used to have to threaten her to make her go to gym class?”

“You could actually make her go to gym class?” Mary rose a brow, impressed. She hadn’t seen Yumeko attend gym class since the first week of her transferring. While Mary was still a house pet, she took great pleasure in watching Yumeko suffer through that class period.

Minutes went by and the two girls each adorned a a sleek sheen of sweat as they continued to dance, matching each other step for step. The fans were going wild at the display, waiting to see how would win the dance battle of a lifetime.

Then it happened in a flash. Yumemi, in her desire to get back at Yumeko for their last gamble against Natari Kawaru, tried to add a very complex step in her next turn and fell to the stage which led to her loss.

“Jabami Yumeko wins!” The MC announced.

Saori appeared from behind stage to help Yumemi back to her feet. Though pissed and embarrassed, Yumemi hid her feelings well and congratulated Yumeko on her win.

They closed off the concert with one final song and then the event was over.

“Have a nice dinner on me!” Yumemi sparkled, shaking (Y/n)’s hand after the show before walking back to her dressing room with Saori in tow. The poor manager was sure to get an earful from the idol once they were away from polite company.

Yumeko practically collapsed in (Y/n)’s arms.

“(Y/n), I’m so tired! Carry me!” Yumeko whined.

“After all that hard work you did? Happily.” (Y/n) hoisted Yumeko onto her back and the sweaty girl squeaked joyfully, wrapping her arms around (Y/n)’s neck.

The trio talked about the show as they walked (or in Yumeko’s case, carried) through the halls, slowly making their way back to the classroom for the next class period. Mary paused in her next comment as loud, purposeful steps were quickly catching up to them.

“Jabami Yumeko!” A voice filled with contempt called from behind them.

“Oh, Sayaka! How good to see you!” Yumeko smiled, sliding off of (Y/n)’s back to try to greet the secretary with a hug.

Sayaka dodged the attempt on her life, zapping her taser in warning as she glared at the demon before her. (Y/n) wondered if all the students were allowed to carry such dangerous items at school.

“You are in violation of school rules!” Sayaka sternly informed. “You did not fill out the proper paperwork to bring an outsider into Hyakkaou.”

“Really Yumeko,” Mary scoffed, “those are like, the easiest papers to fill out.”

“I’m sorry Sayaka, it must have slipped my mind.” Yumeko apologized.

“Your apologies mean nothing to me. Escort the girl out now.” Sayaka clipped.

“All I want is to spend time with my girlfriend. Surely you could make an exception just this once, Sayaka, friend?” Yumeko pleaded.

“Don’t refer to me as your friend,” Sayaka’s jaw clenched, “better yet, don’t refer to me ever.” Then Sayaka’s expression switched from hostile to something akin to a hopeful curiousness. “Did you say girlfriend? Like dating... monogamously perhaps? As in, you aren’t looking to be dating someone else right now? You want to spend more time with her than anyone else?”

“Yes!” Yumeko nodded, smiling obliviously.

Sayaka turned her attention to (Y/n), walking up to the other girl and grasping (Y/n)’s hands tightly in hers.

“Never break up with her,” Sayaka said, the closeness of her face scaring (Y/n) slightly, “please.”

“I um, wasn’t planning on it.” (Y/n) stuttered in reply.

“My, what do we have going on here?” A silky voice called from behind the group. Sayaka gasped and removed her hands from (Y/n) as if they had burned her.

“President! Vice president! What are you doing here?” The secretary asked.

“I’ve been hearing rumors of Yumeko stirring up my aquarium with a new fish.” Kirari’s lips curled in an interested smile as she eyed the unfamiliar girl. “This must be the one, hm?”

“This is (L/n) (Y/n), my girlfriend. She’s visiting me over the long weekend and I wanted to show her around the school to maximize our time together. Unfortunately I didn’t fill out the proper forms, you’ll allow it won’t you president? Please?” Yumeko explained with a cute pout that made Sayaka livid.

“Of course.” Kirari easily complied, tapping a blue nail against her smiling, equally blue lips. “She’ll just have to gamble with me first.”

Oh no. She said it.

“Gamble?” (Y/n) looked at the president questioningly while Yumeko and Mary hosted a silent eye battle between themselves to figure out how to deescalate the situation.

“Yes, dating Yumeko, I can imagine you must be amazing at it to catch her eye,” Kirari produced a pack of cards from her blazer, “any preferences?”

“I’m not much of a gambler, neither is Yumeko. I’m not quite sure I understand.” (Y/n) answered.

“Not much of a gambler, Yumeko?” Kirari’s lips rose into a highly amused smile.

“What she means to say is that I’ve dabbled in some friendly school gambles while I’ve been here. It’s kind of a tradition at this school, (Y/n). All in good fun.” Yumeko laughed.

“Yes, try telling that to the house pets.” Kirari mused.

“Could you just, shut up for like, five minutes?” Mary seethed, turning to the masked girl standing silently at Kirari’s left, “I thought I told you to keep your sister occupied today so this exact thing wouldn’t happen.”

Ririka shyly removed her mask, looking contrite. “I tried but she wanted to know what Igarashi-san was doing.”

“Could someone please explain to me what is going on here?” (Y/n) asked holding her hands out expectantly as she looked over each face in the little group they had formed in the middle of the hall.

“How about this,” Kirari circled the girl, “you beat me in a gamble and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“And if I lose?” (Y/n) questioned.

“No penalty. This is highly entertaining for me as it stands. I just want to know if I can see what Yumeko sees in you.”

“Then I guess I don’t see the harm in it.”

“Excellent. Let’s take this party to the student council room shall we?”

Yumeko nervously twirled her ring as she watched (Y/n) sit across from the president. Kirari had all sorts of gambling dirt of her, as much as she loved (Y/n), she hoped the girl would lose this one.

“Blackjack?” Kirari asked as she shuffled the deck.

“I don’t know how to play that actually.” (Y/n) said.

“That’s fine. Texas Hold ‘Em?”

“No, sorry.”

“How about gin rummy?”

“Haven’t heard of it.”

“Thirty-one?”

“Nope.”

“Ten card no peek baseball?”

“Is that a real thing?”

“What card game do you know?” Kirari tried instead.

“...Go Fish?” (Y/n) replied.

“A woman after my own heart.” Kirari said, causing Sayaka to pout severely.

Kirari dealt the cards, spreading the remaining deck face down between them and the game was set. The pairs flowed evenly for the first couple minutes until (Y/n) had to go fish and Kirari obtained a small lead on her. (Y/n) just as quickly turned the tides a few turns later with a good guessing streak that landed her five more pairs.

The casual luck and easy going attitude (Y/n) presented while gambling with the president made Yumeko even more attracted to her girlfriend by the second, but still she hoped Kirari would turn it back around somehow.

It appeared luck wasn’t on Yumeko’s side however, as (Y/n) won the game with three more pairs then Kirari. The president smiled, mildly impressed by the outsider’s victory.

“Well then, what questions do you have for me?” She asked, shifting in her seat to cross her legs the other way.

“So this is some crazy gambling school, right?” (Y/n) asked with no preamble, not pulling any punches.

“Crazy would be subjective, but gambling is as important in this school as breathing. I’ve made sure of that.” Kirari answered.

“And Yumeko gambles.” (Y/n) said, mostly looking for acknowledgement that clarified the validity of the statement.

“Yes, one of the best in the school.” Kirari praised.

“It’s not dangerous though, right? She hasn’t done anything too drastic?”

Yumeko bowed her head, twisting her ring with a bit more force. A blush coated her skin as her heartbeat pounded in her chest. This was like a gamble in itself and oh, how intense it felt!

“Mm, hard to say.” Kirari shrugged, “I feel as though our definitions of these terms may differ.”

(Y/n) turned to face Yumeko who looked every bit the part of a scolded puppy. She didn’t need to ask any more questions. Not for Kirari to answer anyway.

“Yumeko, just what have you been up to?” (Y/n) asked, covering Yumeko’s hands to cease their twisting.

“(Y/n), I’ve been hiding something from you.” She sniffled, “I’ve been hiding it from you for a long time!”

“What is it?” (Y/n) asked gently, patting the girl’s silky hair.

“I’m, I’m a compulsive gambler!”

“Really?” (Y/n) was stunned.

“Yes, it’s true. I’ve had so many gambles I know you wouldn’t approve of.” Yumeko blinked her tears away as she allowed the truth to be out in the open. “I’ve gambled myself into millions worth of debt just so I could gamble even more, I’ve bet my finger nails, I’ve played Russian Roulette, I’ve bet my free will against become a pop idol and never being able to date again... I’m sorry you had to find it all out like this.”

“Yumeko...” (Y/n) was speechless, she didn’t know what to make of all this. Her sweet, adorable girlfriend had an intense gambling addiction that made her put herself in harm’s way on the daily?

“Please don’t break up, please don’t break up, please don’t...” Sayaka mumbled quietly to herself, rolling something that looked suspiciously like prayer beads in her hands. All the poor secretary wanted was for the snake to have a keeper that would pull her attention away from her president, was that so much to ask for?

(Y/n) sighed through her nose and pinched Yumeko’s arm harshly.

“Ow!” Yumeko whined.

“That’s for keeping secrets.” (Y/n) huffed, pinching Yumeko’s other arm, “that’s for putting yourself in dangerous situations. And this,”

Yumeko closed her eyes, waiting for another stinging pinch. Instead, she received a sweet kiss on her cheek.

“This is an apology for making you feel like you had to hide from me. I love you.”

“I love you too!” Yumeko sniffled, knocking her head into (Y/n)’s chest as she hugged her tightly.

“This doesn’t mean you’re getting a free pass anymore though, no more life changing gambles!”

“...how about three a week.” Yumeko asked shyly.

“Once a month max. You’ll kill me, my heart won’t be able to take the stress.”

“This day has been exhausting.” Mary groaned. “I thought I wasn’t going to let myself be dragged into this idiotic mess.”

“You’re a true friend, Mary-san!” Yumeko clapped.

“Ugh,” Mary ignored her, “come on Ririka, we’re running late for our next election gamble.

Ririka hurried over to the blonde and they exited the room together. (Y/n) and Yumeko followed after giving a cheery goodbye to the amused president and her disgruntled secretary.

“Lessons are over for the day,” Yumeko grinned, hugging (Y/n)’a arm as they walked towards the front gates of the school. “I bet you’re hungry, we didn’t even have time for lunch.”

“Food sounds awesome right now. Any suggestions?”

“I know a few places that might be good. We can go over them while we get ready in my apartment.”

“Sounds great.”

“Don’t let money discourage your final decision. Remember that Yumemi has graciously agreed to pay for our date tonight!”

“Oh yes, how could I forget my almost date with a pop star. How are your legs feeling by the way?”

“They’re so sore (Y/n)! Every step hurts!” Yumeko whined.

“Alright,” (Y/n) bent forward, “up, up.”

“Yay!” Yumeko cheered hopping onto (Y/n)’s back.

Yumeko refused to get off of (Y/n)’s back until they got home... which made taking the bus a little awkward.

~~~

Bonus Scene

Ryota sat stalk still in his desk, watching the hours tick by in the darkened classroom only lit by the soft light from the street lamps outside. He looked down at his notebook, filled with notes, two identical hand written copies for Mary and Yumeko. He looked back at the door, waiting for it to slide open.

“Yumeko, Mary-san,” Ryota weakly called, “please come back soon, I’m so hungry.”

[agent-kihyun]

neighbors [ldh]

pairing: Neighbor!Hyuck x reader (feat. 00 line)

wc: 6.1K

rating: R/18+

warnings: explicit smut; oral (female receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), flirting, making out, sex jokes

summary: When Lee Haechan moves in across the hall from you, you must figure out how to resist his charm in order to prove a point to your roommates. But what’s the harm in giving into temptation?

↣

The minute that your neighbor across the hall, an older woman who lived alone, passed away, you were mildly relieved. Yes, you know that sounds...bad. But, in your defense, she was rather mean to you and often complained to the landlord about you and your roommates despite the three of you not disturbing her.

You had hoped the landlord wasn’t planning on filling the empty apartment with new people again, but much to your dismay, within days the new apartment is rented out to a new tenant already. But what could you do? It was happening whether you liked it or not.

“Hey, have you heard?” your roommate, Bomi, bursts into the apartment practically screaming.

You casually flip a page in the magazine that you’re skimming, “Heard what?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Bomi shuts the door and walks over to you, snatching your magazine out of your hands.

“Hey! Give that back! I literally have no idea what you’re talking about!” You half-heartedly reach up for your magazine.

“We’re getting new neighbors, you dweeb!” Bomi laughs in excitement.

“You’re a dweeb,” you pout and re-open your magazine, continuing to skim the pages.

“Are you not excited about getting new neighbors?” Your roommate scoffs.

“I couldn’t care less, to be honest,” you shrug.

“You’re unbelievable. I’m pretty sure they’re our age,” she smacks your knee to get your attention.

“Okay. Cool.”

“Hey! Show some enthusiasm!” Bomi whines.

“What are you trying to get her to show enthusiasm for?” Another one of your roommates, Gaeun, walks into the living room from her room.

“We’re getting new neighbors! I just saw them moving in across the hall into Mrs. Kim’s old place! They’re really cute,” Bomi explains to Gaeun.

“Really? Oh my gosh, let me see,” Gaeun rushes to the door and takes a quick peek as your new neighbors move their boxes into their apartment.

“You guys are so lame. We never interact with any of our neighbors anyway, what's the big deal?” You roll your eyes and finally put your magazine down.

“Because...they’re hot,” Gaeun says after she closes the door.

“Bomi just said they’re cute, so which is it?”

“Don’t be such a smartass,” Bomi says to you and you cross your arms in indignation.

“Let’s go welcome them! Introduce ourselves so they, y’know, like are familiar with someone around here,” Gaeun suggests with a wink.

“If they’re still moving their stuff in, it’s probably not a good time. Just wait till they’re--” You begin.

“Shh, I wasn’t asking you,” Gaeun sends you a quick glare and you shoot daggers back at her.

“Yeah, let’s go say hi!” Bomi grins and the two take off faster than the speed of light.

You stand in the foyer of your apartment, alone and now in a sour mood. You decide that there’s only one thing that can cheer you up at the moment: ice cream. You quickly grab your phone, keys and wallet, slip on your shoes and swiftly leave the apartment.

Your two roommates, standing in the doorway of your new neighbors’ apartment, call you over to say hi, as if they totally didn’t just ditch you, but you ignore them and take the staircase instead of the elevator.

You take a good hour at the ice cream parlor, eating ice cream by yourself and trying to distract yourself from the events from earlier. Why did you have to care about new neighbors? Why did Bomi and Gaeun make you feel like less than for not caring? Who cares if they’re hot? Maybe they were right for giving you weird looks, you think.

The ice cream does nothing for you. Instead, you try to cheer yourself up by getting your comfort foods from the grocery store. A pint of your favorite ice cream and snacks always made you feel much better.

With your food in hand, you walk home with a small smile on your face, having completely forgotten about your roommates. When you arrive back to the apartment, you see that the moving truck that was previously there when you left, is now gone. With that knowledge, you take the elevator up to your floor. You take the time in the elevator to begin snacking, but stop yourself so you can enjoy the rest in the comfort of your own home.

However, as you glance at your new neighbor’s door, you know you’d have to wait a little longer to eat your food. You felt bad for simply storming off earlier and not even waving to the new people on your floor. With a heavy sigh you find yourself walking to their door to formally introduce yourself.

3 knocks to the door and it’s swinging open. A young man stands before you, giving you a mildly perplexed look. Right off the bat you know you’re doomed. Your roommates were right about your new neighbors (or at least one of them) being handsome. If he looks this good, what do others look like?

“Hello? Can I help you?” his voice snaps you out of it.

“Oh...yeah, um, I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m your neighbor,” you stick out your hand for him to shake and tell him your name. The young man looks down at your hand and back up at your face before taking your hand in his and shaking it twice. His hand lingers in yours before you pull yours away.

“You can call me Haechan,” he gives you a flashy grin. You return his smile, thinking that maybe you were wrong to judge your neighbor before even meeting him.

“I live across from you,” You point to the door on the other side of the elevator landing space, “I’m pretty sure you met my two other roommates earlier.”

“Oh yeah, you ignored them and left them hanging. Kind of a dick move, in my honest opinion,” he leans against his doorframe, crossing his arms and a smug expression on his face. Your jaw drops at his statement.

So you weren’t entirely wrong. What a little shit.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but in my defense, they were dicks to me right before that and I wasn’t in the mood to pretend like I was happy,” you cross your arms as well. Haechan laughs and shakes his head.

“I guess that’s fair. My roommates can be dicks too sometimes so I understand,” he shrugs. “Do you want to meet them as well?”

“Um…” you trail off, unsure if you wanted to introduce yourself to the others at the moment.

“Come on, they won’t bite,” Haechan winks at you. Something about the delivery of his comment makes your cheeks heat up, but you decide to just go for it.

“Okay,” you say, and before you know it, Haechan is tugging you into his apartment, shutting the door behind you.

Once inside, you look around and find boxes everywhere. Some of them were open, some of them were still sealed; of course since they were unpacking. There was a blue sofa in the middle of the room, two other males sitting on it and unpacking boxes. One was in the kitchen, also unpacking, you assumed.

“Hey, we have a guest!” Haechan announces, and suddenly there were 4 pairs of eyes on you. One of the guys on the couch stands up and walks over to you. He takes your hand in his and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Jaemin,” he smiles at you and it takes everything in you not to laugh, so instead you send him a tight-lipped smile. You quickly deduce he was the flirty type, and that you’d probably endure a lot more of his flirting if you were to hang out with these guys often.

“Hey, knock it off you weirdo, you’re gonna scare her,” the one from the kitchen walks over and offers his hand for you to shake. You quickly shake it, afraid he might do the same thing as Jaemin.

“I’m Renjun, and don’t worry, I won’t kiss your hand. Some of us are normal, I promise,” he shoots a glare at Jaemin, who rolls his eyes in response. You softly laugh at Renjun and then your eyes move over to the last one, who is still sitting on the couch.

“Oh, I’m Jeno. It’s nice to meet you! Sorry I can’t get up right now, I sprained my ankle earlier today while moving our stuff in,” He gave you a sheepish smile.

“Aw I’m sorry about your ankle, I hope it gets better!” you offer your condolences. Jeno smiles and nods in gratitude.

“And your name?” Jaemin asks. You casually provide your name for the 3 other boys to hear and they nod.

“Truly a pleasure to meet you,” Jaemin beams at you.

“Would you like to stay for awhile?” Haechan suddenly asks from beside you.

“Oh...I appreciate the offer, but you guys look like you’re busy unpacking. Plus I was hoping to spend some quality time with...my...ice cream,” You hold up the food in it’s plastic bag.

“Ah don’t worry about us unpacking, I mean you can help too,” Haechan says, and Renjun smacks his arm then shoots him a disapproving look. You nervously chuckle and shift on your feet.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re free to go. It was delightful to meet you and your roommates, it’s nice to know we have some friends our age here,” Renjun tells you and you nod.

“It was delightful meeting you all too. I don’t know what my roommates told you, but if you have any questions about the building or something, you can always ask us,” you tell them while opening their front door.

“Thanks! Much appreciated!” Jeno waves goodbye to you. You wave to the four boys as you exit the apartment.

Just as you begin to close the door, Haechan slips out right after you.

“Hey, wait,” he calls out and you turn around to face the boy.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” he says, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. You give him a small smile in return.

“Give me a good reason not to be,” you tell him before you turn back to your apartment.

Haechan stares at you as you unlock your door and disappear into your own apartment, unsure of what to make of your remark. As he walks back to his own place, a smirk on his lips, he thinks of all the ways to make sure you stick around.

“Be careful what you ask for…”

↣

After Haechan’s first encounter with you, he finds any way possible to see you more. He makes it his mission to give you plenty of good reasons for you not to be a stranger (technically, per your request).

The first incident is more...accidental. If anything, he would have to blame the mail delivery person for this.

As Haechan arrives at the apartment building from his last class of the day, he decides to check his mailbox for his unit. He quickly gathers the envelopes and advertisement cards that were stuffed into his mailbox and locks it, then walks toward the elevator while sifting through it to see if there’s anything for him.

The only problem is that he doesn’t see his name...or any of his roommates’ names. He sees yours and your roommates’ names. He sighs in slight frustration at how incompetent the mail delivery person had to be to mix up his mail with yours but then a lightbulb goes off in his head. You need your mail...so he’s going to have to give it to you...which means…

When the elevator reaches your floor, Haechan makes an immediate beeline for your door. He knocks a few times before you swing the door open, confusion written in your features as you take in Haechan leaned up against your door frame.

“Donghyuck.”

Haechan’s--or Donghyuck’s--smug expression fades instantly at the use of his legal name.

“H-how did you--?”

“It was on your mail, which somehow ended up in my mailbox,” you cross your arms as you give him a suspicious glare.

“I didn’t do anything, I got your mail too,” he holds up your mail to your face and you raise your eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh,” you quickly take your mail from Haechan, “well thanks for getting my mail...Hyuck.” A smug smile paints your lips as you use his legal name again.

Haechan makes a disgruntled expression and sighs, “Why are you calling me that?”

“Because it’s cute and it’s, oh I don’t know...your actual name? Don’t worry, though, I’ll keep calling you Haechan,” You reassure him. Haechan gives you a suspicious glare and crosses his arms. He most definitely wasn’t expecting for you to be good at playing his game, which he thought that you didn’t know you were a part of.

“Can I just have my mail now?” He huffs, deciding to take a loss for this round.

“So impatient, geez,” you pick the stack of Haechan’s mail off your foyer table and hand it to him. Haechan takes his mail from you and is about to bid you adieu before he suddenly changes his mind on losing this round.

“Personally,” he begins, catching your attention from your mail, “I think you should use that Savage Fenty promo code. I’d love to see what you get.”

Your heart nearly stops in your chest as you look up in horror at Haechan’s shit-eating grin, knowing full well that he knocked you off your axis. You don’t even have a comeback, you just watch in silence as Haechan sends you a wink and leaves you standing in your doorway. He shouts a quick thank you before he enters his own apartment, shutting the door behind him.

“I can’t believe--” You hiss as you slam your door shut, your face incredibly hot from Haechan’s simple, yet flirty, remark. You knew he had to have skimmed through your mail, or he wouldn’t have shown up at your door to give it back. What you didn’t anticipate was that he’d use your mail against you.

“Were you just flirting with our neighbor?” You hear your roommate, Gaeun, behind you. You whip around to face her and scowl.

“No. He was flirting with me,” you inform her.

“You think he’s cute don’t you?”

“I do not!”

“Oh please, you’d be stupid to not think he’s cute. I cannot believe just a week ago you were so disinterested in our new neighbors and now you’re literally buddy-buddy with them, Haechan in particular,” she wiggles her eyebrows at you and you roll your eyes.

“Whatever, you’re annoying,” you scoff.

“You totally like him, huh?”

“Shut up no I don’t!”

“Alright, alright, fine. I have a hard time believing it, but okay,” Gaeun shrugs.

A comfortable silence fills the space between you and Gaeun before she pipes up again.

“I’m just saying if you end up sleeping with him, I won’t be surprised.”

“GAEUN!”

↣

A couple of days later, Haechan reminds you of his presence again.

You were doing homework in your living room when a frantic knocking on your front door unceremoniously interrupts you. You save your work and close your laptop before padding over to the door to see who is so rudely interrupting you from your studies.

Lo and behold, as you gaze through your peephole, you find Haechan standing on the other side. You sigh and reluctantly open the door, giving the boy an unamused glare.

“Thank God you’re home, I need your help,” Haechan exhales in relief. You raise your eyebrows at his distressed tone, unsure if something was wrong.

“Why, did something happen? Are you okay?” You ask him.

“Aw...you’re worried about me, how cute,” Haechan smiles at you, touched by your concern. You groan in annoyance and frown at him.

“No, I’m fine. Our kitchen, however is not; our sink is not draining properly and shit is coming up from the drain. I was wondering if you could give me the landlord’s email or number so we can call him to come fix it,” Haechan reveals. You furrow your brows and shake your head at him, thus confusing him.

“First of all, don’t call the landlord, he doesn’t know anything. Second of all, your sink is clogged, I’ll come fix it for you,” you tell him.

“What do you mean the landlord doesn’t know anything?” Haechan asks, put off by your comment.

“When I first moved in, our toilet had problems. So of course, I called the landlord to come fix it and he literally said he didn’t know what to do. Naturally, from that point, I learned how to fix everything since the landlord is useless,” you recount your story to Haechan. It’s at this point that Haechan starts second guessing his and his roommates’ decision to move into this apartment building.

“Are you sure--”

Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing, just give me a second to get my tools.” You close the door and return promptly, holding a simple toolbox with enthusiasm. Haechan gives you a strange look, but decides to see this through. If it’s a chance to spend time with you, he’s taking it.

“Alright, let’s go fix your kitchen sink!” you grin and close your door behind you as you determinedly march across the hall to Haechan’s place.

When you arrive, you quickly figure out what’s wrong and get to work. You open the cabinet doors that lead to the pipes under the counter and begin going through your toolbox to get the appropriate tools to fix the sink.

“Do you want to see how to fix this so next time you can do it yourself?” you suggest. Haechan blinks down at you as he thinks about his answer. On the one hand, he wants to stand and supervise you from a distance (an excuse to basically ogle your bare legs because of the denim shorts you were wearing), but on the other hand, he can be closer to you if he joins you under the sink.

“Hyuck?” Your use of his nickname snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah I’ll watch you work on my pipes,” Haechan says without thinking. You deadpan at him, his unintended euphemism not going over your head.

“Really?” you raise a brow at him.

“What?”

“‘Work on your pipes?’ Do you think I’m stupid?” you scoff. It takes Haechan a second to realize what you mean before his jaw is dropping. The initial shock fades into cheekiness as he leans against the counter with a smirk.

“That’s not what I meant, but I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to work on that pipe,” he winks at you and you roll your eyes.

“I’m taking back my offer to teach you how to fix your sink,” you say before ducking your upper body under the sink. Haechan pushes himself from the counter and ducks under the sink with you, despite you rescinding your offer.

“No takesies backsies,” he settles in next to you. It’s slightly cramped, but you try to focus on anything other than his close proximity to you.

“Fine, just don’t say dumb shit like that again,” you say quietly while you begin the process of fixing Haechan’s sink.

“No promises,” Haechan grins and you laugh softly at his antics.

You show Haechan what’s wrong with his sink and how to repair it. He pays close attention to your instructions, finding them to be fairly simple. For the last half of the process, you come out from under the sink and show him the last few steps of unclogging the sink. When you believe you’ve restored the sink to its former glory, you test the garbage disposal and run the water, making sure everything is drained. Much to Haechan’s surprise, you effectively fixed his sink.

“Damn...thank you. It works perfectly now,” He says in relief.

“Anytime. I also just want to point out that the previous tenant had a LOT of cats, so that’s probably why all that hair was in your pipes. I don’t know why she would put it down the sink though, that’s gross,” you scrunch your nose in disgust and Haechan chuckles.

“Yeah well we don’t have any cats, so it won’t happen again,” He tells you with a small smile. You return the smile and quickly lean down to recover your tools so you can make a swift exit back to your apartment. Haechan can’t quite explain why he felt so attracted to you while you unclogged his sink and explained how to do so. All he knew was that it was quite an experience for him to watch you become a plumber in his presence.

“So were you paying attention to the plumbing lesson? Because I’m not about to purposely clog another sink to teach you again,” you ask as he walks you back to your apartment.

“I was too busy getting distracted by your beauty and missed like a good chunk of the lesson, to be honest,” he joked. You stare up at him, shocked by his audacity, but all he does is give you a cocky smile in return.

“You--you’re--fuck you,” you say as you quickly enter your apartment and shut the door in Haechan’s face, not wanting him to see you in your flustered state.  He blinks at your door, bewildered at your reaction, but soon realizes it wasn’t negative in the slightest.

Haechan walks back to his apartment with pride and a puffed out chest.

↣

You’re thoroughly convinced that the universe wants to prove your roommates right and you wrong. This becomes apparent to you once again at the end of a shower, you turning your shower head off and reaching for your towel.

At first, you don’t hear it, but after turning off your speaker and wrapping your towel around your body, you step outside the bathroom and hear the blaring noise: the fire alarm.

“Fuck...nooooooo,” you whisper as you hang your head in defeat. You debate quickly going to your room and throwing on clothes, but you remember the fire drill rules of the building and reluctantly grab your keys, phone and slippers. You dash down a few flights of stairs to the lobby and exit promptly, heading over to the building meetup point where the other residents are, all while holding your towel close to your body.

When you arrive, you try to hide yourself from passersby by blending in with the other building residents. You’re in the clear, heaving out a sigh of relief...that is until you hear the devil’s voice from your right side.

“Well don’t you look pretty standing there in nothing but a bath towel. Mind if I sneak a peek?” Haechan croons as he saunters over to you with a cheeky smirk. You turn your head towards Haechan, greeting him with a displeased expression, only for him to send you a wink.

“Hi, Donghyuck,” you huff, and cross your arms, effectively keeping your towel wrapped around your body.

Haechan places his hand on his heart in fake hurt, “When you say my name like that, it hurts.”

“Oh really? How would you like me to say it then?” you roll your eyes. Haechan moves to stand behind you and leans down so his lips brush the shell of your ear and in the most nonchalant tone, he whispers:

“Loudly and with pleasure, baby.”

You can’t control the shivers that are sent down your spine at the pet name and Haechan looks down at you with pride at his work. You scowl at the fact that your body reacted to his teasing, but even more so that you don’t hate it as much as you’re letting on. You refuse to turn around because you know that you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself back from either smiling at him or smacking him.

“Cat got your tongue, honey? Maybe you can put it to good use. Hm?” he pushes further and you can’t control yourself from whipping around and whacking his arm. The smile you’re so clearly fighting, though, tells him you’re not really mad at him.

“Shut up, you fucking dweeb, me being in a towel is not an invitation for you to hit on me nor is it a ploy to get you into bed,” you hiss at him and all he does is bite his lower lip softly and stick his hands in his front pockets.

“You’re the one who said not to give you a reason to remain strangers, and I always go the extra mile for people I consider…‘friends’,” he uses your past words against you. You gape in surprise at how cunning Haechan is and you wish you could slap the smug smile right off his face. You’re more mad at yourself for how his flirting is actually working and eliciting a reaction from you, especially a reaction from under your towel and between your legs. You can’t prove your roommates right, especially because you know they’d give you shit if they found out you actually did like Haechan.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper just as the landlord announces that you’re allowed to come back into the building. You quickly stalk off toward the building, leaving Haechan alone to watch your retreating figure in admiration.

It’s only a matter of time before your resolve breaks...and he’s going to be there when it happens.

↣

You don’t see Haechan for another couple of days, which makes you a little more sad than you’d like to admit. You even go so far as to ask Renjun where Haechan was, mildly worried that Haechan was sick...or even lost interest in you. You swear Renjun to secrecy though, knowing that if Haechan finds out you asked about him, you’d never hear the end of it.

When you finally do see him, it’s on the elevator, on your way home from school. It’s silent as the elevator doors close the two of you into the space. After a few beats, haechan finally speaks.

“I hear you asked about me,” he says, fighting off a smirk. You sigh and make a mental note to kill Renjun the next time you see him.

“Yeah I hadn’t been annoyed in a few days so I just wanted to see why it was so quiet,” you roll your eyes and look over at Haechan to find that he’s already looking at you.

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night,” he shrugs nonchalantly and goes back to waiting for the elevator to arrive at your floor.

“So…?”

“So what?”

“Where were you?”

Haechan gives you a surprised look, but answers anyway, “I was studying for a midterm, snoopy. I have to keep my grades up you know.”

“Oh...well...I hope you pass,” you tell him, and a warm smile appears on his lips.

“I did. With flying colors. Thanks though,” he says back and before you can respond, the elevator dings and the doors open. Haechan files out first and you follow suit, reluctant to go back to your own apartment for some reason. No one is there, you know that for a fact. Before you take out your keys, you glance back at Haechan, who is standing motionless at his door, his back facing you.

“Haechan,” you call out, your lips moving before your brain can formulate thoughts. He turns back to you, wide-eyed and curious about why you said his name.

“Yeah?” He asks as he starts to inch closer to your end of the corridor.

“I…” you begin, but the rest of the words don’t come out. As Haechan gets closer, he can see your face more clearly, and the look in your eyes tells him everything he needs to know. Being ever so impatient, he doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence and backs you up against your door, his lips (finally) feverishly connecting with yours.

Your eyes shut immediately as Haechan takes control and kisses you with hunger and desire. He places one hand on your waist and one hand caresses your cheek, not intending to let you go anywhere. He swipes his tongue on your lower lip and you allow him access almost immediately. You don’t know why you’re mildly surprised that Haechan is a phenomenal kisser, but that thought and any other lingering ones fade as his hands travel to your hips and grip them rather harshly. You gasp softly against his lips as he increases the pressure on your hips, and he takes the opportunity to begin kissing your neck, creating marks where his lips touch.

While Haechan concentrates on your neck, you quickly try to search your bag with only your sense of touch to find your keys to let the two of you in.

Haechan grabs them from you, breaking away from you for a split second to unlock and open the door. Once that is accomplished, he places his lips back on yours and ushers you into your apartment. His kissing gets more insistent and rough as he shuts the door behind him.

Articles of clothing trail behind the two of you as you advance to your room. By the time you arrive, the two of you are fighting for dominance through your making out. It gets so intense that you have to break away for air. The two of you stand chest to chest, half-naked and panting.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks breathlessly. His hands rest on your hips and give them a light squeeze just for kicks. Your breath hitches in your throat and Haechan notices and smirks.

“I’m just...” you begin but Hyuck squeezes your hips again and you let out a small whimper.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you,” he teases you.

“Shut up,” you pry his hands off your hips and push him back to your bed before straddling his thighs. “You’re not the only one who likes to be in charge, Hyuck.”

Haechan smirks from below you and hooks his fingers into the hem of your panties, pulling them down slowly.

“Oh sweetheart,” he pauses when he has taken your panties completely off, “don’t you know I can still have control from under you?”

“Huh?” you ask, but Haechan’s response is one of action. He slips his boxers down his legs, situates his cock in line with your entrance and pulls you down on him until he’s buried to the hilt. You both let out harmonious moans simultaneously, the stretch of his cock oh-so-satisfying and the wet warmth of your pussy giving him goosebumps. While you were mildly disgruntled you didn’t get to see his cock first, you felt like it was unnecessary at this point considering you could feel his size from inside your pussy.

“Fuck you‘re so wet, I knew you wanted to fuck me,” he hisses.

“How the hell...are you…?” You begin.

“This big? Why, don’t think you can handle it?” Haechan smugly asks.

“Just...fucking move, Hyuck,” you grunt, “or I will.”

“Baby’s so desperate for my cock she won’t wait for me to fuck her? What, you’re gonna fuck yourself on my cock?” Haechan teases you, but you take it as a challenge and promptly begin riding him.

“You...asked for it,” you smirk at him.

“Fuck...you feel so good,” Haechan praises you and you beam at him. You lean down and begin pressing open mouthed kisses along his neck, kisses which soon turn into hickeys. Haechan has to admit that it feels good to be treated like this. Like a king.

“Who’s in charge now, brat?” You whisper in his ear and Haechan’s gaze darkens. He brings his hands back to your hips and grips them so you stop in place.

“I am,” he responds before roughly thrusting up into you, “it’s my game, I always win.”

Haechan pistons his hips against yours and moan after moan spills from your lips. Every yelp of his name, mixed in with swears and incomprehensible sounds, pushes Haechan to go harder.

“Shit, Hyuck, I’m...I’m so close,” you mewl and grip his shoulders to steady yourself. Under normal circumstances, Haechan would edge you to no end, but he’s been waiting for this since the moment you told him that you didn’t want to be strangers. He was going to be self-indulgent just this once.

Haechan’s thrusting gets sloppier as you both get close to your highs. Finally you come undone around his cock, your walls hugging him so tight, it makes it harder for him to keep going. Haechan takes an immeasurable amount of self control to not cum inside of you (especially since he got ahead of himself and forgot to slip on a condom). After a couple more thrusts, he pulls you off of him and cums across his own stomach, chest heaving as he comes down from his high. You take a dollop of his cum on your finger and suck it off, making eye contact with him just to taunt him further.

“Get on my face,” he commands.

“What?”

“Get on, sit on, I don't care just get up here,” he grabs your thighs. At your lack of action, he pulls you up so your core is hovering above his lips.

“Hyuck, I don’t think I can take—Oh my fuck,” your plea is cut short by Haechan’s lips wrapping around your clit and sucking harshly on it.

Haechan is not done proving who is in charge—and that he’s perfectly capable of fucking you from beneath you—and decides to have a feast to treat himself.

His tongue expertly navigates your pussy, switching between tongue fucking your entrance and stimulating your clit. All you can hear are lewd slurping sounds and your cries of pleasure. Haechan hums into your clit and the vibrations send electricity throughout your body.

“Hyuck...Hyuck do that again please,” you beg him while lightly tugging his hair. Haechan surprisingly complies, but instead of simply humming, he lightly growls into your pussy, the sensation pushing you closer to the edge. It isn’t until Haechan gives your clit one harsh suck that you’re coming onto his face. He quickly slurps up your release before working on your pussy again.

He puts you through two more orgasms before he’s pushing you off of his face and onto your bed. He crosses his arms behind his head in satisfaction before he glances over at you. Your legs are still trembling and your eyes are closed in an attempt to regain your composure and breath.

“I’ll let you catch your breath before the next round,” he tells you and you open your eyes to give him a playful glare.

“Who said we were going multiple rounds?”

“Fine, I’ll go then.”

“No, wait!”

“Yeah that’s what I thought.”

↣

“Okay just be really quiet, I’m sure they’re home now and I cannot have them seeing you here.”

“I can’t believe you’re sneaking me out of your apartment, this is not high school, why can’t I just walk out of here?”

“Because then my roommates will be right and I don’t want them to clown me for giving into you.”

“You say that like sleeping with me was a bad thing,” Haechan raises an eyebrow as you escort him quietly to your front door.

“It wasn’t, but when you guys first moved in, I may have made a big deal of being uninterested in you and they like to prove me wrong. Just work with me here,” you explain.

“Oh how the tables turn. I’m sure you wouldn’t want them to know how eager you were for my—” Haechan begins but you place your hand on his face to shush him.

“I wouldn’t, so shut up,” you tell him as you make it to your front door.

“It’s gonna be a little harder for you to sneak me out when we do this again, y’know,” Haechan tells you while you open the door.

“Again? Why do you say that with so much certainty?” You ask him with a mischievous smile.

“Because I know it’s gonna happen again, please,” he scoffs and you softly laugh. Haechan smiles at the sound of your laugh and hopes that the next time he does come back, he gets to know you a little more before you sleep with each other again.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” you cross your arms with a shy smile, “now go home.”

“Until next time,” Haechan leans down and places a chaste kiss to your cheek before turning toward his door across the hall. You close the door as Haechan goes into his apartment and lean against the door, processing what just happened.

Haechan was right: you were going to need to be more sneaky the next time he was over.

[jungshookz]

skate a little piece of my heart; jjk

➺ pairing; jeon jungkook x reader

➺ genre; rollerskatinginstructor!jungkook!! sfw!! fluff!! honk honk humour!! jungkook is a very handsome instructor and y/n can’t tell if that’s a bad thing or a good thing

➺ wordcount; 6.3k

➺ summary; your two left feet and complete lack of balance isn’t the only thing that’s making you weak in the knees this valentine’s day. 

➺ what to expect; “rollerskating is already hard enough as it is, and now i have to do it in front of him?!” 

➺ currently spinning on the record player; how deep is your love; bee gees

                                     »»————-　💫  ————-««

“this is so dumb.”

“safety is never dumb, y/n!” taehyung raps his knuckles against the top of your helmet and you scowl before swatting his hand away, “now, where are your kneepads?”

you let out a groan before tilting your head back slowly, your eyes widening in slight panic at the surprisingly hefty weight of the helmet

your arms flail for a second and you immediately reach up to grip both sides of the helmet before forcing your head back up

jesus

you nearly snapped your own neck there

of course, snapping your own neck would mean not being able to skate because you’d technically be dead… so maybe that’s not such a bad idea after all…

(by the way, it’s concerning how many times you’ve considered literal death just to get out of doing something.)

“are you going to lift your leg for me or do i have to do everything for you?”

you look down to see taehyung down on the ground in front of you holding one of the knee pads and you frown lightly before lifting your leg and placing your sock-clad foot on his knee

“please tell me this is the last of the safety gear…” you whine, “tae, i literally look so dorky right now- no one else is wearing helmets or knee and elbow pads!” you gesture to seokjin and namjoon who are busy putting on their skates over on the other bench before scoffing lightly and crossing your arms 

if namjoon (arguably the klutziest one out of this group of people) isn’t even wearing a helmet, then what does that say about you??

you’ve seen him trip over nothing and scrape both his knees so why are you the only one wearing all of this junk?!

“i took you ice-skating over christmas and you fell flat on your ass more times than i could count, and you insisted that you didn’t need any safety equipment even though it was alarmingly clear that you did. i basically spent two hours making sure you didn’t die-” taehyung looks up at you with a raised brow, “do you want to fall and split your skull open in front of everyone?”

“if it means not having to gear up in all this dorkware- then, yes. i would love to have my brains splat across the rink in front of everyone. in fact, that would probably be less embarrassing-” you grumble, flinching slightly as taehyung suddenly yanks hard to tighten up your laces, “i’m an adult, taehyung! grown-ups don’t need to wear all of this!” 

“grown-ups don’t throw tantrums either, but here you are…” taehyung mutters under his breath, putting your foot down before giving your knee a slap, “perfect! we’re good to go!”

“yeah, yeah…” you reach under to scratch at your elbow only to feel your nails scrape against the smooth surface of the plastic protection shell and you resist the urge to rip it off out of frustration

taehyung decided that it’d be a great idea to bring everyone to a rollerskating rink for valentine’s day this year instead of… letting people go out to intimate dinners and celebrate on their own… because, quote, ‘i just want all of us to spend more time together, and what better day to do that then on valentine’s day?? …ooh, we should call it pal-entine’s day. ha! get it?? because we’re all pals-’

(he was dumped recently, so everyone’s kind of letting him run the ship for now. …basically, no one can say no to taehyung unless they want to see him burst into tears. he’s still in a very delicate state.)

but, honestly… a rollerskating rink!

out of all the places to go to!

you already have two left feet, so forcing said left feet into shoes with wheels is a horrible idea

“i think it’d be best if i just sat back and watched you guys!” you try for the umpteenth time to get taehyung to let you off the hook, “plus, they sell chilli dogs here and they actually smell really good and i kind of want to order one for myself even though it might end in me having to get my stomach pumped-” you gesture back towards the refreshments counter and taehyung shakes his head before sticking his hand out for you

“there’s plenty of time for you to scarf down a rubbery hotdog later- now, c’mon-”

“i don’t even know how to skate!”

“that’s fine, you’ll learn! it’ll be like riding a bicycle except you are the bicycle-”

“you know, i’m just going to be complaining the whole time, and it’s going to ruin your time here. honestly, tae, why am i here??”

“because i’m not emotionally stable enough to spend valentine’s day alone yet and i need to surround myself with as many people as possible otherwise i’m going to be alone with my thoughts and i’m going to spiral!” taehyung’s voice cracks as he snaps at you and you immediately press your lips together and avert your gaze, trying to ignore the weird glances the two of you are getting from the strangers around you

…

“okay, well-” you push yourself up off the bench before wobbling slightly and reaching over to grab onto taehyung’s arm for stability, “i don’t know about you, but i’m most certainly ready to tear up that rink!”

“perfect!” taehyung chirps, quickly reverting back to his ‘everything is fine and i’m definitely not dying on the inside’ state, “and don’t worry. rollerskating is much easier than ice-skating, so there’s less of a chance of you potentially embarrassing yourself here-” taehyung gives your hand a pat as the two of you shuffle your way towards the entrance gate, “trust me, you’ll get the hang of it as soon as you start!”

“you saw me on ice…” you snort, your knees already wobbling as you take your first step into the rink, “i really don’t think i’m going to be any better on wood-”

“well, lucky for you…” taehyung lets go of you and you immediately cling to the railing in panic, “i went ahead i hired an instructor for you!”

you frown as you pull one hand away and rub your fingers together 

god, why are the railings so sticky-

“you- woah, hold on a second-” you look up and over at taehyung with wide eyes when you finally catch on to what he just said, “i’m sorry, you did what?”

“what? i can’t stay by your side and watch you all night.” he shrugs, placing his hands on his hips as he stands in front of you, “we were moving so slowly on the ice that i was sure it was starting to melt underneath our skates-”

“you just told me you don’t want to be alone and now you’re handing me off to someone else instead of spending time with me??” you frown, manoeuvring your stance so that both your hands are gripping onto the railing behind your bum, “why force me to skate if you’re not doing it with me?”

“i mean, i obviously want to spend time with you, but i also don’t want to be skating, like, one mile an hour-” taehyung snorts, “i’m forcing you to skate so that one day, we can skate together without me having to worry about you slipping and sliding all over the place like a baby giraffe!”

“well, why can’t you teach me instead of paying for someone else to do it?”

a brief moment of silence passes as taehyung rolls over to get you to release your iron grip from the bars

“…because teaching you how to skate instead of actually spending time skating sounded really boring-” he mutters quickly, your eyes widening as you turn to look at him

“wha-”

“also-” he cuts you off, placing his hands on your hips from behind as he starts to roll you forwards slowly (though, you haven’t noticed this yet because you’re still focused on the fact that he didn’t want to teach you - you’re a great student!!), “there was a girl who kept smiling at me when i was strapping you up in all your gear, and i need to find out if i still have game or not-”

“this sounds more like you’re trying to fill the empty void inside of you with meaningless sex, which, by the way, isn’t a very healthy coping mechanism-” 

“i will fill this empty void inside of me in whichever way i want, thank you very much-” taehyung snorts, shaking his head, “plus, it’s too late to back out because the policy states that they don’t take refunds and he’s already here-”

“wait, what??” you immediately look back to the front, the fact that you are being rolled towards someone now sinking into your brain, “who- oh my god, stop rolling me-!”

taehyung’s fingers dig into your hips as he comes to a sudden halt, “what??”

“spin me around.” 

taehyung blinks before slowly turning you around so that you’re facing him and you pray to god that you don’t look like some kind of rotating rotisserie chicken right now  

you open your mouth to speak when you finally see taehyung’s face again but he continues to spin you slowly so that you end up in the same position you were in a second ago

...

“for god’s sake, taehyung- spin me around so i’m looking at you, you moron-”

“ohh, okay, i thought you just wanted to spin you around for fun-”

“why would i want you to spin me around for f- okay, that’s not important right now-” you shake your head, “i just want to say that the only reason why i’m doing this is because you kind of sprung this on me last minute and i don’t want to inconvenience anyone, but just know that you now owe me big time- now, spin me back around and wheel me to whoever i’m going to be stuck with for the next couple of hours.”

“noted!” taehyung chirps as he rolls you back so you’re facing the front, “he’s right over there by the other entrance- the guy in the yellow-” your eyes flit around until they land on the guy in the yellow and you immediately feel your heart starting to beat a little harder in your chest at the sight of the guy in the yellow, “his name’s jungkook, he has a shining five-star rating, he’s a wonderful teacher according to all the parents whose kids he’s taught- i’m pretty sure you’re his oldest student so don’t embarrass yourself-”

you feel your mouth go dry when jungkook reaches down to adjust the bottom of his tied button-up shirt before opening the sides of it a little more to show off his chest

he reaches up to twirl a loose tendril of hair around his finger before gently pushing it back and running his hand through his hair, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek briefly 

oh no

oh, no

he’s attractive

he’s very, very attractive

“tae.” you keep a polite smile on your face as you slink your right arm behind you to attempt to blindly punch him in the gut, “why didn’t you tell me that the instructor was cute?”

“oh, i’m sorry.” taehyung responds sarcastically, “i didn’t think attractiveness was an important factor when considering an instructor.”

“well, it is when the instructor looks like that-” you feel your cheeks warm when jungkook smiles brightly at the two of you before waving enthusiastically, “rollerskating is already hard enough as it is, and now i have to do it in front of him?!”

“i don’t know what there is to freak out about. the guy’s handsome- so what?” taehyung waves back at jungkook before giving your hips a playful squeeze, “if anything, you should see this as a bonus - you get some eye-candy while you learn!”

“okay, well, don’t make me sound pervy-”

“not to mention, he’s your age! so it’ll be like you’re just hanging out with a friend-”

“a friend?! taehyung, i’m wearing overalls, my hair is in pigtails, and all this protective gear that you shoved me in makes me look like an eight year old-!” you gasp when you feel yourself suddenly bump into something hard and taehyung quickly loops his arm around your waist to keep you from toppling over

it’s a second later that you realize the something hard that you bumped into was jungkook’s obviously broad chest, so obviously this rollerskating lesson is already off to a fantastic start 

“woah, you got it?” jungkook holds both his hands out in case you fall over and you let out a nervous chuckle before reaching up to push your helmet up slightly

“i’m fine!” your voice cracks and you clear your throat quickly, “…hello.”

“hi! it’s nice to meet you- y/n, right?” jungkook sticks his hand out for you to shake and you smile nervously before reaching out to take it, “my name’s jungkook! i’m super excited for today. we’re going to have a lot of fun together.”

you don’t know if it’s just because he’s clearly one of those fun and overly friendly! instructors or if he’s just naturally bubbly but he’s talking to you like you’re a child

(you probably could’ve ditched the pigtails today.) 

“okay, i’m going to go off now so let me just hand y/n over to you-” taehyung arm slips from your waist before he gently rolls you towards jungkook, “you two have fun!”

your hands immediately slap down on the railings right as you feel yourself about you slip and you let out a breath of relief

that was a close call

“we will!” jungkook smiles, waving at taehyung as he skates off, “you enjoy yourself out there!”

you watch helplessly as taehyung skates away, jungkook turning back to look at you with a (very handsome) smile

you feel your heart skip a beat once again and you immediately curse in your head 

…you’re screwed.

                                    »»————-　💫  ————-««

“because of the balance and control required, it’ll take a little bit of getting used to- but once you get the hang out it, rollerskating is super fun!” jungkook reaches out so you can take his hand, “do you wanna let go of the bar for me?”

there are a lot of things you’d like to do for jungkook but letting go of the railing and potentially falling in front of him is most definitely not one of them

“you know, i think i’m good!” you chuckle, your knuckles practically going white at how tightly you’re gripping onto the railing, “why don’t you just keep talking while i… you know, get used to the feeling of just standing while wearing skates?”

“okay, if that’s what you’re comfortable with, that’s what we can do. let’s see… ah!” jungkook perks up, clapping his hands together before gesturing down to his own feet, “so, you’re gonna wanna keep your feet shoulder-width apart. can you do that for me?”

you look down at your feet, not at all surprised to see that they’re practically glued to each other

okay

shoulder-width apart

you can do that, right?

you lift your right foot up slowly before quickly moving it farther away from your left foot, your skate skidding slightly against the floor as you stomp down

goD these skates are clunky

you’ll never understand how people find this activity genuinely enjoyable

“see? not so bad, right? now, i’m really going to need you to let go of the bar for me so that we can move onto the next step- i swear i won’t let you fall if you take my hand.”

your eyes flicker down to his outstretched hand and you twist your lips uncertainly, “you promise?”

jungkook places his hand over his heart, “i promise.”

you lift one hand off the rail and quickly take jungkook’s hand, pausing for a second to make sure that everything feels okay before quickly lifting the other hand off the rail

you practically slap your hand down on jungkook’s other palm and let out a breath of relief as soon as he grips it tightly, and you look back in concern when jungkook starts to pull you away from the railing

“there you go! see?” jungkook smiles brightly, giving your hands a squeeze to get you to focus on him instead of the bars, “not so bad, right?” 

“yeah, i guess so…” you puff out, feeling your heart starting to pound harder not onLY because the safety of the railings have been taken away from you but also because jungkook’s hands are… very soft.,,. and very warm,.,. and very pretty.,., and all-in-all very nice

“okay, step two. so, this next part is going to make you feel a little silly, but we have to walk like ducks because it just makes the process of walking easier. you kind of have to point your toes outwards- yeah, just like that! and don’t forget to squat a little-” jungkook hums, leaning over a little so he can look to see if your stance is okay, “perfect! we’re just going to keep practicing until you get used to walking...”  

“you know, taehyung actually took me ice-skating over the holidays and i fell, like… ten times.” you snort, keeping your eyes on your skates as you take one small step after another, “i thought rollerskating would be easier but i feel like there are more rules to worry about…”

“oh my god, don’t even worry about it-“ jungkook snorts, shaking his head, “i’m an awful ice-skater. you’d think it’d come naturally to me because i can rollerskate- plus, i don’t see the fun in ice-skating! i know it’d never happen but i’m always paranoid that the skates are going to slice-”

“-the ice open and you’re going to fall through and plunge into the icy water?”

“exactly! see, you get it.” jungkook grins, leaning down a little to check your posture again, “you know, you’re a complete natural. i don’t know why you were so nervous to begin with!”

you snort in response and resist the urge to tell him that his face was one of the major things that contributed to your nerves 

“ooh, and you know what else i hate about ice-skating?” jungkook gasps, “that if i fall and get my hands on the ground, someone’s going to skate over them and amputate all of my fingers.”

you immediately burst into giggles and he gawks playfully

“are you laughing at a genuine fear of mine, y/n?? i didn’t take you to be someone who could be so cruel…”

“no, i’m not laughing at you!” you smile softly and you can’t help but note how warm and comforting his presence is, “i’m just- i said that exact same thing to taehyung when we were ice-skating and he said i was being ridiculous, so it’s nice to know that someone shares the same opinions on ice-skating as i do.” you instinctively squeeze jungkook’s hands when you feel the wheels roll out from underneath you a little and you end up jerking forward a little 

“woah-! you’re okay- i’ve got you…” jungkook rubs his thumbs over your knuckles reassuringly as he waits for you to regain your balance and start walking again, “i told you i wouldn’t let you fall, remember?”

“yeah…” you smile shyly, feeling your cheeks heat up a little

you don’t feel as nervous anymore

no wonder jungkook has a five-star rating as an instructor

he’s great!

“also, you do realise we’ve walked, like, an entire round around the rink, right?”

“what? we have?” you pause, looking up from your skates for the first time in ten minutes 

you’re almost at the spot you were at right when you first started

woah

wow!!

you didn’t even realize!!

that’s so cool!!

you walked an entire round without falling (a lot of almost-falling, but you’ll take it)!!!

“i mean, i don’t know about you, but i feel like we can move on to gliding now…” jungkook whistles lowly, “you’re a very fast learner so i’m not worried.”

“gliding is…” you lean over a little when you notice taehyung having a blast at the other side of the rink with his new companion, the two of them skating side by side

she laughs at something he says before playfully swatting at his arm

it’s just good to see him smiling and not crying for once 

one of the things that you love most about taehying is that he’s so in tune with his emotions, but when his ex (he forbade you from saying her name) broke up with him, he cried so much that you were pretty sure he had completely dehydrated himself 

so it’s nice that he seems to be enjoying himself! 

“so, gliding is-” jungkook steps over to get right into your line of vision and you quickly look back at him with an attentive smile, “basically turning your steps into smoooooth strokes. instead of dropping your foot straight down, you’re going to be pushing it forward and out. it’s kind of hard to explain gliding… you kinda just have to let momentum carry you forward and do its thing, you know? it’s literally just a one foot after the other situation.”

“well, if you can glide backwards, i’m sure i can figure out how to do it normally.” you point out, jungkook snorting in response

“trust me, you’ll be able to pick it up quickly. remember that when you’re gliding on one foot to keep your other slightly hovering above ground so it doesn’t interfere-” jungkook stops himself when he notices your brows knitting together (you seem to do this a lot when you’re focusing too hard on something), “ah, you know- i find that it’s easier to glide when you’re not actually focused on the gliding!” he chirps, giving your hands a reassuring squeeze, “if it helps, you can keep your eyes on me instead of staring down at your skates.”

hAh

if anything, staring directly at jungkook is going to throw you off your game compared to keeping your eyes glued on the ground

“okay, i will... try not to focus on the gliding while simultaneously focus on the gliding.” your tongue instinctively pokes out slightly in concentration as you push forward with one foot, being sure to keep your other a little above ground just like jungkook said 

you quickly switch to the other foot when you feel your right foot slowly starting to lose momentum, pushing off with your left instead and lengthening your stride so you can skate a little further 

hey

look at that! 

not bad!! 

“look at you go, superstar!” jungkook cheers encouragingly, grinning from ear to ear as he watches you gliding flawlessly, “you were born for this!” 

“you know, you may have a point- woAh-” your skates roll out a little from under you and you lurch forward, jungkook quickly sliding his grip from your hands to underneath your elbows to keep you from falling, “...yeah, so i spoke too soon.” you huff, blowing a strand of hair away from your face as you glance up at jungkook, still bent over at a ninety degree angle

“it’s my bad, i think i may have blown up your ego with all my compliments-” the sides of his eyes crinkle as he laughs, “all good?” 

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and feel a piece of your soul float out from your body when you realise you basically look like a little old woman clutching onto one of those rolling walkers

wow

the possibility of jungkook being interested in you was low to begin with, but now it’s probably been squashed entirely

“uh, yes!” you clear your throat as you force yourself to stand up stick-straight, your knees clacking together for a second before you get back into position, “all good! i’m all good. we’re good.” 

oh boy 

if it makes you feel any better… it can’t get any worse than this, right?

“i-” you jolt when the music suddenly clicks off and is replaced by the shrill ringing of microphone feedback

“youch.” jungkook winces, raising his shoulder slightly and tilting his head down towards it so he can try to cover up one of his ears 

your brows furrow in confusion as you look up towards the speakers, unsure of if there’s just a technical difficulty or if something important is happening, “what’s going o-”

“sorry for the interruption, skaters! we just wanted to cut in and wish every single one of you a happy valentine’s day...” 

a large disco ball lowers from the ceiling as the lights begin to dim, the room suddenly engulfed in a warm pink glow as visions of glinting sparkles and hearts reflect from the disco ball onto the wooden floors along with the velvety walls

oh, god

seriously?!

you look up towards the speakers and resist the urge to curse and shake your fist at them like an angry old man

haven’t the people here considered that there might be single people in the rink?! 

…on valentine’s day…??

yeah that doesn’t make much sense

“grab your lover and glide along the floor as we play you some romantic tunes on this romantic evening… also, to the owner of a baby blue mercedes-benz convertible- i repeat, a baby blue mercedez-benz convertible... your car is parked in a tow-away zone. that’s all!”

the bee gees’ how deep is your love starts to play and you quickly pull your hands away from jungkook’s, your face flushing in embarrassment at the sudden change in atmosphere

you wobble slightly as soon as you pull away and immediately stick both your arms out in a poor attempt to keep balanced

okay

all you have to do is glide your way towards the exit so that you’re not just awkwardly standing in the middle of the ring while lovey-dovey couples skate around you

it’s only then that you realise that jungkook is facing away from you and seemingly looking for someone

you tap him on the shoulder and he turns to glance at you, “yes?”

“who... who are you looking for?” you frown, leaning over to peer over him so you can see what he’s seeing

“hm? oh, i was just looking for your boyfriend…” he trails off, continuing to look around the rink, “the two of you probably want to skate together right now and you’ll get to show off your brand new gliding skills, which is exciting-”

“boyfri- are you talking about taehyung?” you snort, quirking a brow in amusement, “he’s… oh my god, he’s definitely not my boyfriend. i’m only here for emotional support because he just got out of a relationship- we don’t have to get into it- the point is, he’s not my boyfriend. i don’t, uh, i’m not in a relationship at the moment. i’m… very single.”

why are you still talking?!

you clear your throat as you look for the nearest exit gate

“oh!” jungkook blinks before turning back around to face you, “in that case-“ your eyes widen in surprise when he sticks his hand out for you to take, “shall we?”

you blink down at his outstretched hand cluelessly before suddenly realizing what it is he’s asking

“oh, i-” you snort, immediately shaking your head, “no, you don’t have to do that…”

“what do you mean?” jungkook frowns, tilting his head curiously, “you don’t want to skate with me? after all we’ve been through?? y/n, you’re breaking my heart here!” he jokes, clutching at his chest before pouting (quite cutely) at you 

“n-no!” you laugh lightly, shaking your head, “i mean, of course i’d love to skate with- i-it’s very nice of you to offer, and i know you’re obviously being paid and stuff but you don’t… ah, you don’t have to force yourself to skate with me if you don’t want to...” you mutter, reaching up to scratch the back of your neck, “like, i’m sure taehyung’s already planning to give you an extra big tip for basically babysitting me all night so you don’t have to force yourself to do anything extra-”

“no, i wanna skate with you!” jungkook interrupts, skating over so that he’s standing next to you instead, “plus, it’ll be good practice, right?”

“well, i-” you don’t get a chance to respond before jungkook’s suddenly slipping an arm around your waist and holding onto one of your hands for extra support, “i don’t know, i suppose i’m just not used to gliding without holding both of your hands so i’m just worried i’m going to make both of us fall somehow which would be mortifying-”

“that’s alright, i can hold both your hands if you feel safer that way,” jungkook chuckles, his arm sliding away from your waist so he can swivel around and stand in front of you again, “after all, it’s better to be safe than to be sorry!” he takes your hands gently as he starts to skate backwards, his thumbs rubbing the tops of your knuckles comfortingly

-‘cause we’re living in a world of fools... breaking us down... when they all should let us be... we belong to you and me...

how deep is your love continues to echo all around you and even though you feel a little awkward skating around with your instructor to a very romantic song, you have to admit that this was a great choice of song for valentine’s day 

it’s a timeless classic! 

“so, you, um…” jungkook clears his throat after a minute or two of comfortable silence, turning back for a second to glance over his shoulder and make sure he’s not about to crash into anyone, “what kind of things do you like doing?”

and it’s me you need to show... how deep is your love?

“rollerskating. is it not obvious?” you joke, looking up at him and reminding yourself that you should make more of an effort to look at him and noT constantly at the ground, “um, i don’t know! that’s kind of a broad question, i guess. i like... i like... i like painting-! i mean, i’m not good at it, but it’s a pretty relaxing hobby...” 

“painting is nice!” jungkook nods slowly in agreement before perking up slightly, “say, have you ever been to a pottery studio?” 

“you know, i actually haven’t!” you shake your head before staring past jungkook’s shoulder in thought, “i should go to one... it sounds like a lot of fun! do you...” you cough quietly and avert your gaze slightly, “do you go there often with your... uh, significant other?” 

“me? oh, i’m not in a relationship.” jungkook chuckles before giving you a shrug, “none of my co-workers wanted to take the valentine’s day shift because they actually have someone to spend valentine’s day with, so... that’s why i’m here!”

“oh! so, you’re…” you trail off before pressing your lips together and giving him a firm nod, “i see.”

so you’re both single?

interesting

very interesting 

you can’t help but wonder if he’s looking to change that  

“i-”

“incoming!”

you don’t even get a chance to turn around to see what’s going on when suddenly someone’s basHING into you from behind and making you lose your balance

and the next thing you know you’re stumbling forwards and poor jungkook’s reflexes aren’t fast enough because-

“oh-!” you land on top of jungkook with your legs on either side of him, your knee pads clacking loudly against the ground, “oh, shit-” 

“sorry! my bad!” taehyung glides past you with a sheepish smile before not-so-subtly gesturing to the girl he’s got on his arm and giving you an obnoxious wink and a thumbs up as a way to let you know he’s definitely getting boned tonight

you want nothing more than to rip your skates off right now so you can chase after him and bash his head in 

you turn to look down at jungkook, immediately raising your hands up off his (broad, broad) chest as your entire face flushes bright red, “i am- i am so sorry- are you okay?? is your head okay?? i can- i can give you my helmet!” you wince, reaching up to unbuckle your helmet before hastily taking it off and tossing it aside

“don’t sweat it, i’m completely fine-” jungkook laughs lightly before shaking his head, propping himself up onto his elbows and blowing a curled strand of hair away from his eyes with a puff, “my head’s fine! luckily i didn’t hit it on the ground or anything like that, but my ass-”

“oh, god. i’m so sorry- here, i’ll-” you attempt to get up off the ground only for the wheels on your skates to roll out from under you and for your knee to smack against the ground again, jungkook grunting as you bounce on him a little harder than intended, “oh, jesus christ-”

great

there’s no way you’re going to be able to get up because of these stupid skates and now your very cute instructor is a hostage in between your thighs!

“this is so humiliating, i am... so, so sorry- i’m definitely forcing taehyung to give you a generous tip after all of this is over-” you laugh uncomfortably, your hands about to place themselves on jungkook’s chest again before you quickly move them so that they’re on either side of his head instead

of course, this position isn’t any better because now you’re just staring down at his face directly 

little white hearts from the disco ball float over his face and though you know this is hardly the right time, your heart can’t help but go badumpbadump at the reminder of how pretty jungkook is 

“okay, wait, what if i-” he suddenly sits straight up and your eyes immediately cross at the close proximity of your faces, “hi.”

you don’t know if it’s even possible but you feel your face get even redder and you find that you’re unable to look away from jungkook 

he has very sweet-looking eyes 

they’re a very nice shade of brown 

“i- uh, hello.” you clear your throat quietly, pressing your hands as close to your own chest as possible so that you’re not touching jungkook, “hi.” 

the last thing you want is for him to accuse you of groping him

but maybe it’d be a good thing to get a lifetime ban from the rollerskating rink

then taehyung will never be able to force you to skate again!

“we should take your skates off so that we’re not stuck like this all night.” you twitch when you feel jungkook’s hand slide down the side of your calf before reaching the top of your skates, “do you think you can undo your other one for me?”

“ah- yes. yes, i can do that.” you turn away so you can look back at your skate, reaching down and ripping the velcro strap before hurrying to undo the laces

you feel jungkook fumble at your skate, yanking the tie loose before trying to help you wiggle your foot out of it, “okay, just pull your foot out-”

“yeah, lemme just-” you have to shuffle forwards in order for jungkook to pull the skate off of you and your nose crinkles when you realize you’ve just gone ahead and fully pressed your chest to jungkook’s 

wonderful

just wonderful 

(for the record, he smells really good... but you’re pretty sure you sound like a creep right now, so maybe you should go ahead and scrap that thought.) 

“what happened to not letting me fall?” you joke lightly as you get up off the ground, hoping to ease the tension a little from whatever all of that was, “are you sure you’re okay? i didn’t break anything?” 

“i promise you i’m totally fine-” jungkook gets back up onto his feet and bends down to pick up your skates before popping up to look at you with a grin, “and it only happened because i was distracted!” he pauses for a brief moment before tilting his head, his smile softening, “can you blame me? you’re very pretty.”

oh

you weren’t expecting him to say that

“oh, that’s- ha… that’s very nice of you.” you reach up to scratch the back of your neck before letting out a nervous chuckle, “you are… also… quite… visually appealing.”

quite visually appealing  

why are you speaking like an alien trying to convince everyone that they aren’t an alien?!

“so, there’s still about half an hour left of your lesson left, but i feel like you’ve had enough of skating for now.” jungkook changes the subject quickly and you can’t help but notice that his ears are starting to get red, “we can just sit on the bench and rest... or do you... uh, do you maybe want to share a chilli dog with me?” he asks quietly, and for the first time since meeting him he’s the one who looks away from you first 

“...you know, i think that might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.” you giggle, reaching over to loop your arm through his when he sticks it out for you, “i would love to share a chilli dog with you.” 

“not to flex or anything, but i do get the employee discount…” jungkook clicks his tongue, reaching up to pop open his collar obnoxiously before turning to give you a wide grin, “and if that doesn’t impress you, i don’t know what will.”

🎙️help me help you make your wishes come true (send me a request!)

✨why don’t you explore the rest of the library while you’re here?

💫or perhaps you want something shorter to read?

🌟or something even shorter?

[janumun]

The Pirate's Symbol(s): NSFW Alphabet [IkeSen Motonari]

Game: Ikemen Sengoku Pairing: Motonari/Female Reader

Rated: NSFW/18+ Words: 2.5k

Warnings: stockings fetish, spoilers for Motonari’s ‘condition’, sexual intercourse, mentions of exhibitionism/semi-public sex, (non-sexual) bondage, innuendoes and dirty-talk, masturbation

Author’s Notes: Motonari’s entire self is a joy, his route gave me some much needed, invigorating enemies-to-lovers, and I officially love him! [Totally swiped my heart right up without warning!]

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Motonari is quick — you’d almost say adept — at sweeping off a cloth, or container, placed by your bedside. Although, your touch and whatever fire you generate in between the two of you does not bother him, he does prefer you both cleaner of the mess and fluids when holding you close in his arms, afterwards.

Wiping up the remnants of your passionate and, often vigorous, activities off of quivering thighs he presses apart, in gentle strokes of damp fibers. Movements of the cloth soft enough it doesn’t shock you into over-sensitivity but not soft enough you relax entirely beneath him, because that scarlet gaze is always fixated on you — your body language. And if you give away even an inch, he’s ready and up for round two (or four). [Bless yer stamina, matey!]

If not, he’s still up and happy to listen to his favorite flower-brained woman’s amusing, outrageous tales she narrates in animated conversation. While he whisks up a quick, invigorating meal for her at the kitchen counter, just as she rests her happy self at the table. Garnet gaze seemingly fixated upon the task at hand — spices being tossed, ladle being stirred, eggs whipped to perfection — but his answers are prompt and alert, although still carrying that insouciant edge. Indicating his attention; equal division in between feeding you and hearing you speak.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Motonari is fond of his mouth, and before you, he didn’t think of it as much of an achievement as he believes it now, when your jittery gaze seeks immediate relief (and lust) as soon as it lands upon that obvious smirk.

A single kiss and your thoughts are all but handed over to him on an elaborate platter. Your cheeks color dark and wide; restless eyes tracing across his mouth. Your own parting; pink tongue darting quick in a swipe across plush lips: all of you demanding more of him.

Yes, he is surprisingly (or not), in touch with a far more emotional side: Motonari adores your eyes, although you’re never hearing it from him. Your entire body speaks of honesty but the way he reads your thoughts so easy, in your gaze, there’s quite nothing as exhilarating or confounding as the love he captures in them. That quick, tight knot of your brow, your anger flaring in your eyes or the equally prompt melting, when he appeases you in gentle teases. He’s been so long used to not trusting that a person he sees this clearly through, and sees how she trusts; it’s not an entirely terrible thing to feel.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

As mentioned above, the man doesn’t particularly care to leave you a mess post-coitus unless you ask it of him; there is little he’s able to refuse you. So when it does come (…heh) to cumming outside of your pussy, your mouth is a pretty (very pretty too) good substitute for him to ejaculate, without having to think of leaving external stains on you. Your throat clamping, then swallowing, around his orgasm, so he feels that slick slide of saliva and semen around him, as you moan.

Yer pretty darn hot, m’lady.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There are times he descends — quick and furious — into an almost juvenile state of petty jealousy [he realizes the immaturity of it, he just cannot! help! it!] and ends up turning that lust on you, instead.

He’d never actually do it but visualizing — in almost exact, murderous details — how he’d like to drag you into an empty room whenever Kicho gets all up in your face, and fuck you so hard your throat tears through screams lough enough Kicho hears each and every single sound and moan.

Or, clasp your chin in his fingers, whenever Hideyoshi’s a little too close for comfort at an Oda banquet, and kiss you senseless and noisy [pirates crave a flashy exhibition!].

He despises making a show of you to anybody, so that idea only stays in thoughts but also it’s mind-boggling, since it does get him hard on the spot.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Before you, it was only ever through terrible necessity (extremely dire straits) that he — if ever and very sparing — sought casual sex. The occasions hadn’t been plenty and he’d be frighteningly specific about how he wanted to take a woman to bed.

Bathed, no make-up, no perfume, no scented products or jewelry — anything extra that he could accidentally touch and trigger a reaction. A clean, unscented futon he’d provide in a bare room. Any bonds or cloths he could get his hands on (buying his own and discarding immediately after), to tie their limbs, keep their movements limited; Motonari used.

Of course, there’d be the rare prostitute who’d drop immediately after visiting a client, or one who’d perceive his conditions extreme and over-the-top and think they could ‘change his mind’. The moment they’d try and cross the line, he’d fling them off, almost violently, heart racing, sweat marking each inch of exposed skin. Nauseous and barely tapped, before he’d stride out of the room.

He’s also witnessed open and perverse brothels — and corrupt seething dens — where men and women fuck, for all to see, in his line of work, so he’s no stranger to how sex works for others either.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He’s learning to let go and touch (just you) without the added barrier of gloves and since you so seem fond of his hands on you, Motonari likes any positions that allow his hands to move your body upon his; he isn’t picky.

Palms curved upon your hips so that your ass slaps against his pelvis each time he pulls back, the movements of his cock into and out of your pussy — a place you are both connected and he likes that. Or even when he can spread your thighs wide, press them apart before hooking his hands over your abdomen and just focusing on moving.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s a pirate he’s a vortex of a man and slips all over the spectrum. Motonari’s goading is far softened with minimum barbs, when he’s in(side you) in bed with you. More velvet — than leathery — questions, soft smirk-y and probing,: “Ya like that, flower girl?” —as his mouth hovers just close to your ear, nose barely touching and tucking sweat soaked strands away from your temple. Definitely lands firm and midway between too serious and entirely silly. But he’s all focus on you, make no mistake.

He’s still got a filthy mouth on him, but dirty romantic liners are more his style, in bed (he wants you warmed as well as turned on!), in contrast to the complete indecent filth he threatens you with (a good time!) when the two of you are out and about.

“Pipe down, m’lady. The way yer moaning, they’re gonna think I’m fucking ya, right on deck.” Those eyes are burnished rubies; smile wide, crooked and unashamed, as he ducks close. “But maybe ya feel like putting on a show.”

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s clean down below (and silver-haired, yes) — he doesn’t go the ‘complete waxed up, no-hair in sight’ route, but rather prefers keeping his hair short-trimmed and well-groomed.

He’s also kept his pubic hair short and neat, for the rare occasions he does have sex, and an unkempt mass down there would leave him more likely and exposed to his partner’s fluids staying on him. He despises that.

Motonari doesn’t mind blood, dirt and grime on the field, nor the brine of the harsh sea sticking to his skin, but as soon as he’s done with — or in between — jobs, he takes the time to wash and clean himself up thoroughly.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

[Also see G=Goofy] Motonari isn’t short with words of love. He isn’t reciting romantic poems but he is quick to let you know, in exact words, how much he loves you — and is loving being inside you — in the moment. Barriers definitely lower themselves — not all down, not completely back up — with this man, in bed.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

(As also mentioned in E=Experience) the man, previously, has sought intimacy only and only out of desperate necessity and when his hand is just not enough for him to relieve himself of his lust. Motonari, before you, jacked off, multiple times within a week, sometimes thrice (or more) in a single day. His desires, usually amped, following a particularly unsatisfying battle or raid.

After you, he still does take time off for some self-lovin’ (remember: stamina for daaays, and you’re mostly unable to match him so he makes do), just not as much as he used to, in the past.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

You and Motonari share a love for (clothing) imports from the seas beyond. He’s always up for sharing and discussing trade secrets, doling out clothing advice and helping you work out modern clothing from whatever fabrics are available to you.

Stockings might be one of his favorite products.

The fabric feeling absolutely exquisite against his palms when he rounds you close into his grasp, stood in between his spread thighs as he observes and hums beneath you, seated. A harmless joke you make, about a stocking fetish and the ensuing explanation soon after, has him grinning and dragging you down to test the material against his teeth.

“Yer sayin’ I got a thing for yer fancy underclothes? Heh, don’t think so. Seeing you in it just makes me wanna tear it all off, meu docinho de côco.”

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere you’re afforded privacy; although a little flirting with danger is good and being pinned in between the door and his body. Watching you try and smother your moans into your sleeves, skews that grin wider, that cock harder.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. He’s got a dirty mind, it’ll do the rest of the work when its got its catalyst: you.

Nothing gets you results faster than being honest with Motonari, or expressing your affections (even chaste) for him.

Tell him he looked especially handsome, earlier on a job out: with his hair slicked back and how hard it was for you to have held back from kissing him, on the spot. That you love him—

He’s on you so fast.

“That brain’s just gotta keep sprouting its flowers, huh.” He murmurs, tugging at your chin to swipe his tongue into you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Despite his treatment of you very early on in his route (the collar, the slavery deal), Motonari’s not into putting a collar on a person, romantic or otherwise. Collaring and hearing you call him your Master wouldn’t do much for him, playful or not.

He’s had to live a great chunk of his life as the Beggar Prince; experienced the devastating dregs of human society, including and not limited to being treated as one inferior, and having to watch people around at the very mercy of corrupt lords.

In retrospect, it isn’t something he might take pleasure in, in the bedroom.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving or receiving, both take some getting used to within the bedroom. He finds the taste of you pleasant, when he withdraws wet digits from inside you and takes a careful swipe of the clear fluid across his skin. And has expressed interest in, and gone down on you several times.

Receiving gets a bit more gentle coax-y and requires reassurances, with Motonari. He doesn’t particularly like seeing his release all over you. Having to work through those barriers of his mind, but once he allows you, he does enjoy the slow kisses, and the soft slide of your mouth against him.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

His default setting is rough and furious. The two of you are usually frustrated passion by the time you actually get to his bedroom (he likes to prod and poke much too often in public, get you riled) so there’s only one way to go and it’s up. He’s spreading your thighs apart with none too gentle hands as he pushes through and into you, your own hold on him, white knuckled and almost delirious with the way his hips rock into you and his cockhead scraps across your front wall with his onslaught.

At times, however, especially after a high-risk mission; when he’s been close enough to stare Death in the face and survive, he likes to take his time being inside you, just being able to feel you. Once, twice, several times, he’s keeping you beneath, or mounted on top of him, coaxing your hips and your moans.

“Don’t look at me like that, flower girl. I’m alive, ain’t I? Com’ere. I’ll take those tears of yers.”

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Definitely! Any time he can have you, or get you close enough in private, you’re going to be fucking each other. He loves those little breathy, moan-laughters you make in half-panic/all arousal, each time he drives up to grind your hips close together, stuffed into a hallway closet.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Semi-public quickies are a thing and the closest to risky as he gets. As mentioned previously, he’s demanding enough over you, he doesn’t like men Kicho touching you, let alone hearing you when you sound like that.

Other kinks, most kinks, he’s down to try with his favorite dirty, flower-brained woman. He does however, draw the line at any kinks that might involve him using harsh, ugly words to degrade you or your body and/or being soiled.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

All I gotta say is: Pirate’s got stamina enough to power his ships through horn alone, over an entire week!

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys translate to external objects. Which are always subject to germs, and need to be (excessively) cleaned by his standards, to keep them useful and usable. That’s far much more work than he’s usually willing to commit himself to.

And he has no need of them. Not when you respond plenty to his touch alone.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A lot! Motonari’s brand of filthy talk is polished to leave you damp in between the legs. He’s pulling the nastiest most wonderful innuendoes out of the most mundane of tasks.

“Ya like that old weapon?” He might ask of you, as you admire the carvings upon the handle of one of his clan’s katana. “Didn’t know ya liked the feel of handlin’ a sword between yer hands that much, m’lady.”

Leaving your mind reeling and cheeks flushing before withdrawing with a, “What’re ya cooking in that flower brain of yers? Heh... you’ve got a dirty mind.”

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Heavy, sensual pants against your ears. His groans and grunts enough to fan the fires of your own arousal, to have you ready to come, from just the sounds that can leave his throat. Motonari doesn’t care to be heard outside your boundaries, but he also doesn’t care to withhold his own sounds of pleasure from you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He almost swears (but will never tell you, in very direct words): the space in between your bare breasts smells almost sweet like flowers. He likes finding his way up and nosing in between your breasts — just skin-to-skin contact at a place he finds you’re at your most fragrant. Suckling and tugging at a nipple draws those moans and your scent more intense, so he nips and teeths around the place often.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

That beautiful cock — with the evidence of just enough silver at the base — is long enough it fits and curves snug into you, without entering into any discomforting places, deep. But he is thick enough, it takes you time (and many times) to not just hold your breath and tighten up around him on reflex, upon entry.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

(Read: S)

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

You’re almost always the one falling asleep first. Pirates are used to night raids and this one’s no different. He does prefer watching you sleep, late into the night, once you fall exhausted into slumber.

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

♧° Link to Master List °♡