#this has happened more than once! if someone wants to give someone else money directly LET THEM

[fox-guardian]

top ten reasons people should be allowed to give retail workers tips:

they already want to

[immoralimmortals]

Hidan x Reader x Kakuzu headcanons

A note: the end paragraph is NSFW. Let's start with Kakuzu's perspective first:

In my head, Kakuzu is moronsexual...by accident. He's been around so long and is so jaded that the new and novel that manage to impress upon him really impresses upon him. That, unfortunately, also means that those people are fucking ridiculous.

Hidan: blood ritual sacrifice stabbing myself death death death Reader: bogos binted? Hidan: jashin be damned my girl can work a scythe Kakuzu:

In my fic, Kakuzu names the insert/reader Takara, which means Treasure. He also nicknamed her "duckling" and lives to regret it every day. It makes him feel so stupid. To love, for Kakuzu, means he must suffer...both in big ways and in small. The small ways are worse because they're less justifiable, less like grand selfless sacrifice.

The thing that bothers Kakuzu the most is that he isn't tearing the civilian apart when he gets mad, not like he's so infamous for. Frankly, it means he can't predict himself anymore, so in an ironic twist his lack of rage is making him uncomfortable, less sure of his own stitched skin. He finds excuses to hide himself away when she's most vulnerable.

He shows his affection in what is perhaps the most admirable but overlooked form: economic service. He wants the ones he love to be successful and stable, works hard to help this come to pass. In my writing, I have Kakuzu make the reader analog pursue a career in music performance at a quiet bar, supervising each night and making sure she gets her tips.

This also, perhaps unfortunately, puts him in control of finances. He is a very, very frugal man. He will not give you diamonds or frivolous things; he will make sure you are safe and warm and fed, and everything else is for emergencies and investment. You're a grown adult so whatever you do with whatever money you get directly is yours...but he will judge you and make his advice well known.

On Hidan's end...

I've mentioned before that I see him as very likely to have his ears perk at the mention of anything you may like. It doesn't matter how fucking stupid it is. He'll call it stupid but he'll do it / give it. Chocolate? Ten different kinds of bars of chocolate. There's dark, ruby, milk...what the hell do you like? Ok, he's going to get you ten more milk chocolate bars in specific. Be grateful.

Hidan has a very tenuous relationship with humanity, hence the whole religion about killing people thing. The foundation of your relationship with him has to have room for forgiveness there, some way or another. Normally civilians don't impress, but if you happen to catch his eye in the midst of a fight for your life...you have his attention. Bonus points if your attacker dies. Big turn on, gives you a reason to both be around and kept alive to indoctrinate.

I think he absolutely aches for someone to listen to him, both in the sense of Jashinism but also in a personal way. He's attention hungry; if you can listen to him, he will not only respect you but listen to you in kind. His greatest comfort is your listening ear, to sit by his side and simply understand. You calm him down, slow him down, and give him the closest semblance of peace he's ever known. It's a vast difference, peace and ecstasy. He isn't entirely sure what he feels about it.

Speaking of, he most definitely will eventually experience conflict, considering the scripture of Jashin to how he feels with you. A fellow Jashinist (or prospective one, to him) gradually becomes a lover. Does that make you his neighbor? Should you be dead? He will weigh the realities and figure out what his lord means to give you to him.

He values your independence. He wants you to make decisions for yourself and use your brain and heart to get what you want. If you're a follower type of person, he's going to nudge (see: shove) you off the path and out of your comfort zone every time. Once you gain his respect, you have more than enough room to judge him back (see: how he shares affection with Kakuzu).

Together:

Their desire for you contrasts on the surface but goes hand in hand in intent. Religion or money...either form, they want you to thrive and survive and succeed. They'll fight and bicker all hours of day, but at night they will always agree on you. You who brings Kakuzu hope, you who brings Hidan rest. They will kill for you, but more importantly...they'll learn how to live for you, instead of merely exist day by day. You teach them to get along better, eventually irking so very, very easily into mutual sparks of romance. They just needed some kindling instead of fucking gasoline on the fire, a mediator so they aren't just the north and south poles of a magnet failing to get close.

The competition is healthy in bed. They both have the same goal in mind- to spoil you- and though they may argue and tease and grumble, they learn not to let it get in the way. They get each other off but more so are enthralled with getting you off at the same time. Hidan likes to lick down your skin, reveling your shiver, hand sliding slowly down your waist, and Kakuzu likes to grip you nice and tight, with limbs and threads and all, gently but oh so firmly getting you just the way he wants you. But make no mistake: you have no control. You are theirs, theirs, theirs, to do with as they wish.

[rebelspykatie]

Kinktober Day One: Mutual Masturbation

When they moved into this place, just the two of them, Steve never expected for this to happen. He needed somewhere to go after his parents sold the house and Eddie wanted to give Wayne some space of his own. Neither of them had the means to live on their own, even with the government hush money, but they did have enough to get a place together. 

So in September of that fateful year they defeated Vecna, they moved into a shitty two bedroom apartment with the thinnest walls and the smallest kitchen. It wasn’t much, but it was home. They painted the walls and hung up curtains at Robin’s insistence, making it homey and less like a meth lab might have possibly once existed in their living room. 

Eddie finds a job with a mechanic and gets his GED, while Steve tries out some community college courses with Robin, picking up minimum wage jobs here and there to keep them afloat. It’s not perfect, but it works. 

What Steve doesn’t think about until it’s too late, is exactly how thin the walls are. The layout of their place is a big rectangle, with a living room on one end, kitchen in the middle, and the bedrooms at the end of a hall. The two bedrooms are stationed directly next to each other, just a wall separating them, with a bathroom in the hallway that they share. 

It doesn’t take more than a few days for Steve to realize the mistake he’s made. It’s late one night, both of them having gone to their rooms when Steve hears it. The unmistakable sound of someone getting off. And it’s not just anyone, it’s without a doubt Eddie that he’s hearing. They’ve been there enough nights at this point for Steve to know it’s louder than when the couple next door is going at it. Their sounds are muffled, a little more distant, easy to ignore. This is like surround sound in their quiet apartment. 

Breathy moans filter through the wall, little huffs and groans that reverberate in Steve’s ears. If he closes his eyes, it’s like Eddie is lying right beside him. Eddie’s bed frame is old, something they thrifted when they moved in, and it squeaks when you move too vigorously. Steve can almost time the motion of Eddie’s hips with the creaking sound that he’s hearing, can learn the rhythm of how Eddie’s stroking his cock from the pattern the bedpost is drumming on the wall.  

He clenches his eyes shut and puts a pillow over his head, trying to drown out the sounds, but they just get progressively louder and Steve resigns himself to having to sit through this. He learns a lot about Eddie that night, like how long he can go before he comes, the way he likes to change the rhythm, speeding up and slowing down to edge himself, the high pitched keen that leaves his throat when he does finally come. It’s overwhelming information to have about one of your best friends. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the tent in his own boxers that he tries to push down with the heel of his hand. Something electric sings through his veins when he touches his own cock while he knows Eddie is touching his on the other side of the wall. He pulls the pillow over his head again and tries to imagine anything else to get his erection to go down, eventually falling asleep once Eddie’s finished. 

He doesn’t know how to bring it up the next morning. How do you tell your best friend you know what they sound like when they come now? How does he tell Eddie that he wishes he could edge himself that long before shooting off? He doesn’t. He keeps it to himself and ends up suffering through several more nights of this. He’s taken so many cold showers and gotten himself off hurriedly so as not to run up their water bill. Too scared to get off in his own bed with Eddie on the other side, knowing exactly what it sounds like through the walls. 

Then, one Friday night, he finally gets a chance. Eddie is at band practice, gone for the evening. He won’t be back until at least ten, so Steve has the apartment to himself. He takes it nice and slow, working himself up, running his hands along his thighs, palming his nipples, pinching and twisting them. It feels like forever before he wraps a hand around his cock. It’s like sinking into a warm bath after a long day. Too long since he could take his time and really touch himself. 

Grabbing the lube from his nightstand, he pours some into his hand and fists his cock again, sighing at the glide, the slick, cool sensation that lights up every nerve in his body. He pumps his fist slow and steady, swirling his palm over the head and then back down. He doesn’t even know when he closes his eyes and starts to fantasize, his thoughts drifting to a lot of different things, but one thing stands out. The image he’s conjured of Eddie doing this exact same thing in his own room. He’s unconsciously setting the same rhythm he remembers Eddie set that first night, speeding up and slowing down at the same rate. 

Maybe Eddie was onto something because he’s never been so turned on in his whole life. He feels a pang of guilt that he’s getting off to things his friend gets off to, but there’s no way he can turn that part of his brain off right now. The lack of privacy has really started to get to him, so he lets it all out, moans coming out louder than normal, getting it out of his system before he has to go back to blue balls every night until he can shower the next day. 

And maybe he should’ve taken more precautions, been a bit more conscious of his surroundings and that plans can change because he doesn’t hear the front door. He doesn’t hear anything except his own moans until Eddie is already in his room and he hears the bed squeak, halting his movement on this side of the wall. 

He holds his breath, so close to the edge that he doesn’t want to stop, tightening his fist around the base of his cock to stop himself from shooting off right then. He almost cries out in frustration at being interrupted, but he waits to see what Eddie is going to do. There’s no way he missed the sounds Steve was making, he has to know what Steve is up to, and he didn’t knock on his door to say hi like he normally does when he gets home, so he definitely knows Steve is busy. You could probably hear a pin drop in their apartment at the sudden silence, but it doesn’t last long. Eddie’s bed creaks, the rustling of sheets, and then Steve can hear the familiar sound of Eddie stroking his own cock. 

And if he thought palming his cock down in his shorts felt electric before, it’s nothing like the weight of his dick in his hand as he knows Eddie is doing the same on the other side of the wall. He was too close to finishing before to stop now, he can’t just roll over and pretend like this isn’t happening. As quiet as he can manage, he starts to stroke his cock again. Biting down on the knuckles of his other hand to stifle a moan. 

It’s wrong to do this, but Eddie has to know what he was up to, and he has to know now that Steve can hear him when he’s going at it. Something about that knowledge and them still touching their cocks together, lights him up from the inside. His cock has never felt more alive, more ready to hurdle over that edge, but then he hears it. It’s so soft and muffled that he thinks he imagined it, but it rings in his ears anyways. 

Through the wall, he hears Eddie moan his name. It’s strangled, like he’s face down on a pillow or covering his face with an arm, but it’s distinguishable and Steve’s never been more aroused in his life. It only takes a few more pumps before he’s coming all over his chest, grunting and panting as if he just ran a marathon, unable to hold it in any longer. 

And then like a flip has switched, Eddie’s moans get louder, amplified like Steve’s orgasm has given him confidence that he’s allowed to do this. Steve’s heard a lot of them at this point, but this one feels different, like Eddie is putting on a show just for him. He just sits in his drying come, afraid to break the spell, listening to Eddie finish himself off. A resounding smack of a hand hitting the wall between them makes him jump, but he’s even more surprised to hear his name, no longer an embarrassed whimper into the night, but a loud unmistakable shout. 

Steve’s not really sure where to go from here but he guesses they’re about to figure it out when a quiet knock on his door startles him upright a few minutes later.

AO3

[theamityelf]

My mind is full of thoughts of a Percy Jackson Danganronpa AU.

Here's an organized brainstorm.

Parameters: Danganronpa universe, Riordanverse characters. This means no one is a demigod, which I would ordinarily find a bit boring, but Ultimates are pretty superhuman anyway, so it's fine. Hope's Peak in Japan still exists; this is an imitation school in New York. The plot of Danganronpa is still happening in Japan. Junko and co are still responsible for the Tragedy and their killing game, but there is someone in the New York Hope's Peak who helped her cause the Tragedy and, separately, someone in the New York Hope's Peak acting in the role of "coerced traitor".

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

Percy Jackson- Ultimate Swimmer. Most of his backstory gets to stay pretty much the same, except the weird traumatizing things that happened throughout his childhood that in canon were the result of his godly parentage are now just regular people mistreating a kid. He gained renown as an Olympic swimmer, mostly so that he could give the money that came with that success to his mother, so she could stop being financially dependent on his abusive step-dad. She was able to leave him, and optionally put a hit out on him? If we want a Medusa equivalent.

In the killing game, his classmates are weird about him. A lot of them act like he's not smart, no matter how often he's right about stuff. He gets extremely defensive when he's the one being accused of murder, because he's used to having to defend himself from unfair accusations, so it's already a sore spot for him. This makes him come across as hotheaded and suspicious, but he never hurts anyone.

He survives. Also, he's probably the POV character.

Annabeth Chase- Ultimate Strategist. Backstory is, she ran away from home when she was seven and ended up in the "care" of some kind of army or mercenary group, and she became their best battle strategist at a very young age. When she became old enough to object to what the group was doing, she plotted out the tidiest way to end them and escape (physically) unscathed. Once she was free, she pretty much lived as a drifter until Hope's Peak scouted her.

In the killing game, she channels any fear she has immediately and directly into defensive rage. Because she can see so many potential strategies in the the things people do and the way everyone else behaves, she tends to float on the slightly confrontational side. Ironically, despite Percy being one of the more cunning participants, and despite everyone else accusing him of stuff constantly, she almost never expects him to be up to anything. Like, she'll sit next to him during meals specifically because she does not believe he has it in him to successfully plot her death.

She might kill. She probably wouldn't be killed. Her execution might be chess-based! Maybe a cruel subversion, where she's winning the chess game and then gets crushed to death by a giant checker piece, or something like that.

Grover Underwood- Ultimate Environmentalist. He's a famous activist for climate change and pollution. And unfortunately, Danganronpa Law might dictate that he gets placed in the coward role by default. Someone's gotta have the outrageously out-there fear sprites. I'd say he leans more "easily-startled pacifist" than "genuine coward", though. He might get a moment where he throws a tin can at Monokuma.

He folds in the face of teasing of any kind, so if Monokuma or his classmates make jokes at his expense, he does not banter back. Percy backs him up, since he refuses to defend himself. But he is reasonably vocal in the trials.

He's the character you're sure is going to die every chapter, but he makes it to the end.

Nico di Angelo- Ultimate Gamer. Everyone who hasn't already heard of him is surprised by this, because they find him irrationally eerie and it seems like his talent should have the same vibes. He's had a hard life, partially due to family stuff and partially because these game companies target him whenever he makes them look bad and sometimes they send mercenaries to intimidate or harm him, so he has to live on the run and off the grid- while also being a notorious gamer. He's still Hazel's half-brother, but he has to be careful about acknowledging their relationship in public, lest she be in danger, too. (The game company mercenaries would hold her hostage! They've already done it with a different sister before, and it did not end well.) But he does favors for her when he can, and they manage to keep in touch. Now that they're both attending the same school, they still keep their sibling relationship a secret for a while.

He's very reserved, both socially and in the trials. Sometimes he hangs out with Leo, since Leo focuses so hard on his own work that they don't have to talk much, and that's honestly the only reason he ever has an alibi. He still often gets accused of stuff just based on sheer vibes.

He might kill someone for Hazel. Or he might be killed. Most likely, he dies somehow. One of them has to die for the other's character development, per Danganronpa rules, and I'm choosing him. He would agree with my choice. The group finds out that they're siblings either during the trial or between the verdict and his execution.

Rachel Elizabeth Dare- Ultimate Heiress, but she really really doesn't want to be! She tries really hard to have a different Ultimate, like Ultimate Artist, Ultimate Activist...

In the killing game, her role in the dialogue is mostly to be the one saying obvious things and explaining the joke that was just made. (Look, it's okay. Some of my favorite Danganronpa characters get saddled with that job. It's not a slight on Rachel.) There's a running gag where she tends to correctly guess things ahead of time, culminating in her excitedly saying "Hey! Maybe I'm the Ultimate Psychic!" This annoys Octavian tremendously.

Socially, she kind of cycles between the friend groups. She says very little in the trials. When people tease her, she very much does banter back.

She might kill. Or she might be killed. I think probably the latter, and they can have some line like "She didn't see it coming." Maybe Nico kills her because she was going to kill Hazel? Eh, maybe not. She does get killed, though. Although her execution could be interesting if she murders instead; it could be based on the title she hates, or it can be based on her yearning for another title/identity.

Luke Castellan- Ultimate Traveler. He runs a very popular travel blog or vlog, centered around how he's been to every state, territory, and almost every country. He speaks a lot of languages. He's older than his classmates, because he missed a lot of school while he was traveling.

"I've visited the Hope's Peak in Japan a few times."

"There's one in Japan?" Percy says, immediately interested.

"The first Hope's Peak is in Japan!" Annabeth chides.

He became friends with Junko Enoshima a while back. He had a role in causing the Tragedy to also happen in America, but he thought it was for a different reason. He never wanted his classmates to kill each other! (He was fine with millions of other people dying, though.) Junko said they were locking themselves in for their own safety, so he convinced Headmaster Chiron. His memory was erased along with everyone else, so he doesn't know anything except that he was friends with Junko.

His presence in the killing game is very charismatic and caring and somewhat leaderly.

He might be the first one killed. He probably doesn't kill anyone. All the information about his role in things comes out after his death, but maybe he gets a moment right before he dies where he remembers everything but can only say a cryptic sentence that everyone misunderstands.

Carter Kane- Ultimate Egyptologist. Attended many lectures and archaeological digs with his father, pretty much from infancy. (Yes, Professor Kane giving a lecture with a baby on his chest!) Very well-versed in Egyptology, and took over his father's work and expert status when he tragically died in a freak accident. If New York Hope's Peak has a reserve course, Sadie might be enrolled there as a backup Ultimate Egyptologist.

In the killing game, Carter's place in the social web is to kind of be the quieter Annabeth, in that he's smart and somewhat suspicious of the others but doesn't express it as openly as she does. Also, his particular brand of had-to-grow-up-too-fast is of a more social bent than most of the others', due to the nature of his work, so he's a lot like Reyna in that he'll be the one trying to calm people down and get them to work together. In fact, he and Reyna will have a casually-established trust for each other, where they generally agree about things, side with each other, support each other's alibis, etc.

In the trials, he isn't all that vocal, but when he speaks, he always has an astute point.

He doesn't kill, but he might get killed.

Jason Grace- Oh boy, there are so many funny answers to this. I think it would be most on-brand for him to be the guy who wakes up with no memory of his Ultimate. But, this would necessarily mean that his talent must be significant in some potentially-game-breaking way. Ultimate Wolf Trainer would be great, but maybe a little out there? I'm thinking he'd either be Ultimate Wolf Trainer or Ultimate Survivalist. Either way, his backstory still involves wolves because the wolves are the coolest things about him (in my own personal opinion).

He is killed by Monokuma for rule-breaking, because he does not want to engage with the game on Monokuma's terms. He's used as an example for the others. It's a very heroic death.

Piper McLean- Ultimate Trendsetter. (A really superficial-sounding title that she hates.) She's been in the public eye as the daughter of a famous actor, and she's known for being utterly subversive in her fashion choices and broader lifestyle stuff; she single-handedly reshapes pop cultural trends, and no one can quite put their finger on why she manages to be so...persuasive? Without even saying a word. It's like, just by being herself, she makes people want to "agree" with her. Her social media presence has a significant impact on social justice movements and political campaigns. She also met Junko Enoshima before attending Hope's Peak (because it's not hard for a super influential "fashionista" to engineer a way to meet a super influential "trendsetter"), and Junko identified her as a valuable asset. Piper is the coerced traitor. She confesses after a close friend (probably Leo) dies.

Her behavior in the killing game is kind of guarded, for a while; she's guilty about being in contact with Monokuma, so she isolates herself out of guilt. It comes across as the standard "aloof ice queen" character archetype, especially if the POV character is Percy, who she doesn't soften toward until late in the game when they understand each other better, but she shows her kind side when she's defending those she perceives as underdogs, like Leo and Hazel. She doesn't trust Grover (Another thing that places her at odds with Percy.), because she thinks his pacifist thing is an act, partially because she considers him a celebrity and she has a lot of baggage around the concept of celebrity.

After she confesses to being the traitor, people get back to trusting her surprisingly quickly. It helps that a lot of the late-game participants are more on the trusting side, and also, in true Danganronpa traitor fashion, she didn't actually do anything to anyone; she just is the traitor. Once the cat's out of the bag, it's like a weight has been lifted. She gets along with everyone way better.

She survives.

Leo Valdez- Ultimate Mechanic. Once again, same backstory except he can't create fire with his hands.

In the killing game, he leans SUPER hard on sarcasm and humor as a defense mechanism, causing him to butt heads with some of the more earnest in the cast. Characters like Frank genuinely believe he doesn't care or thinks the situation is funny, whereas characters like Piper understand pretty quickly that Leo is just unable to deal with his fear any other way.

He dies, because his talent is game-breakingly useful once the group at large is focused on game-breaking and not surviving each other. He builds something useful to the rest of the class and then dies, rendering the thing he built far more valuable for the fact that they won't have any more inventions or machines from him to help them.

(If we want to go Danganronpa-style cruel irony, Annabeth could be the one to kill him, since she's the strategy person and his loss would be the most strategically problematic to the group. Like, we could discover that if she just hadn't killed Leo, he was this close to building something that would get them free.)

Hazel Levesque- (I would love to incorporate her love of horses, but that simply can't be relevant here, lol.) Ultimate Witch. She has pretty strong reservations about her title, but essentially she's a talented illusionist with above-average luck. Also she can sometimes see ghosts; it's a genetic thing. (Because if Danganronpa says that's on the table, then why not.) She would prefer to be called the Ultimate Illusionist, but New York Hope's Peak wants snappy, clickbait-y names for their Ultimates.

In the killing game, she gets along with everyone. Frank is protective of her, because she's physically small, kind-hearted, and pretty. Nico is protective of her because she's his sister. All the other girls are protective of her, because she's the least athletic out of all of them (since this AU doesn't require her to have been fighting monsters). Leo makes lighthearted jokes about her talent that Frank takes too seriously. The only person to ever directly accuse her of anything is Octavian, though she's not above suspicion when she doesn't have an alibi.

And for her own part, Hazel's skill set comes into play because she has a keen eye for smoke-and-mirrors, as it were. Like, as soon as the killing game starts, she becomes curious as to where Monokuma is appearing from and determined to find out. Things like that. She discovers secret passageways based on her familiarity with optical illusions, sleight of hand, and hidden compartments.

She survives. Obviously, having a strong personal connection to a character who probably dies means she has to survive to say some line towards the end like "It's what they would want," or "I remember what they said to me..." Monokuma meant for her to die because she was a little too persistent about finding stuff, but it didn't work out that way.

Frank Zhang- Ultimate Archer. Once again, functionally the same backstory with the Roman gods swapped out for human stuff.

In the killing game, he assumes the position of "We would never kill each other! Why would any of us kill each other?!" He's at odds with Leo (and by extension Piper) because of Leo's need to joke about things, and he's at odds with Annabeth because he doesn't want to suspect anyone. His insistence that they shouldn't suspect each other makes Annabeth (and to a lesser extent, Carter) suspicious that he's playing them. He trusts Reyna because she's a team leader, but she is aggressively neutral toward him. Like:

"Reyna, tell them this had to be Monokuma's doing!"

"It could have been him, or it could have been one of us. We don't have all the facts yet."

I'm going to say he kills, and I'm going to say that his motive is a hostage thing with his grandmother. This is also character development for Hazel. Sorry, Hazel. Also, sorry Frank. His execution hearkens to St. Sebastian (shot with a bunch of arrows while tied to a tree or post).

Reyna Avila Ramirez Arellano- Ultimate Team Leader. Raised by a now-dead older sister, she led a lot of professional athletic teams to victory. She is great at seeing others' strengths and weaknesses, and she is a champion for team synergy.

Ironically, she's not great at creating or maintaining friendships, but she loves her classmates in her own way. She only speaks up in class trials when she notices someone is being talked over, in which case she makes sure the others quiet down and let them speak. Also, when Octavian is making it impossible to progress, she gets him to shut up. Other than that, she mostly listens.

She's probably killed, and the characters have a bunch of lines sadly reflecting on how they didn't expect someone like her to be killed.

Octavian [Last Name]- Ultimate Psychic. He's famous for his whole gimmick of divining a person's future by cutting open a beloved stuffed animal of theirs; for the hardcore superstitious types, it's considered a show of how serious you are about your beliefs to say you've had your future read by Octavian. (It's also a demonstration of financial status, because he charges a lot.)

In the killing game, he is hugely distrustful and obstructs the group from collaborating at pretty much every turn. Like, Annabeth is cautious, but he is straight up tearing the group apart constantly.

He kills or is killed for sure. Most likely, he kills; no way any self-respecting Danganronpa game would miss the opportunity to make him angrily defend himself in the trial room and get a gruesome execution that probably hearkens to him gutting stuffed animals. I'm going to take it a step further and say he's the one to kill Carter, since its too obvious to have him kill Rachel or Reyna.

Also, if they get to open up Monokuma late in the game, they're going to mention how Octavian would have loved to be around for this.

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

So, to recap, in no particular order:

Murderers: Annabeth, Nico(?), Frank, Octavian

Victims: Rachel(?), Luke, Carter, Leo, Reyna

Killed As An Example: Jason

Survivors: Percy, Piper, Hazel, Grover. They are all best friends at the end.

[itsevanffs]

Last Line(s) WIP game

Rules: Share 7 (or more) lines of a WIP you've been working on.

tagged by @cindle-writes <3

I do not have anything that's the last part of a current wip that is longer than 3 lines and hasn't been shown before, so... have more junkie au? where i drop the bomb that this one's tom/harry/sr endgame? my cheerleaders are all very excited for it either way, and so am i.

below the cut is the snippet:

---

Tom looks extraordinarily downtrodden when he comes down for what could politely be considered a brunch, if not a ‘late breakfast’, and Thomas looks up from his newspaper with a mild curiosity.

“Did you bring over a new toy last night?” he asks, flipping the page of his paper to demonstrate that while he is interested, it should not be taken as an invitation to talk for longer than a few sentences.

“Hardly,” Tom sighs. “I had to pay.”

Thomas looks at his dysfunctional son over his reading glasses, unimpressed. “Had to?”

“Well, no,” Tom admits. “I wanted to.” He pops a downer from the packet kept on the dining table full-time and swallows it dry, closing his eyes. His face instantly regains some colour. “I gave him about five thousand. I’m not exactly sure - it’s a little foggy.”

“Was it worth it?” Thomas asks, because if there’s one thing he won’t do, it’s berate Tom for doing something stupid after it has happened. Not directly, at least. Implication is fair game.

“If I had to give him double I would have done it,” Tom says at once, eyes startlingly clear for someone halfway to withdrawals.

“And where is your very expensive toy now?” Thomas asks. He’s got a feeling, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.

“He left,” his son replies, starting to sulk again. “I guess he woke up before I did. The agreed on money’s gone, I put it in a pile last night, and nothing else.”

“And you’re upset because?” Thomas prods gently.

“He’s gone,” Tom repeats. “I want him back, but he left. I don’t even remember his name.”

Thomas hums, pushes his glasses up so he can pretend to scan the paper again. That’s an easy fix.

---

The boy is startlingly more beautiful in real life than on camera, and Thomas has to take a second before he approaches him to compose himself. It wouldn’t do to steal his son’s toy, after all.

---

tagging: @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger @metalomagnetic and... whoever else wants to do this, i guess

[minimitchell]

consumed by seeds of doubt (ao3)

ee didn’t give us kathy and callum talking about ben and what happened to him last year so i wrote it myself.

.

There’s a stain on the far edge of the plastic that’s covering the table, perfectly coloring one of the white checkered squares in a dirty brown. It’s probably coffee, or possibly tea, that one of the other guests today spilled and didn’t bother to clean up again. It’s almost the exact same shade as the tea he’s cradling between his hands, maybe a shade or two darker. And by now they’re probably the same temperature as well.

Callum has been sitting here a while now. He can’t say exactly how long it’s been, but judging by the number of guests he has heard and seen in his peripheral it’s been quite some time. He’s been drifting in and out of paying attention to the neighbors and strangers coming in to get their coffees, teas and buns; only looking up from the stain on the table when someone addresses him directly.

And even then he only notices them after they repeat his name more than once.

It’s been this way all day. He kept zoning out while trying to focus on the paperwork on his desk at work, but he could never focus on it too long. The words kept blurring in front of him; his brain not letting him combine the different letters to form a coherent sentence. He called it quits after realizing he read the same page of his report for the fourth time without taking anything in, instead opting to wait for Ben here at the café.

But even now he can’t seem to turn his brain off.

His head keeps mulling this one thing over. This one miniscule thing that shouldn’t send him spiraling like this and keep him from concentrating on anything else. But it does. It keeps bouncing around in his head, from one corner to the other, blocking every other thought that might take up space in its place.

If this was about anything else, he might think he’s slowly going insane. But it’s about Ben so of course it takes up most of the space in his head. Just like everything about Ben does.

“Alright, love?”

A bright green rag drags over the brown spot he’s fixating on, leaving a spotless white in its wake after it's done its job. He follows the hand holding the rag up until he lands on the friendly face of his mother in law, looking back at him with furrowed eyebrows.

Her blonde hair is pulled away from her face into a ponytail and she looks exhausted from being on her feet for the entire day. Callum has so much admiration for her. For her work ethic, for her never-ending kindness, for her strive to do what it takes for her family. He relates to her a lot in that regard.

“Yeah, yeah. Just waiting for Ben. He got held up at the Arches.”

They were meant to meet up here after they both got done with work since they still had to pop into the Minute Mart for some groceries before going home today. Callum wants to cook them a nice dinner, maybe open a bottle of wine and just have a nice, relaxed evening together.

Unfortunately, they made that plan without thinking of any emergencies that could come up at their respective works. Specifically at Ben’s work. Callum is trying not to be annoyed at their delayed start to the weekend -it’s extra money and in reality, the thing shouldn’t take too long to fix according to Ben- but it does leave him with extra time to mull this thing over and over in his head without distraction.

“You barely touched your tea.”

Oh. Now that she mentions it, it’s noticeable to Callum as well. The mug is cold to the touch; the ceramic almost icy against his palms. He can’t remember the last time he took a sip from it, but judging by the amount of liquid still present in the cup it’s been some time.

“Oh. Right.”

Kathy takes a look around the café and it’s another testament to how out of it Callum’s been that he hasn’t even noticed he’s pretty much the only person still in here right now. Harvey is sat at the corner table by the window, Callum thinks he might be on break or in-between cab rides, but he’s far away and engrossed in something on his phone. Kathy must think so as well because the next thing she does is pull the chair out opposite of Callum and sit down in it, covering the space where the brown stain used to be with her resting hands.

“Everything alright, love? Is it Ben?”

His silence must be long enough for Kathy to see it as confirmation and her eyebrows become even more furrowed; her eyes taking on that sorrowful look parents get when they’re hurting for their child. Callum has become well accustomed to this look in the years he’s been part of Lexi’s life.

“I thought he was doing better after everything?”

“Yeah, he is. For the most part.”

Callum isn’t even lying or trying to whitewash the truth. Ben is doing better. He’s come so far in the past few months. He’s a different person to the one Callum saw in that horrible room at the station. He smiles more. He laughs full belly-laughs again. He sings in the shower and makes stupid jokes just to see the people around him smile as well.

He’s able to sit in the Albert again without being close to panic. He’s able to hold his daughter in his arms and he’s able to kiss his husband without hesitation. So yeah, Ben is doing better these days. In most aspects he’s doing surprisingly well. In others though, Callum isn’t so sure.

“Still. I’m worried about him sometimes.”

“Why?”

“I’m worried he’s pushing himself too much when he shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t really know how to explain this better without giving away too many details. Details that probably shouldn’t be shared with Ben’s mum of all people. Or rather, details he doesn’t really want to share with Ben’s mum.

His reluctance to give any further details doesn’t seem to reach Kathy. Or Kathy just decides her worry for her son is bigger than Callum’s subtle discomfort. He gets it. If he had been the one who witnessed Ben’s downward spiral last year as intimate as Kathy had - and he’ll never forgive himself for not being the one - he’d be exactly the same. Hell, the reason he’s been spacing out all day is because he’s worried about Ben as well and he was pretty much the last person to know.

“What do you mean?”

There’s no getting out of this one now, Callum knows as much. Kathy isn’t going to let this go and Callum can’t just make up a lie about his husband’s well-being. Just because he might be uncomfortable talking about their sex life with his mother-in-law.

So he takes a small but deep breath and decides to just be honest with her.

If anyone understands and doesn’t judge, it’s definitely Kathy.

“Sometimes when we, you know , I touch him like I used to do all the time before but now he flinches. But he doesn’t stop and talks to me about it. Or tells me to stop. He’ll even make me do it again sometimes.”

“I see.”

It has happened a couple of times now; mostly when they’re right in the middle of things.

It’s been a slow process, getting to a place where Ben felt comfortable and ready enough to be intimate again. They simply slept in the same bed for the first few weeks after they got back together, gradually with less and less space between them. Then they slowly started with hands, then mouths, then more. Just around Christmas they tried going all the way again - slow and steady and with lots of communication and reassurance. Everything at Ben’s pace.

Callum had been fully prepared to wait for months, until Ben had been fully ready, or forever even. He only cared about being back together with his husband. About getting to spend his life with the most important person to him again. About supporting him in whatever way he needed.

But he didn’t have to wait forever.

And since they started having sex again, it’s been really good. It’s not like it was before, it’s different now, but somehow it feels even better. They feel even more connected now; almost like they know each other on a completely different level than before. The trust between them feels deeper, so does the love somehow, and all these things combined make for a pretty good feeling while they’re being intimate.

Sometimes though- sometimes Callum can’t help but act on impulse. He forgets about things in the throes of passion. His hand is too forceful on Ben’s neck or he holds his wrists a little too tight, restraining Ben too much. Last night, things were rougher than they have been since they got back together. Callum had been rougher. But when he caught himself and tried to slow down, Ben didn’t let him.

“That’s not normal, is it?”

“Maybe that’s his way of working through the trauma. To rewrite the past with your touch. With someone who doesn’t mean harm.”

“But what if I trigger him, Kathy? What if he starts associating all this with me. With us. I couldn’t handle that.”

Kathy regards him for a moment; her eyes fixed on his. She’s always been their biggest supporter; has always championed for him and Ben to work things through when it got rough or reminded them that they love each other. Her opinion, her advice, means a lot to Callum. With this topic even more so.

He knows about what happened to her. Not all the details, just the things Ben shared with him when he told him about Luke and after they got back together. He knows that Kathy can relate. That she went through something similar to Ben. If anyone can ease his worries it’s her.

She reaches out and covers one of his hands with her own.

“Callum. Ben trusts you more than anyone. If he’s comfortable enough to be intimate with you and to work through this together, then that’s a good thing. I wish my husband at the time made me feel that way. Ben knows what he needs better than anyone else. Have trust in him.”

“I do, I trust him. I’m just worried, I guess.”

Kathy glances over at the far table where Harvey is still sitting, maybe making sure he hasn’t heard their conversation. Callum hadn’t even thought about that, about inadvertently spilling such a delicate secret to the wrong person. He likes the bloke, but he’s under no illusion that Harvey wouldn’t immediately spill what he overheard to the Slaters. And the last thing Ben wants is have more people find out. Callum couldn’t even convince him to tell Lola.

She must be thinking the same thing because she waits for a moment until she seems sure enough that they can’t be heard, returning her gaze to Callum again afterwards. Despite the heaviness of their topic and the flash of pain still lingering in Kathy’s face there’s warmth in her eyes. The type of warmth he has become so accustomed to with her. The type of warmth that makes you feel cared for and secure.

“You know, it took me a long time to move on. It was different back then; the men in my life never tried to understand, not really. But you’re trying and that’s what’s important for Ben. You’re a good man, Callum. The best I could ask for for my boy. Don’t doubt yourself.”

Callum swallows for a moment; the words clinging to the back of his throat with no escaping. He’s heard Kathy say he’s good for Ben, the best thing that ever happened to him. He has heard multiple family members tell him that. Even Ben himself. But somehow, hearing her say it right now, right here makes Callum more choked up than ever before.

He doesn’t know what to say; how to answer her. He wants to assure her that Ben is also the best thing that ever happened to him. That their family means more to him than anything ever has in his entire life. That her son’s heart is in the safest hands possible.

Before he can even attempt to voice any of it though, Ben’s voice cuts through the silence between him and Kathy.

“Hey, sorry about that, babe. That job was trickier than I thought. Hey, mum.”

Ben stops right next to the chair Kathy is sitting on, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek in greeting. It’s obvious he’s completely oblivious to the heavy tone of the conversation before or the way their smiles are slightly dimmed.

Callum can’t help the skip in his heartbeat when he sees Ben’s smile at them now though. The image of him completely broken and unresponsive on those trash bags still thrums around in the back of his mind sometimes and seeing how far he’s come since then and how much he has worked on himself never fails to fill Callum’s heart with pride at his husband.

He’s so incredibly proud of him. And he didn’t think it was possible but he loves Ben even more today than he did any other day before that.

He keeps watching Ben talk to his mum, just observing the way they interact with one another and the ease they have with each other now. Kathy’s words keep going round and round in his head. Maybe he was too caught up in his own insecurities; too consumed by his own doubts.

Ever since they got back together, Ben has been absolutely clear on what’s okay for him to do and what he’s uncomfortable with. They worked through a lot together. They talked, they discussed, they tried. If Ben is sure about these things, who is Callum to tell him otherwise? He’ll still worry, of course he will; it's his default setting as Ben Mitchell’s husband, but he has to lay his trust in Ben the same way he trusts Callum.

If Kathy thinks he’s doing things right, there must be something to it.

They’re about to head out of the door, ready to finally start their weekend together after a busy week of work and dealing with family stuff, when Callum turns around to face Kathy one more time. She’s back behind the counter now, wiping down the surfaces and getting everything ready for closing.

“Kathy? Thanks.”

She gives him one of those warm, motherly smiles of hers and only nods her head at him in acknowledgement. He’s glad he shared his thoughts and worries with her today and he’s even more grateful she managed to quell some of them with her perspective. He’s grateful he has someone like her as his mother-in-law.

He joins Ben outside of the café, reaching out to thread their hands together tightly. He’s alright. They’re alright. That’s all that matters.

[peachymilkandcream]

Hello. Can you please do a part 2 of the sick Evelyn story 😊 I was thinking maybe Levi calls a doctor and during the check up the doctor notices bruises on her body. He gets suspicious and starts questioning her. Levi makes some silly excuse but he won't buy it (obviously. He is a doctor) Then Levi has to tell him to mind his own business and threatens him. The doctor understands that it would be stupid to go speak up against Levi and apologizes. But he still feels bad for Evelyn.

Levi x Evelyn -> In Sickness Part 2

(A/N: Ooh, so the only thing I changed in this is the doctor is a woman to keep with Levi's no men around my wife rule. But other than that....I might have made Doc a tad secretly rebellious....*wink wink*)

WARNINGS: implied noncon/dubcon, domestic violence mentioned, manipulation, mind breaking, misogyny, yandere themes/behaviours, violence, blackmail, Levi's a silly little guy, etc.

=============================================

Despite Evelyn trying to convince Levi that she was completely fine he insisted on asking for a professional opinion regardless. Evelyn was too much of a people pleaser, worried about being an inconvenience to anyone. He didn't give a damn about someone's time, the two of them only had one doctor, it had to be a woman with a small enough practice so that she would turn the other way with a few good threats. Plus he paid her well enough, his wife's health was worth a pretty price.

Now he stood against the doorframe with his arms crossed, even though she was a woman Levi had to ensure nothing happened. In his eyes Evelyn was such perfection and beauty that everyone wanted her to themselves, that was why he had to keep her hidden away and keep his eye on her. Although deep down he knew he had turned her into such a slut for his cock she wouldn't think of anything else, but a naive meddler might try something regardless.

"Captain?" The doctor inquired, inspecting the bruises.

"Is there a problem?"

"Sort of, can I ask how Mrs. Ackerman came to get these bruises? They're pretty bad-"

"You cannot ask."

She straightens, giving him a fierce look. "And why not?"

"Because that is mine and my wife's business. I don't pay you for your meddling."

Evelyn stared nervously between the two, she knew first hand Levi's wrath when pressed about her various injuries. Many people had come and gone that had questioned Levi's right to discipline her.

"May I talk to you in private then, Captain?"

He nods, taking her into the adjoining hallway, his stern expression still on his face. "Speak."

"What is going on here Levi? I've never seen her so pale, and those injuries. I don't question you about the consent revolving your relationship because I don't know what part of it is actually permitted and what is threatened- but-"

"Can you shut up about that for once in your damn life? That's all your harp me on when it doesn't fucking matter."

She sneers. "I have many opinions on that, but I won't get into them all now. And I really don't want to ask if you've been hitting her because I'm sure I already know the answer." His silence confirms her suspicions, making her angrier. "You mark my words Levi-"

"No, you mark my words woman- if you so much as breathe so much as one word of this to anyone, it won't be about money it will be your life."

"Are you threatening me-?"

"That's a promise."

"If you think I'll get scared by your words-"

"You should be. I'll give you unimaginable hell, so much that you'll wish for the death that will never come. I do whatever the hell I want with my wife, and I won't hear some paper pushing old bat who forgot her use meddling in with her opinions. I pay you for your medical advice, and if you can't provide that then we'll have another conversation."

She opens her mouth to say something else, but quickly shuts it. He has a point, with his influence and reputation he could put much more than just her life in jeopardy. Maybe she couldn't directly help Evelyn, what the girl needed now was time. Time to escape and get somewhere far away from him. And when she escaped she would have at least one friend on the outside who would help her.

"Alright Levi, I'm sorry. I won't question you again. Please just let me finish putting salve on her wounds? I don't want them to get infected."

Levi takes a minute, as if reading her before nodding.

The two return to Evelyn's bedside, the doctor finishing putting salves on her wounds. "Alright my dear, you're all set for now. Just rest, and take good care of yourself." She slips a small handkerchief of pills into her hands under the covers, a little something she keeps with her for all her house visits, for dealing with wives of abusive husbands like him. "Make sure to take your medicine, and I'll come check on you again soon and I can give you more."

Evelyn seemed confused, but then understood the meaning behind her intent, the pills like hot coals in her hand. "Thank you."

She pats her hand, giving Levi a sideways glance before leaving. See if you get your way now Levi, all your precious plans will come crashing down on you.

[thenewpathfinder2024-2034]

 woman’s overall level of relationship satisfaction was a better predictor of relationship success than a man’s level of satisfaction.

women tend to fall out of love much faster than men.

women tend to report more problems in a relationship, and tend to be more sensitive to the perception that something is going wrong.

women left relationships was because of a “lack of communication”.

While these might look like a bunch of random conclusions when taken separately, when put together we get a much clearer picture.

Women are more aware when something (communication) isn’t working. The less satisfied a woman is with her relationship, the more likely she is to end it. Considering communication in a relationship is essential for most women, we have a problem.

If you aren’t communicating well with her, she’s not going to want to tell you something is going wrong either, because she doesn’t think you’ll listen.

Then once she reaches the conclusion that it isn’t working, her attraction (love) to you drops quickly, and she begins preparing herself to leave once she’s no longer attracted to you.

And then, without warning, she drops the bomb on you.

To Make Things Even Worse, Her Attachment Pattern Can Make This Happen Even Faster

There are three attachment patterns that separate from partners much quicker than everyone else: the Dismissive Avoidant, the Anxious Pre-Occupied, and the Taylor Swift.

The dismissive-avoidant does not handle long-term romance well. She’s usually an adept seductress who can’t tolerate sustained emotional closeness so she pushes away her serious partners as a defense mechanism.

These types of women get into and out of relationships quickly because of their strong need for independence. Even when she’s in a relationship with you, if things are getting too serious, you can bet she’s already planning her exit.

The Anxious-Preoccupied, on the other hand, is your classic attention seeker. She needs attention to fill the gaping hole inside of her, where she’s convinced herself that she isn’t worthy of real love. As a result, she’ll seek out attention (love) wherever it’s given.

Whether that’s from you, or from someone else may not matter to her.

In other words, if you stop giving her attention, she’s going to get it from someone else.

, I can promise you she was directly or indirectly propositioned by men who were more attractive, and who had more money than you.

She may have said no to all of them while you two were together. Or maybe she didn’t and cheated on you. Either way, she knows that there are other men out there for her, if she so chooses.

It means she’s aware of the type of men she’s capable of getting. When you start screwing something up, she already knows that she’s capable of getting someone who won’t.

Science has already proven that women prefer bigger, stronger, and more masculine men. And as we already know, she’s been approached by them before.

This makes the thought of moving on easier, knowing she won’t have to suffer being alone, which is one of the biggest pain points for a newly single woman according to a study conducted in 2015.

Having that layer of security gives her the same outcome independence that I believe all men should strive for. It allows her to pick the best option for her at any given time, and say no to a bad deal, even if that bad deal is you.

Now I do want to stress that your ex-girlfriend didn’t just wake up one day and decide she was ready to leave.

She’s nice, and you like spending time with her, but you’ve got other things going on that occupy you for most of your waking hours.

One day she starts acting a bit bitchier than usual. You notice, but don’t say anything. You might remark to your buddies that she’s not being very nice. But you still love her, so it’s no big deal.

She continues doing this for a few weeks and it progressively gets worse. You start to get resentful. The thoughts of what the single life would look like start creeping into your head.

But you don’t do anything. Yet. You entertain the thoughts of being single, but push it to the back of your mind.

Meanwhile, your buddies keep telling you that you deserve better. At first, you don’t agree with them. Your girlfriend is great, you think. She’s a good girl.

But the more you think about it, the more you start to agree. You work hard. You deserve someone who is sweet, not someone who’s a bitch all the time.

You start considering what a life without her looks like. You envision the possibilities, the new women, the freedom and all that. Naturally, you don’t tell her anything because you conclude she’ll just bitch at you some more if you say something.

You slowly start to distance yourself from her because you don’t want to put up with her bitchiness.

You spend more time with your buddies, and more time at work, away from her. It starts to dawn on you that this is what your life could be like. It could be free from drama. Free from her.

You start eyeing the hotties at work, and one of your co-workers seems to be suggesting she’s open to something more.

Hmmm.

You think about what your girlfriend means to you. She means a lot. But so does the rest of your life. That means even more.

Over time, you stop noticing the good things about your girlfriend. All you can do is think about how much she bitches. How much she nags. You become distant and she becomes even worse as a result.

Finally, you’ve had enough.

“I’m done!” you proclaim in a huff one night. Off into the night you ride. The next day, you wake feeling relieved. No more bitching. No more demands for your time.

It feels easy to move on in person, because in your head, you’ve already moved on. You started building a life without her months ago. Put yourself in this exact situation. How easy would it be for you to move on and focus on things you enjoy doing?

Pretty fucking easy, right?

Exactly.

Her texting/calling you less and less. This can also extend to her canceling dates and mysteriously being “busy” even though you know she doesn’t have a lot going on.

She suddenly started giving you fewer details about her day to day.

She started to withdraw affection – touching you less and being less interested in sex (especially if she has a high sex drive).

Asking fewer questions about your day when she’s seemingly uninterested in what you’re doing.

Her seeming more aggravated than usual. It can also extend to her being more bitchy than she usually is.

You stop being a priority in her life – suddenly her cat vomiting is more important than date 

 start building a great life for yourself. Use the no-contact rule with all those who cause you even minimum irrational thoughts, starting exercising, do for you/your family, write those books, and for the love of god, start dating new women. Focus on building a great life for yourself/family. Don’t think too much about what other's are doing because you have no way of knowing what’s going on with them.

 

 Live your life so that one day you will be reminiscent of the great times, forgetful of the bad times, having created stability in lessons learned, and determination through unending deeds.

[kyndylll]

— SOME VAGUE AMOUNT OF TIME AGO —

Friday. For a lot of people, the day to celebrate the end of the work week. There’s even a whole cute, punchy little acronym that gets written on white boards and cheers’ed with drinks at the bar before heading home for two glorious days of freedom before the slog continues again. TGIF.

Kyndyl however, happens to love her job, and being at her job. Sure, it’s only a little after 10:30 AM and she is feeling somewhat tired, but it’s nothing a little coffee can’t fix, and it’s something of a slow appointment day. Fridays typically are, because the types of clients Setton Standards usually get are the type who can afford to take the week off after having work done, rather than sacrificing more weekend festivities than necessary, so it’s not unusual for Fridays to be a mostly paperwork driven day. And even that Kyndyl doesn’t mind. It’s quiet, her feet get a rest, she can enjoy her coffee.

The polished floors, the tall glass windows of the office area, the view of the lobby many floors down, it’s all such a stark contrast to her home life, even down to the fact that the people she’s surrounded by at each end know so little about the other half of her life; in truth, it’s something of a comfort.

She’s slightly startled out of her zone by her phone buzzing against the desk, beside her and her papers. She glances at it, sees that it reads Vi. She decides she will call him back after work. She wouldn’t likely get in trouble for answering it. There’s been times where she’s taken personal calls before, the unspoken policy is essentially ‘As long as you get your work done.’ And even then, Kyndyl knows that Saxton values her as an employee, that even if something comes up and she has to fall a little behind, she will catch up, so she’s been granted leeway, when needed.

But she doesn’t try to make a habit of it, so for now, the call goes ignored, though she does feel somewhat guilty. Back when Kyndyl first moved to Jonestown, she and Vieras would talk all the time. He’d ask her about her internship, he was one of the first to know when it became official, they’d laugh about their tragic dating lives together.

But at one point, that changed for Kyndyl. She’d started dating Foster, and in fact she did tell Vieras about him at first. But once she was brought into the fold, she struggled with what details to give and what to omit. When Vi would ask, she’d give vague half-hearted answers, a part of her hoping that he would just assume she didn’t want to admit defeat, it seemed to have worked because after a point, he’d stop asking so frequently. 

She’d always considered one day telling him the truth. She wanted to believe that her brother, of all people, would understand, would trust her judgment. She came so close sometimes.

Until the day it all turned upside down. Until Foster left, taking only two of his wives with him. The first and the youngest.

Kyndyl had never resented being third. She’d never thought of it as being ‘in the middle’. She was foolish to believe that she was important in her own right, not just for the money that she brought into the family, but that the belief she had in him, and the connection they shared together, was special. But if it had been, then why was she left behind just like nearly everyone else?

So her husband and patriarch was no longer Foster. And instead, it became Sully.

There were times when Kyndyl wanted nothing more than to call her brother, if for nothing else than to simply have someone to talk to that wasn’t directly involved in the situation at hand. But what would she say? Now that things had gotten so messy, she no longer had the confidence that she could explain things in a way that anyone, even Vi, would understand.

They started to talk less and less, entirely. She stopped personally reaching out, and when Vieras did call, their conversations were often stale. Kyndyl only really cared to talk about work, but she had settled in enough at that point a lot of it was much of the same, and it worked both ways. If they tried to talk about Vieras' life instead, that too, was usually much of the same.

Calls went from once to week, to sometimes skipping a week, to once a month, to sometimes even longer than that. Kyndyl tries to think of when the last time they spoke was, and struggles to properly remember.

A half an hour later, her phone rings again. And once again, it’s Vieras. Strange. It’s unusual for him to call in such a short succession, so this time Kyndyl answers. “Vi?”

“Kyn!” He chirps. “Hey uh. Sorry if you’re busy but I’m at the airport and-”

“The airport? What airport?”

“Well, you know.” There’s a pause, as if he’s waiting for her to come to the conclusion, and she thinks she is, but she’s going to make him say it, hoping she might be wrong. “I’m in Iowa, Kyn! But now I realize I don’t know where to go. I don’t know where you live, and it’s kinda early in the day so you might be at work anyway and-”

“I am at work, Vieras.”

“Yeah. Sorry. So I figured even if I googled it it might look a little bad if I just showed up. So.”

You don’t fucking say. Kyndyl props her elbow onto the desk, her forehead to her hand, and takes a breath. “Well, didn’t you get a hotel?”

“Well. No, not yet. I guess I thought that maybe…”

“Oh my god.” She says, unable to keep that one internal.

“You sound mad.”

“I’m– I don’t know. This is a surprise.”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be!” He replies, his high, cheerful tone not quite matching hers.

“Look, just hang on. It’s almost my lunch. Let me talk to my boss. I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Oh yeah, sure.”

Kyndyl mutters a half hearted goodbye and hangs up. Taking another breath, she compiles her papers neatly into their folder, and stands.

When she reaches Saxton’s door, it’s ajar, so she’s slightly calmer now than she was a moment before, knocking quickly before poking her head inside his office.

“Miss Kyndyl.” He says pleasantly, and she smiles in return. “What can I do for you?”

“Gosh.” She says. “Well actually. My brother is apparently stranded at the airport right now. I didn’t even know he was coming. But I figured I should take my lunch and go rescue him.” She glances at her watch, more as an anxious action than anything else. “I should be back in time, but I just wanted to give you a heads up, just in case.”

“Oh of course. Take your time. If you run into any trouble just be sure to check in with Miss Sweet.”

“Oh, absolutely. Thank you so much, Sir.”

“Say, if he’s not rushing anywhere, why don’t you bring him by? It’d be a pleasure to meet him.”

“Oh. I still have some papers to finish before the weekend, though.”

“It’s early, there’ll be plenty of time. And if not.” He shrugs.

At first, Kyndyl thinks that Saxton’s leniency might be more of a hindrance, but she quickly comes to the conclusion that actually, it’ll just give her some extra time to figure out what to do with Vieras, so, still smiling, she nods, thanks him again, and heads off.

When she pulls up to the airport, she steps out of the car with the determination to give him a talking to, to ask him, point blank, ‘what the fuck, Vi?’ But when she actually sees him standing there, smiling, she finds that she can’t help but smile too, and when they are close enough, they’re hugging. When they pull apart, and she’s there, standing face to face to him, she starts to realize just how long it’s actually been.

“You’re all grown up.” She says.

“I’m older than you are!” He replies with amusement. “I’ve been grown up since you left. You’re all grown up.”

“My boss wants to meet you. You up for it?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I am.”

~

“Holy wow.” Vieras says as they enter the building, and Kyndyl gets it, it is a lot to take in. “This is awesome, Kyn.”

“Yeah.” She agrees, plainly. “I know.”

They take the elevator to the top floor, and Kyndyl can see through the glass wall that Saxton is no longer alone, so she stops to pause. “Now his son’s here.”

“Uh oh. Is that bad?”

Kyndyl considers. “No, it’s fine.” It might even have it’s benefits. She finishes the trek, gently knocking again, stepping inside when Saxton motions for her, Vieras following. “I’m back.” She greets pleasantly, then nods in acknowledgement to where Lex is seated. “This is my brother, Vieras.”

As Saxton introduces himself to Vieras, shaking his hand, Lex looks to Kyndyl, directly. “You have a brother?” He asks, almost sounding amazed. Vieras laughs.

“So you know just as little about her as I do, lately. It’s kind of a relief that I’m not alone.”

Kyndyl fights the urge to roll her eyes, and she tries to think of something to say in defense, but Lex responds before she does. “So, you’re visiting?” When Vieras nods in response, Lex follows it up with “Where are you from?”

Vieras turns to look at Kyndyl, as if asking for permission. Kyndyl suspects it’s half a joke, so this time she does roll her eyes, only a little. “Mr. Setton already knows where we’re from, Vi. I had to use my address when I applied.”

“Right. That makes sense.” Vieras turns his attention back to Lex. “We’re from Chicago.”

“Oh, Chicago’s great.”

“You’ve been?”

“Yeah! Just once or twice. I used to travel a bit when I was younger, and now that I have a family I love to take them places. It’s too bad my husband and daughter aren’t here right now. But would you like to see them?”

“Sure! I’d love to.”

As Lex stands, pulling out his phone to swipe through pictures, Kyndyl and Saxton share a glance of shared endearment. Even Kyndyl is aware of how much more comfortable Lex is during his visits as opposed to years ago.

“You have a beautiful family.” Vieras tells Lex, who beams with pride as he thanks him.

“And it’s so nice to finally get to meet someone from Kyndyl’s.” Saxton adds, and Kyndyl smiles too, playing sheepish.

A few moments pass of small talk, when Kyndyl glances at her watch, realizing the time. “I should probably get back to work.”

“How about we just call it a day here?” Saxton suggests.

“Oh but-” Kyndyl starts to protest, but Saxton doesn’t let her.

“There’s nothing left that can’t just be handled Monday, I think.”

Between Saxton’s insistence, and the excited look Vieras is giving her, Kyndyl has little choice but to relent.

On her way out, she stops into the office to grab her folder, anyway.

~

“What is this place?” Vieras asks as they pull up to the motel, reading the sign. He mutters the ‘monthly rates available.’ part out loud, before speaking more clearly to ask. “Is this where you live, Kyn? When you work there?”

“No, it’s not where I live. But maybe it’s where I’m going to make you stay.”

“Oh. Well. I guess it’s kind of… neat? Okay.”

“I’m kidding, Vi. But we need somewhere to talk before I do think about taking you to my home.” As expected, Vieras gives her a look of confusion, but before he can question anything, Kyndyl continues. “And there’s a diner we can order from, anyway, since I never did get a proper lunch by the way. Come on.”

They sit together, take out boxes between them, surrounded by gaudy motel room decor, and Kyndyl finally tells Vieras the truth. About her community, about her family, about her husband and her three other sister wives.

When she’s finished, Vieras takes a moment to simply stare on in amazement, and then finally. “Wow.” Kyndyl waits, trying to gauge him. “That’s something. I guess I can kind of understand the secrecy.”

So far, not so bad, so Kyndyl leans back, feel a little lighter. “You know, maybe your surprise visit was something of a blessing. At least now at work they probably view me a little more like a human.”

“Actually, wait. Now that you mention it, you had no reason to keep me a secret.”

Kyndyl blinks. “You know, you’re right.” She then laughs, just a little. “I guess you just actually never came up.”

Vieras lets out something of an offended scoff, but then he’s quickly laughing it off too. “I mean, even before all this you’ve always just been a bit…” He takes a second to consider his words. “Closed off.”

Kyndyl supposes that’s true, so she offers a half smile in agreement. It lets her off the hook, anyway.

“But you could have told me. Really.” Saying out loud that a part of her knew that all along is a bit too much like defeat for her, so she simply offers up a nod. “And it’s fine if you want me to keep my distance. I can stay here, we can just hang out when you have the time. I understand.”

Kyndyl thinks for a moment. “You can at least come meet them. Honestly, we have outsiders dropping by all the time. The kids’ friends, Tate’s friends. You’d be far from the first. And we do have an empty room at the main house, Sullivan’s brother Avery moved to his own when he got married, so it might be okay for you to crash there while you’re here. If you want to, that is.” She realizes that he might still find it more confusing and weird than he’s letting on, and that maybe he was gracefully trying to distance himself.

“Kyn, I’m dying to meet them.” He answers, practically beaming.

“Alright, alright.” She glances at the time. “I’m tired, though. And I wouldn’t even usually be off work by now, and sometimes I even stay late. Would you be too disappointed if I took a nap?”

“Well, we do have two beds that you paid for. Let’s take a nap.”

Later, she wakes up to find Vieras standing in front of the bathroom mirror, futzing with his hair, in a new set of clothes, and the room smelling of soap.

“Did you take a shower?”

“Yeah! I want to make a good impression.” He turns to face her, fully. “What do you think?”

“Well, I’m going to be honest that some of them are just generally harder to impress. But for the most part, I think you’ll be fine.”

“Fine?”

“Don’t pout, I mean it in a good way.” She resists the urge to ruffle his hair that was just fixated on. “Now, can I have a turn in the bathroom?”

~

When they reach the house, Kyndyl links arms with Vieras before stepping inside. “We are going to first go see if Sully is in, speak with him directly, find out where we stand.” She instructs. Kyndyl isn’t fond of the idea of this reaching her patriarch through gossip. She typically finds it’s better to simply face things head on. “Follow my lead.”

Vieras nods, signaling he’s ready, so she pushes the door open, leading him inside. She quickly gives a greeting to the room at large, but doesn’t take the time to even do a head count, to deduce who is greeting her in return, or who may be confused by the stranger with her, instead, she pushes on, pulling Vieras with her.

Even when they reach the door to Sully’s quarters, she wastes no time, because she knows they likely have very little to spare before someone could catch up with them, if they so wanted. That it’s almost inevitable this will be spied on, in any case.

To their luck, Sully appears to greet them. “Hello, dear.”

“Good evening, dear.” She repeats the pet-name, though senses no particular warmth between them. To Kyndyl, it feels just as much like a business meeting as she had with her boss, hours before. “This is my Brother, Vieras.” Before she’s even finished introducing him, Vieras is reaching out to shake Sully’s hand. It could be that he picked up Kyndyl’s previous sense of urgency, or maybe he is actually just that excited. “He came all the way from out of state for a surprise visit. We were wondering if it would be alright if he used Avery’s old room for.” She realizes then that the one thing she and her brother have not yet discussed was how long he was intending to stay. “his visit.” She finishes without hesitation. Professional.

Sully is regarding Vieras now, who, as opposed to Kyndyl, is looking up at him smiling, an expression bordering on puppy-eyes, and Kyndyl nearly cringes. She feels a creeping sense of secondhand embarrassment and she just imagines that he’s a breath away from a ‘Please?’ When miraculously, Sully states. “I suppose I don’t see why not.”

Completely internally, Kyndyl feels a ping of relief. Vieras’ grin remains. “Awesome. Thanks so much.”

“Yes.” Kyndyl agrees. “Thank you very much.” With that, she discreetly tugs Vieras, leading him back where they came. “Goodnight.” She finalizes, Vieras repeating it beside her. Thankfully, Vieras' new, temporary room is not too far, so they manage to escape further interaction before she’s able to escort him inside and close the door behind them.

“That’s your husband?”

“Yes.” Kyndyl answers plainly. Taking a moment to realign herself. In retrospect, it actually went about as well as it could have, so it only takes her a moment. “Well, now that that’s settled, I’m sure everyone else is eager to meet you, when you’re ready.”

~

Monday rolls around, which she may have figured would be when Vieras was planning to return home, but when he showed no signs of it, she reasons that it has been years since they’ve spent time together, it wouldn’t be unheard of for him to have scheduled for a week.

However, with it being Monday, that means it’s time for her to return to work, which means she has to figure out what to do with him. She finds him before she even gets ready, leaving her options open. “Hey, I have work today. If you want I can drive you and you can spend the day in town.”

“All day?”

“Well, I could probably call in today, but honestly, I don’t really want to do that every day you’re here.”

“Why would you need to call in?”

“If you don’t want to be in town all day, and if I don’t call in, then you’d be here by yourself all day.”

“Well, yeah? That’s fine.”

“Are you sure about that? I don’t want you thinking I’ve left you for the wolves.”

“Kyndyl.” Vieras says with a laugh. “I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”

Kyndyl still can’t help but doubt that, but there’s no point in wasting time if he’s already made up his mind. “Alright then. See you tonight.”

“Have a good day.~”

~

Work is work. And Mondays, are work. She spends most of the day laser focused, not concerned with anything but doing her job and doing it well. Still, when lunch rolls around and she has some downtime she finds herself pulling out her phone, to see if there’s any missed calls.

Interestingly, she finds none. That could be a good thing. Or it could be a bad thing. She imagines Vieras, in over his head, with not even enough time to call for help. She imagines returning home tonight, and Vieras cornering her in her room, saying that he’s leaving, and trying to convince her to go with him.

For a brief moment, she wonders what that would be like. Packing up her things and leaving with him, maybe they run into Tate along the way, and she chooses to leave, too.

No. The image disappears as quickly as it came. Why would that even cross her mind? Before she even has time to consider calling Vieras to check in, it’s time to get back to work.

That night, the family has dinner just the same as they always do, Vieras included, and after they’ve gone to bed, that’s the last she’s seen of him, no middle of the night drop ins to proclaim his retreat.

The next morning, he doesn’t leave, either. Kyndyl’s admittedly impressed. She’s even more impressed when he makes it through the entire week. She starts to make some sense of it. Chicago is a big city, one that can get quite lonely. Their parents have been gone for years, and from the conversations she’s had with Vieras in the time since she left, she’s not sure that he has all that much he’s in a rush to return to.

At that point, she starts to think it of as something of a challenge, wondering just how long it’ll be before he’s had enough of this exciting little excursion. 

The days go on. The weeks go on. Somewhere, she stops keeping track. She gets used to both seeing him and being with him at home, and strangely, even doesn’t find it particularly odd if she doesn’t see him around at times. He’s familiar with people now, helps out with certain things when he can. Probably trying to show gratitude for the hospitality.

It takes a while, much longer than she’d expect. (Just how long has it been? Months?) when one night, it snaps into place in her brain. She thinks of the routines, or in some cases, the routine of having no routine, the helping out, the knowing so many of them by name, even in the times where Kyndyl and Vieras get to spend time just the two of them, the way that the rest of isn’t even a focal point. If anything, or anyone, related to the community comes up at all, it’s nothing more than the type of casual conversation she’d have with any of the other residents.

To Kyndyl, Vieras has always been family, but it occurs to her in a flash of a moment that she’s begun to regard him as part of the family.

She goes to his room, doesn’t find him there, so she starts looking, and then starts asking. Gets a lot of shrugs, the occasional ‘I think I saw him earlier’ only to end up at another dead end.

Finally, after chasing all other leads, she circles back, and this time she does find him about to enter his room. “Hey.” She greets, not trying to sneak up on him, but she must have, because he startles just slightly, and then greets her in return.

She doesn’t even bother to ask him where he’s been, because it doesn’t really matter, she’s got other things on her mind, so she pulls him inside the room, he pulls it shut behind them. “What’s up?” He asks, sounding somewhat cautious. She doesn’t really blame him, even she’s not so sure why this has gotten her so… excitable.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” She asks, getting right to the point. “For good. You’re one of us.”

She sees the tension leave him, probably realizing that Kyndyl’s epiphany is nothing that he likely hasn’t already known for some time now. “Yeah, I am. I get it, Kyn. I totally get it.”

“That’s awesome, Vi.” She says sincerely, reaching out to place her hands upon his arms, smiling. “I’m glad to hear that.” She lets them bask in it, for a moment.

“But.” She continues. “I don’t think that Sully anticipated you staying in the house permanently. We may need to speak with him again about where we could find a place for you.”

Kyndyl had anticipated some disappointment with that idea, or at least some questions about how that would all work, but he just says back at her, “I don’t think he minds.”

That takes Kyndyl aback. “What do you mean? Have you spoken with him already, One on one?” Kyndyl doesn’t wait for an answer, reading his body language instead. “When?”

Vieras tosses an arm up in a shrug, as if that’s a good enough answer, but Kyndyl keeps waiting. “I don’t know exactly, alright? We’ve just like… hung out.”

“Hung out?”

“I just mean like.” He tosses his hand again, runs it through his hair. “Isn’t that normal? To be like ‘Hey, can we talk, cause I think I want in on this?’ Or you know. Whatever.”

Technically, it does make sense. And Kyndyl’s not sure herself why it’s frying her brain, just a little, that Vieras didn’t think that he needed to bring her along for that conversation. She never used to feel so rigid about these sorts of things when it was Foster.

Maybe that’s what it was. That there’s still a sliver of a part of her that still hasn’t fully adapted. That because that little part of her still feels tangled and weird since the transition, she expects everyone to have some degree of that same awkwardness she does, sometimes.

Vieras never had the before, he’s choosing the community exactly as it already is. It’s a good thing, actually, if he’s that kind of comfortable.

“Okay." She relents, and once again, she sees him relax. "You’re right.”

~

“Aw, that’s kind of sweet.” Sabine says into her coffee, the next morning, where Kyndyl has found herself. She doesn’t necessarily consider herself extremely close with her and Avery, but she’s familiar enough with them to once in a while let a little loose around them.

“Still though, hung out? Have you ever seen them hang out?”

Avery shrugs. “I’ve seen them in the same room together.”

“And what does that mean?”

“What we mean.” Sabine takes over. “It’s a lot of people in a relatively small space. People come and go, from room to room, house to house. Sometimes you just end up being around someone. The three of us just happen to be around at the same time today, so here we are having brunch. And wouldn’t you call this ‘hanging out’?’

Kyndyl hms.

“And think of it this way.” Sabine continues. “Poor ol’ Sully spends all that time in a house full of wives and kids, might be nice for him to have someone else to spend some time with. Man to man.” She leans over to nudge her shoulder into Avery’s, who gives Sabine a glance in return that is unreadable to Kyndyl.

The two of them are something of an anomaly. One day, Avery brings Sabine home and proclaims he intends to marry. As further proven by recent events, the community has always been fairly open to bringing in ‘outsiders’. They would have a harder time thriving if they didn’t, but the surprise was that no one even knew Avery had been going out, implying it had been more of a sneaking situation. And since marrying Sabine and moving her and her sister in, he’s expressed no further interest in taking over wives, despite the impression Kyndyl has always gathered from Sabine that she herself wouldn’t particularly mind.

Kyndyl sometimes can’t help but feel a twinge of envy toward them. Not at all for the supposed monogamy, but rather just the apparent intimacy.

“Sab’s got a point." Avery says. "You’ve got your brother, your brother has a whole new community, and hell, Sully might even have a friend?” Sabine laughs to herself before quieting herself with a sip from her mug. “This could be a good thing for everyone.”

Kyndyl hums again, considering. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

[the-juicywizard]

I def get this interpretation (and appreciate your input!). I don't think there's a lot of support for "Barb would do anything for her family" given the position we've seen them in when the bombs drop. At best with what we've seen she's excellent at self preservation but as you've said a LOT will likely be revealed next season.

Barb for sure would know the truth of the vaults by this time as the company started working with the enclave in the late 70's. This is directly supported by her telling him she wants to ensure they're in a good vault. I'm guessing she was already in the pool for the better vaults as she does appear to be a high up, I think there's some compelling thought to the idea that having Cooper work for them got her in an even better vault than the one with buds buds. But assuming Barb is as high up as the show is implying she would have likely been part of the plan to work with the enclave to ensure vault tec's survival.

I for sure agree some confrontation likely happened here leading to the split and agree that Barb likely thought it necessary to no longer associate with him to be in the vault but this again supports more of the self preservationist than the family woman IMHO.

I do think the future kids line is especially manipulative the way it's displayed. She could have privately let him in on these things at her home if it was really the way she felt but only let them out when it seemed she knew she was being listened to. It's framed to me like she was caught in a bad situation and is just great at spinning it for herself. This would make sense for someone in vault tec.

If Barb's main focus was her daughter she would have done whatever she could to keep the daughter with her instead of letting Cooper keep her. At this point society is strained and most of the chips are in vault tecs hands. We can also assume after Cooper no longer works with vault tech that he's basically a discrased actor and has no leverage. We know people have stopped associating with him because of his vault tec ties and once he no longer has vault tec supporting him he's doing kids birthday parties. Given this I would assume she has the power and support to take Janey if she wants to, so why is she allowing the husband who theoretically is not allowed in the good vaults to have the child when she knows at any time another party can get the drop on them and drop the bombs first? Given her status in the company, unless a lot unveils that we see in the second season (which likely will happen lol) it's not likely she'd personally be demoted for this if she didn't stick with him.

I've seen the post you're referencing re capitalism and I completely disagree and believe it's founded in our world not the fallout world. The post says without any support that its not lucrative to bomb people which completely disregards previous Vault tec lore. Vault tech has, at this time, deemed the U.S as a failing nation. They've dumped a lot of money into the vaults and are not getting the funds from the government so they've actively started a contract with the enclave knowing they're submitting a majority of the vaults to experimentation. The future of their company no longer hinges on the survival of the United States it now hinges on getting people into the vault to conduct these social experiments. Stopping the war is not lucrative in this case and starting it certainly progresses them further. Ensuring America, a broke country with no more resources or capital to give to vault tec, survives is also not lucrative. Not to mention if they start the war they can ensure they start the war on their terms so that people make it to the vaults, most importantly the vault tec employees and scientists but also the test subjects. If the bombing is started by someone else there's no control as to when and where it drops.

That being said I do think the second scenario where vault tec thought they'd get the drop on the bombs but someone else did is the way more likely scenario.

It is definitely implied that something happened to split Cooper and Janey up. Given that Barb wasn't in the picture we don't even know if Barb and Janey ended up in the same place. Knowing fallout something messed up is coming it's not likely that he's going to find his family and reconcile entirely. Possible yes but in the fallout world also not likely.

Really with ALL that is missing you're right basically anything is possible I just don't think Barb is going to end up being the "I did everything to preserve my family" character and ends up more of a self preservationist. I think it would be a really strong arc in that case for her to later actually change and throw vault tec under the bus for her family.

Ok hear me out re Barb and vault tech.... (Heavy spoilers)

People keep saying she would do anything for her family and I'm just interested to see if this is true.

How did we get from her doing despicable things to save her family to her divorcing her husband, him seemingly having their child, and the bombs detonating when her kid was not in a vault? I have a couple of theories.

1. Warning this one hurts but it also has the least support: Barb was always out for power/vault tech. Her being married to Cooper Howard was entirely tactical. Getting him on vault techs side was a calculated movement from the beginning. Once they got the endorsement and he became a pest the family point didn't matter (I fully believe she knew Cooper was listening in and that directly effected her mentioning that she's doing this for her kids future. She sees him near her pipboy, seems a little suspicious after that, and chimes in after we hear the audible feedback in the earpiece after looking presumably at her pipboy.)

2. Are they alluding that vault tech dropped the bombs to pull that rug out from under us? Even if she was forced to divorce Cooper because of his falling out with vault tech (which he also could have separated from her because of what he saw), if she is the character that gave everything to save her family, she wouldn't drop the bombs while her child isn't safe. If this is her character that can indicate that, even though they planned to drop the bombs first, someone else did.

We know Cooper doesn't know where his daughter is and thinks vault tech might indicating that something split them up from the last point we've seen them and leaves him hope. Is it to be assumed that Barb stepped in and took the kid? How would she find them easily and quickly? Did she tell the vault to make sure to let her child in but keep Cooper out?

Of course there are thousands of different ways the story could get from point a to point b these are just my theories. What is everyone else thinking?

[every-bad-thing]

There’s a Remarkable Resemblance

(picture modified from Mictlancihuatl, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons) One day someone comes up to you in the street and ask whether it's really you, if you're really here. You look at them, puzzled, and they show you a picture on their phone that only makes you feel more so. It's a can of creamed corn. The person says it looks just like you. You ask, are you sure, because that's a can of creamed corn and I'm a human being. The person puts the picture right next to your face and says, when you're directly compared, you don't look exactly like the can, but even still, the resemblance is uncanny. You're convinced you're dealing with someone who is very ill. You show the picture to another random person and ask whether you look like this can of creamed corn in the picture, and the answer is yes. It's not exact, the random person concedes, but it's still pretty close. This has to be some kind of setup. Maybe a prank show? You shrug and walk home, doing your best to forget about it.

It happens again a few years later. You meet someone--a friend of a friend--who insists they've seen you before and shows you a picture of a man in a cowboy hat holding a can of creamed corn. You ask who that is, and the friend of a friend says it's the governor of Texas, and asks how don't remember this. You say because it's not me. Once again the picture is held next to your face, and it has to be conceded that you don't look entirely like a can of creamed corn, though it would be easy to make the mistake. What was this can doing with the governor of Texas? Apparently, receiving some sort of commendation for saving the governor's life. Some crazed nut charged into a speech with a gun, but the can stepped in at a key moment and stopped the worst from happening. Wow. That can, you think, is a hero.

A few years later, it happens again. A woman runs up to you and wraps you in a hug. She was apparently afraid she'd never see you again, and that she is so utterly thankful for what you've done for her and her daughter. You did what for who now? You know, said the woman, protecting them from those mafia goons. She was so afraid. There were times when they'd almost found them, almost cornered them, but it was you who was always there to get us to the next safe house. She says that without you, she would never have have had the courage to testify and bring down the entire syndicate. Before you can even say she has you mistaken for someone else, she gets closer to your face and squints. She gives a flustered look and says she's just so, so sorry, it’s just you looked like someone she knew. At least at first. But, no, sorry, you're just an ordinary person living an ordinary life. My mistake, she says.

(picture modified from Sardaka, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons) More than a few years go by til it happens again. A man dressed in a neat sweater and crisp pants approaches you and, without saying anything, takes your hands in his. He says he's still using your gift, and that it's brought him so much joy. You stop him there and explain that he must have you confused with someone else, which seems to happen often. The man does the usual thing with the picture and your face, and comes to the same conclusion as all the others. He apologizes. He just never really got the opportunity to thank the can of creamed corn for everything it had done. He'd been homeless at the time, and mostly drunk. The can began to visit him, never staying long, just stopping to chat, and of course giving a little money to keep him warm. When winter came, the can asked if he wanted to move in, but on the condition he not drink. He agreed. For months, he says, the can was there for him as he worked through his addiction--not just taking care of the house but finances and insurance and even doctor's visits. In the meanwhile, he said, they'd have these long conversations about life and what we wanted from it and how we get there and what the point of it all is, things he really hadn't thought hard about before. By the springtime, he says, he was a changed man. He went back to school, got a job and found an apartment. He's really into anime now.

This continues to happen every so often. You'll be minding your own business, and you're mistaken for someone who, apparently, is far more compassionate, far more productive, far more successful than you. Until they realize, no, you're not a can of creamed corn. You're not the one who represented the 9th district of Oklahoma in the State Assembly and wrote groundbreaking legislation that saved lives. You're not the one who solved a thirty-five year old cold case by deciphering a secret message. You're not the one who guided refugees from a war zone, smuggling them past border guards amid shells and gunfire. Most recently you're not the one who rescued five puppies from a fire. Someone shows you the video on their phone: it's the can of creamed corn standing outside a burning building, five puppies around it.

One day, years later, you're in a hotel. The minute you arrive, a concierge greets you and says right this way. You wind up in a swank hotel room, the kind with the bathroom that's bigger than some apartments. This doesn't look like the room you booked. A few minutes later, the same concierge comes back and says oh my, so sorry, their mistake, they thought you were someone else. Apparently, this room has been reserved for the guest of honor at some international human rights convention, there to give a speech on flood remediation in eastern Africa. You're taken, rather brusquely, to your actual room. On the way over, you see another concierge holding a tray. And on that tray is a can of creamed corn. The can. Briefly, for just a few seconds, you pass each other in the halls.

(picture modified from "Antique silver platter" by vidalia_11 is licensed under CC BY 2.0. ) Once you're back in your room, the kind with the rather small bathroom, you think of your encounter. And you have to admit. The resemblance is pretty remarkable.

[yesimwriting]

The Promise of Rain

A/n finally writing that Kaz Brekker x reader angsty-fluff where the reader is all sunshine-y and Kaz is dramatic as always lol 

Might make this a blurb series bc i like this dynamic so much lol

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x sunshine-y reader 

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Kaz has a conversation with the reader (who’s a runaway princess) about what happens to people who stay near him. 

-- 

He once said that he didn’t believe in Saints. A moment later he conceded that perhaps they existed in order to appease Inej, but he was quick to tact on that if Saints existed they didn’t care about him. Inej and I had exchanged a look, she pleaded with me in silence to let him be. I opened my mouth despite the look in her eyes, but he had walked away before I could get any words out. 

He believes that the Saints don’t care about him, but as soon as he was dragged in by Jesper, bleeding and more broken than usual, it had started to rain. The rain is a promise. The rain is a sign that he will wake up. 

I tap a finger against the forgotten book on my lap, ignoring the dried blood I’ve been too anxious to wash off. When Kaz wakes up he’ll either scold me or partially tease me for waiting here by his bedside. The rain continues, cascading down invisible hope. 

“Save your prayers, even for you the Saints won’t regard me.” Kaz. His voice is raspier than it should be and his slight condescension is blighted by the tired flatness of it. But it’s him. He’s speaking. 

I tear my gaze away from the window, almost forgetting to tamper down my relief before finally looking at him. I haven’t known him long enough to see him in any level of defeat, but I’ve heard enough stories. The fictional exaggeration of those that fear him have made him seem so immortal. Some part of me must have internalized that because to see him like this, to see him so human is too intimate. 

“Don’t be so narcissistic.” Something about Kaz always leaves me feeling challenged, like each comment is some kind of dare. I adjust my posture. “I wasn’t praying because I knew you’d be okay.” 

His expression is unchanging. “So much faith in me?” 

There’s a soft edge to his words, an attempt to twist some kind of awkward denial out of me. Some days I don’t think Kaz enjoys anything and then other days I think he enjoys any misstep in my words. 

I shrug, pushing down the flood of relief still attempting to crawl out of my chest. “You’re always okay.” I scratch the back of my wrist idly. “It seems the safe bet.” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been taking gambling advice from Jesper.” 

I half roll my eyes. “No--Jesper and I don’t play together anymore.” I let out an easy sigh. “Last time I beat him he bordered on a hissy fit.” There’s the slightest hint of upturning at the corners of his lips. “I should go tell Jesper and Inej you’re awake.” 

“I think you should change out of that dress first.”

He was more likable when I thought he might die at any second. “Wow--Kaz Brekker the professional stylist.” He has no right to judge the formal gown I’m in. Yes, my outfit is ridiculous, but I’m only wearing it because the Crows needed someone they knew at a merchant’s party for a part of some scheme they wouldn’t share the details of with me. “Yes, I’m aware that this dress is more tulle than anything else, but I’m only wearing it because I was helping you.” 

I wait for some retort about how he could have managed without my assistance or some kind of comment about how I didn’t need such a large dress to flirt and distract the guards as the Crows snuck into the merchant’s private office. “You fit in there more than you said you would.” 

From anyone else, I’d consider this an insult. “I was making an effort for the sake of your plans.” 

“I saw you before I went into the office, you knew the dances, the man took your hand.” 

That’s the weirdest observation I’ve ever witnessed someone reflect on. “That’s how those dances tend to work.” I don’t hide the confusion in my expression. “How much blood did you lose?” 

Kaz’s piercing gaze drops to the blanket on his lap. “Not a concerning amount.”

“Why do I feel like we have different definitions of ‘concerning’?” 

His eyes flit upwards, a partial smirk playing at his lips. “We define a lot of things differently.” He pauses, “You defined the life you slipped into so easily tonight as something you could never do.” 

“I can’t.” What is his problem? “One dance is different than an eternity of planning teas and marrying some man who only keeps me so I can rear his children.” 

“You’d end up marrying someone who could give you things.”

He better not be implying I should be having children. I’m seriously starting to hope he did lose a significant amount of blood because that would be some kind of explanation. “I don’t want anyone to be giving me children right now, but I guess your concern is ni--”

“No, no,” he screws his eyes shut for a long second, “You know what I meant.” I stay silent. “You’re technically a princess, y/n, you could have more than the Barrel.” There’s an odd silence as he pauses. “Someone like you should have more than the Barrel.” 

He speaks like his word is law. That’s the one habit of his I can never seem to forgive. Is Kaz telling me to go home? To go back to a mother who dreams of marrying me off and a father with a temper that often leads to violence? He may be Dirtyhands, but he is no one to tell me who to go back to. Not after I risked my anonymity to get him into that merchant’s office. 

I shut my book and stand in one swift motion. “I’m going to tell Jesper and Inej that you’re awake.”

“Y/n.” I ignore him. “Y/n.” Again, I ignore him, approaching the doorway. The rustling of sheets leaves me frozen, hand on the doorknob. “Y/n.” 

Without thinking, I turn on my heels while glaring. There’s no way he’s proud enough to have climbed out of bed wi--and he’s standing. Standing almost directly behind me. 

“Kaz Brekker, I am going to say this one time and one time only.” I keep my words measured and my tone flat. No room for argument. “You just had nine stitches put in near your heart, get your ass back in bed before that is no longer your only injury.” 

He pauses, lips pressed together into a tight white line. And then his mouth opens, pried open by an oddly light sound. Did he just--Did Kaz Brekker just laugh? He doesn’t laugh. I didn’t think he was physically capable, and now he laughs while I’m threatening him? I should hit him on principle alone and damn the consequences. 

“Did you--” I’m gaping at him with a rage I am not accustomed to. “Did you just laugh?” 

Kaz is quick to shut his mouth. “You did swear you’d get me to laugh one day.” 

Saints--now he chooses to have some kind of sense of humor. “Not while I was threatening you for being an idiot after saying my lineage means that I’m meant to be trapped in the life I desire least.” 

“I didn’t say that.” I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t deserve more than this because of your family, you deserve more than this because--” He cuts himself off with a sharp sigh. “Do you remember what happened the day we met?” 

He had wanted to return me to my father for the money. I had managed to convince him I could be more useful working for him without profit. The first day had been tense, I had sworn to myself that I would hate him forever. 

“I remember really hating you.” I remember thinking him beautiful despite his darkness. “I remember it started raining on our way here.” 

“You had a hood, but you pushed it off your head to feel the rain.” I don’t remember that because indulging in the rain is instinctual to me. “You looked at the rain, and you smiled--and then you saw a woman with a child and you took off your hood and gave it to them.” 

“What does that have to d--” 

“Watching that felt like intruding on an intimate moment I had no business knowing about, but it wasn’t that to you. That moment was nothing to you because that moment was who you are.” 

I don’t understand what he sees in something I can barely remember. “Kaz, what does that have to do with anything?” 

“I’m the monster that children believe live under their beds, I’m the bastard of the Barrel, I’m someone who gets blood on everything near them.” His gaze is harsher than I’ve ever seen it as he focuses on the dried blood splotched across my hands and arms. “And then I can’t even help you wash it off.” 

Those last words are the closest to broken I’ve ever heard him sound. “Kaz--”

“And you’re the girl who looks at the rain like it’s a gift from the Saints.” 

Is he implying what I think he’s implying? Even if I believed him such a source of evil, even if I felt like touch mattered that much--why would he care? I keep the much more frightening implication at bay as I exhale. Clarity will only make this conversation worse. “That doesn’t matter.” The words leave me in a low whisper. 

I stare at the ground until his silence is something I can no longer bear. Looking up as cautiously as possible, I take in his expression. I’ve never seen him look so--so enraged. “It doesn’t matter?!” He doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s practically seething. “I’ve viewed your presence here as temporary since you first came and despite that, when I saw you there…” The breath he lets out is practically pained. “When I saw what your life is meant to be--I didn’t want you to go.” 

The admission breaks something hard in my chest. “I never wanted to go.” My eyeline drops to the ground. “I didn’t want to go when you were trying to make me, I didn’t want to go when it was only for that evening.” I swallow a lump of emotion restricting my throat. “When you were bleeding out and Jesper had to carry you back here I let myself imagine what it’d be like if you died. And it hurt. It hurt so badly I asked myself if I would rather never know you than feel that pain.” 

“Would you?” His voice has gone hollow. 

I finally look up again. “No.” That word leaves me more bare than any physical touch ever could. 

“I stain everything that stays with me,” his voice has seamlessly shifted back to a tone meant for business, “Me wanting you to stay is more than enough reason for you to leave.”

My chest aches as emotions I’ll never be able to place a name to pound against my chest. “I’m a princess that ran away from her family and tried to befriend her kidnapper--you can’t possibly be narcissistic enough to believe that you’re what’s corrupted me.” 

“Y/n,” his voice is gravely again, the way it was when he first woke up. 

“No. What could you possibly think I’d say to that?” He’s insane--I’m not even sure I understand what he’s implying. “You know I’ll never agree with what you’re saying, so I have no idea what kind of reaction you’re looking for.”

“Maybe a genuine one.” 

The comment is so frustrating I can’t help but roll my eyes. The irony of Kaz Brekker asking for a genuine reaction to an emotionally heavy comment is almost laughable. “My genuine reaction is that you’re acting like an idiot because I don’t agree with anything you’re saying, but calling someone an idiot after they’ve been stabbed in the chest is a little insensitive so I can’t give you my genuine reaction.”

Kaz half-scoffs, “You don’t agree? Y/n--are you hearing me!? I want--I want you to stay.” Even angry, the admission warms me. He lets out a frustrated sigh. “More than that I want--” 

“What?” 

He shakes his head once. “I want something that can never be because I can’t give what needs to be given to get it.” 

“Kaz, if it involves me staying you don’t need to give anything for that because I don’t want to go.” 

“I-want-you-to-stay-with-me.” The admission is pried from him by some invisible force. He speaks so fiercely the sentence comes out as one angry word. 

He speaks so quickly a part of me is convinced that I misheard him. I watch him as he moves back to the bed, sitting down in a way so resigned I wonder if I blurted something out on instinct. 

“Kaz,” this is embarrassing, “I wanted to stay with you even when I wanted to hate you.”

I take in his measured expression, the only thing implying any kind of reaction is the way his eyebrows draw together. “Don’t say that, you don’t understand what that means.” 

“Why? Because you’re convinced you’ll ruin me?” 

“Y/n, we’d be together with a wall between us, keeping us from ever touching.” 

“I will tolerate any amount of damage you’re so convinced staying with you will bring, I will stay with you and never touch you and think nothing of it--but I will not stay with you just to stand in front of a wall.” I let out a tired breath. “I will stay with you but my one condition will be that you have to let me know you.” 

Kaz’s intense gaze wavers. “The first thing you’ll know is that me allowing you to stay is a testament to my greed.” 

I give him a sharp look, “It’s not greed if I want to be here.” 

He half sighs, leaning against a pillow as he turns to look out the window. “It’s raining,” he muses, “The Saints must have done that for you.” 

The sentiment is so soft my heart feels like it’s constricting. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Saints.” 

“If they exist, they do so for people like you.” 

I push past the emotion in my chest as I move to sit in the same chair I was in earlier. “I was honest when I said I didn’t pray for you.” I scratch the back of my arm, a coldness passing over me. “I didn’t pray because I knew you would be okay because you had to be.” 

“They wouldn’t have saved me,” he mumbles, “Or maybe they would have for you.” 

I shake my head once, staring at the rain with more fascination than before. 

--

General Taglist: @theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7 @lonelystarship

[raggaraddy]

Can you Taehyungs version of reader being shot cause of them?

I really like your Jimin and Namjoon Version that you’ve written🥰

Request from @dramaclub-thin: Mafia BTS where the reader is shot for/because of them.

A/N: It is so much longer than I meant for it to be. Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading.

If anyone else wants to request, you can here.

Mafia Bangtan other parts:

Namjoon

Yoongi

Jimin

Jungkook

---------

Deception.

Summary: When you agreed to help Bangtan take down one of their enemies, you never imagined it could go so wrong.

Trigger warning: Smut, violence, blood, murder.

Taehyung

Mafia! Taehyung

"Are you ready?" Namjoon asks, shutting off the car's engine and turning around in his seat.

"Yeah," you nod back, hoping the rocking pit of nerves in your stomach isn't visible on your face. Scanning back and forth between him in the front and Jin sat beside you, you're checking to see if they are showing any signs of worry either. Finding a bit of solace in their surety.

"We're gonna lag behind about 20 minutes to be cautious and stay out of sight. But we'll be close. Just do everything like we said, and you'll be fine." Namjoon summarizes once again. Jin offering you a kind, reassuring smile to accompany the leader's words.

You nod again, sucking your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Running your fingers through your hair to fluff it for the 30th time. Hyperfixated on the time, you see the dashboard clock tick over. 20:21.

"Okay, let's go." You exhale deeply.

It was three weeks ago that Namjoon came to you with a problem that Bangtan was facing. Their weapons dealer was forcefully put out of business, which was Namjoons gentle way of saying he was killed, cutting off their supply to automatics and other bigger guns. Leaving them vulnerable. The man who took over their previous partners supply was known to be working with some of the other, smaller local crews. It was also known that he was a rival of Namjoon's and due to this tension refused to work with Bangtan. Normally, a problem like this would be something that they could handle. However, as Namjoon explained it, this guy was backed and protected by foreign money and was too hot to touch without starting a bloody war.

So the plan was simple. Risky, but simple. The supplier had to die. And it needed to appear to be from natural causes, so it could never fall back on Bangtan. No one directly affiliated could be involved. That meant none of the members could risk doing it. It also meant that it was too high a priority to trust an associate or hired gun with this information. Not with the reach and money the opposition had. No, it had to be someone within the family that could handle this, but someone the supplier would never know.

Opportunely, the supplier was known to have a weakness for women, hence the logical conclusion for Namjoon was one of the member's girls. Trustworthy enough not to turn or rat, not likely to be noticed among the myriad of other women, and except a few of them, all had no record linking them to Bangtan, so they would be complete unknowns.

Jin said it, but you already knew it. Out of all of the girls, you were the one who was the most capable. Your difficult past left you with many emotional scars but made you the best person to handle the responsibility. You're not susceptible to intimidation. Have very few moral hangups. And most importantly Namjoon knows how much you love Taehyung. How you would do anything for him. To keep him safe and happy. He knows he can trust you, and that when the time comes, you wouldn't hesitate to do what they needed you to.

As for you, you knew that Taehyung trusted Namjoon irrefutably and you had seen countless times that he was a good leader. Furthermore, you could appreciate the gravity of the situation. Because you're sure that if Bangtan's brain had any other choice, he would not have asked for your help. But since he had, you were going to do what was necessary to keep your family and Taehyung safe.

The problem was that Namjoon had insisted on secrecy. The only ones to know about his plan were you, him, and Jin. A few years ago, sure, lying would not have been a problem for you, you hardly ever told the truth to anyone. But this changed when you met Taehyung. He was the first person you could be honest with, the first person you ever let love you. And lying to him was something you were genuinely struggling with.

However, you knew Namjoon and Jin were right. There was no way Tae would have been okay with you being put in harm's way and he wouldn't be able to separate his feelings from the urgency of the task.

Although, that justification doesn't make you feel less guilty for deceiving him. And to make matters worse, you expected this to be over with last week already. But on your first date with the supplier, he had left the club early to deal with work suddenly. Giving you no time to spike his drink.

So here you were, attempt number two.

While you were meant to meet the supplier at a fancy restaurant first, Namjoon's plan was to skip that and get to his house as quickly as possible. Before the valet could open the supplier's car door, you leant through the open window, teasingly licking your lips. "I just realized," you purr, noting his eyes drop to your mouth and back. "I'm actually not that hungry. So how about we skip to the end of the night, and then you can take me out for breakfast tomorrow morning."

Your blatant offer works like a charm. 20 minutes and a car ride later, he's pulling you down onto his couch. Hardly able to keep his hands or lips off of you.

Tearing at your blouse he rips the buttons apart, his mouth sucking and licking at your neck. One of his hands roaming and grabbing at anything he can, while the other starts to hike up your pencil skirt. He removes his vest and buttoned shirt, not once parting his lips from yours. His large, hard chest muscles pressing against you as he pins you in between his arms and the couch. Spreading your legs apart, he grinds his crotch into your core and you can feel what effect this is having on him. And you have to admit, despite your mind being focused elsewhere, physically it's having the same kind of arousing results on you.

But this isn't what's supposed to happen. He's moving too fast and it's quickly getting away from you. You only want to get him comfortable and distracted enough that he completely lets his guard down. You're trying to poison him, not fuck him.

Pushing his chest lightly, you spring upright. Slightly out of breath you pull your hair over your shoulder covering up a little and running your fingers through it, trying to regain some composure.

"I could use a drink." You pant, batting your eyes up at him.

"Sounds good." He nods, his gaze dark and ravenous. Suddenly haulting he leans back down to kiss you. His hands gripping your hips as he kisses you back into the sofa. Abruptly leaving you flat on the couch with flushed cheeks.

This is better. One or two drinks from now, you should be able to slip him the ricin. He drinks it, you fake a headache, and skip home.  24 hours from now he has a heart attack and dies from natural causes. Nothing tied to you. Nothing connected to Bangtan.

"I hope you like-"  The supplier calls out, only to be interrupted by a grating smack at the front of the house. You startle upright, sitting alert watching the hall entrance. He comes from the other side, coming back from the kitchen, a curious look on his face. Both of you staring at the same doorway as Taehyung suddenly comes in.

Fuck.

Your eyes go wide, half not able to believe he is actually here. He wasn't supposed to be!  Namjoon had arranged for Jimin to take him out tonight. And you had told him you were going to meet some of the other girls.

The thing you didn't know; a week ago when you met the supplier at the club, you had also said you were out with a few girls, including Jimin's girlfriend. But she was with Jimin at that time. And Jimin was with Taehyung. And she knew nothing about any plans to go out.

So when you said there was a movie night tonight, he asked around and found out that was also a lie. He wanted to trust you. To trust that it wouldn't be as bad as his worst fear. Still, the more he thought over how you lied to him, the more he worked himself up, getting himself into a paranoid and anxious state. Until he found himself tracking your phone, following you to an unknown house.

Seeing you half undressed and with someone he considers an enemy, his anger and jealously turns to pure rage. It only taking a second for the scene in front of him to confirm his worst suspicions.

Unleashing his gun he shoots wildly at the supplier. Reason slipping from him completely.

Barley able to avoid being hit, the supplier dives behind one of the sofa chairs. Nearly being riddled with the showering of bullets.

Wrapping your hands over your head, you cover your ears from the explosive sounds. Still firing, and keeping the supplier pinned, Taehyung storms at you.

"Tae-" you start. The gun empties, but Taehyung couldn't care less, tossing it aside. All of his attention focused on you.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" He growls through gritted teeth. His hand flying down smacking your cheek, slapping you back into the sofa. "How could you do this to me?!" He screams, his voice wavering from the emotion in his question.

"I can explain," You ignore the burn on your cheek, running your hands along your body, trying your best to cover and redress yourself.  You never wanted him to see you like this, and the look of betrayal in his eyes is stinging your heart more than any slap could.  "I-," you begin with no next word coming. There's nothing you can tell him. Not while the supplier is right here.

Taehyung's anger aside, you're terrified to think what him being here means. Namjoon's plan is completely derailed. And Taehyung attacked the supplier, creating an entirely new problem. You're not the smart one. You have no idea what to do or how to fix this.

Where the hell are Jin and Namjoon?

Taehyung is so fixated on you that he doesn't see the other man charging from the side.

"Look out!" You scream. Only it's a second too slow. Taehyung doesn't have time to react and the supplier swings a ceramic table ornament at his head. The shattered fragments raining over you, as your boyfriend is knocked to the ground. The shoe of the imposing man booting into Taehyung's torso.

You dive towards them, driving your body weight into the supplier to separate the two men. Pushing him away as his heel scarcely misses Taehyung's face.

He stumbles back a few steps and straightens up, nodding and pursing his lips with a look of revelation. Seeing you spring to Taehyungs defence revealed much more than you had intended.

While you're attempting to help Tae upright, he quickly shirks you off and lunges at the other man diving through him and dragging him to the floor. Fighting for dominance and survival, the two men break into a brutal fight trading blow after blow as they struggle to overpower the other.

While you're relieved to see that Taehyung is the more skilled of the two, and mostly has the upper hand, you're mainly sick with worry. The ramifications of this will play out beyond this simple fistfight.

All you can do is get Tae out of here for now, and hope that the supplier hasn't realised that this was an attempt to kill him. Maybe if you're really lucky he will only think of it at face value. A cheating girlfriend and her jealous boyfriend.

"Tae," you grab his arm, dragging him back with resistance. "We have to get out of here. Please,"

He drops the supplier's collar, who falls back limply. Turning to you he has blood pouring down his face from a cut on his cheek. Intensifying the cold look in his eye.

"We? What we? Don't you wanna stay here with this piece of shit." He snarls, standing up.

"I can explain after." You tug him again. He can hate you all he likes later. But first, you have to get out of here. "Please," you beg for his agreement.

Staring harshly, he retreats from you. A pained look in his eye that cuts you more than any blade could. Anger, hate, rage. You could handle all of it. But there's so much hurt and sadness on his face. It's nothing you ever wanted to be responsible for. It's more than you can bear.

"Tae," you hold your hand outreached, gingerly approaching him.  He doesn't withdraw further, allowing you to rest your hand on his cheek. Your heart breaking further as he leans into your touch. Resting in your palm for comfort like an injured puppy. "I promise, baby, this isn't what it looks like." you coo, "I love you so much,"

His eyes close, his face scrunching in anguish. He wants to believe you so badly. To forget everything he has seen. To take you home and never let you go. He may be the first person you let love you, but for him, you are the only person he ever let himself love.

Turning, you use his softening demeanour to lead him towards the door. But the supplier pulls your attention. Neither of you were paying him any mind and standing in the corner of the room he's pulled his own gun from hiding.

Reacting without a thought you shove your back into Taehyung, covering him. Guarding him.

At the same time, a shot rings out and the bullet hits you. A painful, sharp sensation piercing through your torso that makes you stumble back. Losing your footing you fall into Taehyung, your body never hitting the ground. Taehyung catching your weight, lowering with you. Resting you on his legs.

Taehyung grimaces in pain, his hand wrapping his own side momentarily. The bullet went clean through you and cut his side before flying into the wall behind the both of you. Dismissing his own injury, he leans over your body, ripping off his shirt and pressing it and his palms into your entrance wound. Trying to slow the bleeding.

Looking up at Taehyung with tear-filled eyes, you're in shock. Every breath you take is sore but other than that, your body is numb. Your hands clinging to his, all you can think is that you wished you knew what to say or do to lessen his panic. The sweat on his forehead rolls into the cut on his cheek causing the blood to drip further down his neck and chest. The fear and worry in his eyes exposing what you can't see or feel. That you're losing a lot of blood.

The supplier comes over the top of you both. He presses the barrel of the gun into the back of Taehyungs head, forcing him to crouch lower over you.

"I was searching for a reason to annihilate Namjoon and his pathetic crew. Thank you for giving me one." He digs the gun down harder. Taehyung growls, baring his teeth in frustration. "Too bad we didn't get to finish what we started though, Y/n. Oh well." He smirks, cocking the gun for additional effect.

"I love you," Taehyung whispers, the finality in his voice breaking your restraint, tears gushing down your face.

"I-," you can only begin.

Another blast rings out that makes both you and Taehyung jump. The supplier's body goes heavy and plummets to the ground, smashing through the glass coffee table beside you. Glass shatters everywhere as he falls down dead, blood pouring out of his head, collecting into a pool.

"Fuck sakes." Namjoon sighs from the living room entrance. Standing with Jin, both looking over the destruction with disbelief.

"Hyung," Taehyung calls out, his voice raspy and on the verge of tears. "Help." He looks down at you, your face pale, your limps drooping as the blood loss is starting to make you dizzy.

Namjoon opens his mouth readying to scold his brother, but he quickly stops himself. His own faults glaringly obvious at this moment. Jin removes his belt, wrapping it around your waist he fixes it tightly, making you whine in pain, keeping Taehyungs shirt pressed to both sides of your wound.

"Can you carry her?" Jin asks his younger brother.

Namjoon passes all of you, walking toward the lifeless body of his enemy, shooting another round into the back of his head with a frustrated look in his eye.

Taehyung nods at Jin with wide, panicked eyes.

"Then bring her." Namjoon turns with a flick of his head gesturing to follow him.

Jin supports Taehyung as he struggles to get himself and you to a standing position. Finding more strength once he is upright, lifting you into his arms as you whimper and moan weakly.

"Taehyung-" you start, your words sounding breathless and weak. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Shh baby." He hushes you. "Don't worry about that now."

He gets you into Namjoons truck, laying you down the length of the seat. As Namjoon speeds to the hospital, Taehyung sits in the back, his legs under your head. Holding firm against your bullet wound while petting your head.

Jin takes Tae's keys and follows you in his car. Already calling a cleanup crew to get rid of the supplier's body. Trying to salvage what he can of the bad situation.

"Namjoon," you call out. Even as your mind is starting to slip into unconsciousness your worry over the family is consuming your focus. "the plan. Can you fix the-" you breathe heavily running out of air.

He looks over his shoulder, guilt overtaking his expression. Nodding with an affirming grunt.

"Plan? What plan?" Taehyung muses, the shock steadily drifting away. "What is she talking about, Hyung?" One look at the blame on Namjoon's face and it clicks into place. "What did you do?"

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this." Namjoon reasons.

"Are you kidding me? You organized this?!" He snaps, "How the fuck could you risk her like that?!"

"It was supposed to be easy. She wasn't meant to get hurt-"

"Well, clearly she did!" Taehyung roars, his hands bunching into fists.

"I'm sorry, Tae. I wanted to help." You whine, lifting your arm up to touch his chest, trying to soothe him in any way.

"It's okay, baby. I know you did." He coos kissing your forehead, Taehyung's rage immediately subsiding towards you. He takes your blood-drenched hands in his and kisses them lovingly. Kissing down your forearms, pressing your hands to his head in agony and want to have you closer. Wishing he could absorb your pain and suffering.

Returning his wrath to the leader his voice lowers, coming out like ice. "We're gonna talk about this once she's okay." He snarls, "And know, I hold you personally responsible for every second she's in pain."

Looking in the rearview mirror, Namjoon nods solemnly. "Yeah, I do too."

Luckily for you, you recover quickly, and no permanent physical damage was done. But the damage that was done to Namjoon and Taehyungs relationship, the repercussions caused for Bangtan, and the fall out from the supplier's death... well that's another story entirely.

[cinnamonest]

Ok but also modern Xiao is the exact type of boy to fall madly in love with a camgirl/egirl.

Like people joke about "beta" dudes and simps being the type to like camgirls and whatnot but from what I've heard from accounts of camgirls, those dudes are the most *vocal*, but the real loyal viewers are the silent ones. Quiet, socially inept kissless-virgin loners that don't have a social life to speak of.

As a camgirl you get a lot of commenters during streams -- there's always dudes who feel the need, for whatever reason, to comment on parts of your body or the acts you perform, or a bunch of simple comments like "hot!!" and, you know, various spammed emojis. And most of the bastards seem to think their comments are worth more than money, since they leave the bare minimum despite all their drooling over you, but that's just how people are.

You do get one, though, that's virtually silent. Almost a lurker, if it weren't for the massive cash drops the guy deposits once per stream and one very short comment. It's very simple, it's always a huge donation, followed by a very simple request for this or that, a request that certainly isn't really worth the insane sum of money you're being given. Worded very plainly, no descriptive language or use of emojis or anything, it's more like "suck on it." or "use that one." Sometimes he alone out-donates the rest of your viewers combined.

Not to mention, he's the sole subscriber to the top tier of that patreon you started. So the mystery guy gets a lot of benefits. A custom 10-minute video per month, for starters. You weren't really certain what else you should put on that tier... So you contact him about it and agree upon sending him something per request every month. He's a gross perv, which you could have easily predicted. Asks for things like used underwear and shirts, lipstick prints on your polaroids, hell, you even fill up a tiny container with saliva once for him. Oh, bathwater too. Gross. But he's paying, so.

And then, he starts asking... For something different. A conversation. You're a bit surprised at first, but he's serious. So you do it. Schedule a thirty minute session, message back and forth. You expected maybe he wanted to say something, but you end up doing 99% of the talking - he just asks simple questions. What do you do when you're not working? What do you do for fun? Do you have any family? Do you have any friends? Essentially an interrogation into your life. It feels like the kind of questions someone would ask on a first date, to be honest. You can't help but feel some pity for the guy if he's so lonely that he's willing to pay for this, so, you let it go a bit over the time limit.

You ask some things in return - he seems to not like talking about himself, quickly turns back around to questioning you, but gives brief answers - You're surprised to learn he's young, and not, well, a gross old dude like you're aware most viewers are. Seems odd, why can't he just go out and meet people? You can't say so directly, it would be rude, but he seems to pick up on the hint from things you say and answers the unspoken question - I'm not good with people.

He's aware of how it all works. He's not a delusional bastard that thinks a girl on the internet actually gives a shit about anything but his money, but... It feels nice. He's... A very lonely person. Never got along well with others, never really had anyone that cared. You're always so sweet in your little messages, you send little heart emojis and smileys and xoxo's in every message you send him, and he knows it's part of the act, but sometimes he does like to pretend it's real. The semblance of kindness and warmth and love. Likes to pretend you're being that sweet because that's how you actually are. Likes to forget that he's living on ramen and has a flat-zero savings balance because he's blowing his grocery money and savings on you. Likes to forget the transaction entirely, pretend there's no money involved. And most importantly, likes to forget you have plenty of other dudes that pay for you.

If he's being honest, he does sometimes let... Fantasies run through his head. Sometimes. But he knows it's dumb. And he feels pathetic about it, really. It's not like he can even hope to get a girlfriend in real life, he can't even remember the last time he talked to a female human being. Or... Anyone, for that matter. He has no friends, he works from home online. To say his social life is empty is an understatement.

Becoming addicted to you is only natural. He realizes he's becoming obsessed, but doesn't see any point in fighting it. You're just so sweet, so nice, and you even take your clothes off too. So he... Kinda starts to lie to himself, intentionally. It's almost kinda like having a girlfriend, isn't it? A... Long distance one. That doesn't know his name, that he probably doesn't know your real name, and has never seen his face, but... Still. It's kinda like that, isn't it? Maybe, just maybe, he can hold a little bit of hope in that dream every dude that ever loves a camgirl has... That somehow, a miracle happens and he has a real chance.

But it occurs to him that even if that's not what fate has in mind, he can make that reality come true.

Perhaps you're desensitized to creepy, given how so many of your followers are, so you make what will ultimately be a mistake. One month he asks for something... Odd. Says he wants to send you something that you should wear in your stream, that's the arrangement for this month. You set up a PO box. Figure it can't lead directly to you that way. It's a t-shirt, rather plain single color. It occurs to you that it's probably one of his, that he'll get off to seeing you wear, but something feels... Off about the whole exchange. Like there's some other intention you don't realize.

See, he's a bit tech savvy and has already well figured out where you live in general, he just wasn't sure which apartment it was, so he waits outside for you to pick up the package and follows you home. What a perfect, utterly unimaginable coincidence it turned out to be - here you could have been separated by oceans and countries and yet, it turned out you two lived in the very same town! Well, you knew that when he sent you his address for mailing, but you were smarter than to inform the guy who spends nearly his entirely salary on a camgirl (let's face it, no one who does that can be a mentally stable person) that you just so happen to live so close together. He realizes you avoided mentioning that realization, but he understands why.

Yes, he understands exactly why you wouldn't tell him, because you know that if he found that out, then he might do exactly what he knows he's going to do.

Also, you seem to be looking over your shoulder a lot more lately. He would know, he counts the number of times you do it every day for the past week. At least when you're outside, he can't see you as well when you're inside your place, even with the binoculars.

Your paranoia is what he thinks about as he goes to the store - walks there of course, so no cameras capture license plates. Wears a hoodie over his head. Self-checkout. Pay with cash, untraceable. Double-bags to make sure no one can see the red-flag combination of acetone, bleach and duct tape.

Yeah, he can't say he blames you, but you started being cautious a little bit too late.

[godfrey-the-chaos-duck]

Okay okay okay HEAR ME OUT

This is really heckin random {especially for my first ever writing post} BUT HEAR ME THE FRICK OUT PLEASE.

****Minor S2 Spoilers****

Has anybody considered what happened in "The 87 Cent Solution" directly after the bit where Scrooge says "Okay, maybe I am a wee bit sick" (he sounds so defeated on that line OMG) and Huey says "But maybe you're not crazy" and the false page about Gold Fever starts falling out of the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook.

Here's my take on it, y'all can say what you think would happen. (Smol piece I wrote at like five in the morning, maybe not my best work... Oh well)

Scrooge McDuck stood on the edge of his... walkway, diving board thing (idk what it's actually called HELP), gazing down at his fortune. A golden glimmer sparkled in his red, bleary eyes. And all his family could do was stare; they'd tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't have it. If he wanted to risk his life, that was his choice.

He was going to do it. It hadn't quite sunk in yet, but Scrooge was going to jump. As everyone else looked on in horror, Scrooge moved slightly, as if about to dive into his money for quite possibly the last time, and...

"Ah-choo! Atchoo! Aitchoo!" Scrooge sneezed loudly, and then he turned to face Huey, who had run up to him.

"Okay," the old duck admitted at last, "maybe I am a wee bit sick."

"But maybe you're not crazy..." Huey said, opening his Junior Woodchuck guidebook. The page on "Gold Fever" was falling out. It was a fake.

"Now, come on, Mister McDee, let's get you home," Launchpad suggested, helping Scrooge walk back to the car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Beakley heard a knock on the oak front doors of McDuck Manor on that January afternoon. Polite as ever, she answered it.

Little did she know how much worse things had gotten in a matter of a few days.

She was greeted by the fervent clamouring of the kids, each giving their own overlapping account of the events of that day. Then the babble of talk fell silent as Launchpad McQuack, ever the klutz, took slow, careful steps up to the door. He appeared to be supporting someone, helping them walk, but there was no way of telling who, given that the figure was almost totally hidden by the heavy tartan blanket they were wearing over their head and shoulders like a hooded robe.

A shaky, ragged breath. The figure raised their head, arranging the blanket around their shoulders, and Beakley had to really try not to draw back in shock when she saw the tired, unhinged-looking face of Scrooge McDuck staring vaguely up at her. Scrooge hadn't been home in three days (none of them had, what with the Bin being placed on lockdown), and Beakley was more than a little worried about him.

"S-sir?" Beakley faltered, deciding to hold off on the firm talking-to she had been planning to give him for the moment, "Are you alright?!"

"Beakley..." Scrooge said, his voice barely a whisper; that cold had caught up to him quicker than he thought. But that one word was all he managed to get out before he stumbled across the threshold, collapsing into the housekeeper's arms. He hadn't quite fainted, but his legs had given out from under him as sheer exhaustion took over. Beakley immediately brought him to his room, laying him down in bed (where, truth be told, he should've been all along - why did he have to be so stubborn?) and placing a cool flannel on his forehead in hopes of bringing down his fever. Scrooge didn't have the energy to protest as he normally would; today had taken everything out of him, and it showed. He slowly let the sweet relief of slumber wash over him as he lay there shivering under his blanket in his magnificent four-poster bed.

"What on Earth happened?" Beakley asked the kids once they'd all headed to the living room, "He wasn't like this when he left." Huey looked to his brothers, and then to Webby. The three of them nodded; it was best that Huey take this one. He told Beakley and Duckworth everything; the apparent robbery that had taken place (albeit of only 87 measly cents), Scrooge's slow descent into a disturbing, dangerous madness, the faked Guidebook page, the plane crash - all of it.

"… and then I guess it just all caught up to him after that, because he let us bring him home," Huey finished, "I know it sounds kinda far-fetched, I wouldn't be surprised if you don't believe me."

"I've been working for Mr. McDuck since before you were even born," Beakley told him, "This is honestly one of the more reasonable stories I've heard." The kids all looked at each other; this definitely sounded fair, knowing their family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was all I managed to get done before the dreaded writer's block got me (oh noooo) but here are some other points!

After Scrooge had gotten the good night's sleep he desperately needed, as was said in the episode, the family put their heads together and figured out Glomgold's plan.

The fake funeral was DEFINITELY Louie's idea. Everyone else just ran with it. Beakley rang up one of her old S.H.U.S.H. contacts to help with Scrooge's disguise.

The reason Donald didn't know about any of this was that (my headcanon) when someone in the house gets sick (Scrooge in this case) Donald hides on the houseboat in the pool. It's probably just as well that this happened because if Donald had been there for that scene Glomgold dancing to All I Do Is Win, then it would've swiftly turned into Flintheart Glomgold's actual funeral!

Let me know what you guys think may have happened! I love hearing other people's ideas and headcanons.

[no-droids]

Mercy, Sabotage, and Dead Space

(gif credit to @redwyyne-archive)

Part One of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.7K

Summary:

1. No sex.

2. No touching yourself.

3. No orgasms.

Warnings/Tags: DUBCON/NONCON elements, fuckboy Poe (OOC), Enemies to Lovers, degradation/humiliation, mentions of oral sex, SMUUUTTTTTTTT also I’m not sorry for what I did but you’re not allowed to read if you’re gonna get mad at me okay byeeee

***

This.

This shit, right here.

If the question was ever, “What’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever let Poe Dameron somehow talk you into doing?” then the answer is this stupid shit, right the fuck here.  This is like.  You remember that one game, Mercy?  The one where you’d dig your nails in and twist arms and just needlessly inflict pain on each other as children until one of you cried uncle because someone somewhere once decided to turn torture into a matter of pride?

You always thought those games were fucking ridiculous.  Who can hold their breath the longest, who can handle a lit deathstick against their flesh the longest, who can take the hardest punch—who cares?  It’s child’s play.  It’s self-inflicted agony for the sake of bragging rights and even as a youngling, you refused to fall for it.

But then you met… fucking Dameron.

You know those people that… they don’t just rub you the wrong way, but literally every single aspect about their personality is sandpaper against wet skin and your whole entire being feels chafed raw just by existing in their general vicinity for an extended period of time?

You’re… you’re not usually a competitive—much less aggressive person.  You never have been.  It’s just not part of your nature.  If you ever excel at anything in life, it isn’t because of some secret, deep-seated desire to win or be better than anyone else.  You just… do you.  You do whatever you do, and if it’s good, it’s good.  And if it’s bad, it’s good.  Because at the end of the day at least it’s still you, and you’re okay with that.

But this?

This shit?  Right here?

“This is fucking dumb,” you say, because you know it’s what you both must be thinking so you may as well just get it out in the open.  “This is the dumbest fucking thing, Dameron.  What are we doing?  Why are we doing this?”

The grumpy, orange-jumpsuited figure sitting behind you just sighs heavily and slumps even further down in his bucket seat, as if it isn’t the first time you’ve tried asking this incredibly valid question (it totally is), bringing a palm down to thunk the top of the guidance controls between his legs in a quiet irritation you’re almost certain has everything to do with the very topic you’re trying to bring up. 

“Because,” comes that infuriating drawl.  You can only see his face from this angle by looking at his reflection in the transparisteel barrier directly in front of you, but even just imagining the way his mouth moves while he rounds out the words makes your jaw clench.  “The coordinates we picked up were scrambled and this rendezvous could be going down at any one of thirty-six locat—?”

“No,” you interrupt him with a scowl, “not why I’ve been floating in dead space in this Maker-forsaken ship with you for eight fucking hours a day since… fuck, what’s today?  Thursday?  Friday?  Nope, can’t be Friday, Friday’s our off-day.  Thursday, then. …Thursday?”  You shake your head.  “Ugh, see?  Time doesn’t exist when I’m not allowed to cum, life is like one never-ending nightmare.”

“Oh.”  He takes a second to think about it in silence, the calloused tips of his fingers scratching the side of his face while he considers.  It wouldn’t usually be as loud as it is right now.  Maybe it’s the haunting quiet of space surrounding the ancient powered down hunk of metal you’re both stuck in, inadvertently isolating and amplifying the sound—or maybe it’s because your copilot’s jaw is currently covered in a thick, dark beard that you swear barely took his testosterone-overloaded ass a fucking week or two to grow, if that.  Regardless, the dark bristles crunch loudly under his short fingernails and it takes you about a grand total of five whole uninterrupted seconds of the scraping sound to realize you’re grinding your teeth along with it.  “Well,” he finally says, “that was your stupid idea.”

“Hmmmmmmmno,” you contest firmly, wiggling your elbow back to poke at his shin with your index finger once, twice, thrice, until he finally slaps your hand away in quiet irritation.  To the misfortune of you both—and likely the other hundred or so pilots concurrently taking rotating shifts in these tandem x-wings in a glorified mass stakeout, the cockpit of this ship is just way too fucking small.  Your arm is squeezed uncomfortably against machinery and electronics to get to him from this angle and a light slap isn’t going to stop you now that you’re here.  “You—” (poke) “—have a superiority complex and decided to turn it into a competition, not—” (poke) “—me.”

“Oh, I have a superiority complex, okay,” he scowls and nods in vehement, fake agreement, finally giving up and letting you poke at will, but the appeal is lost as soon as you realize he’s over it and your arm eases back into your lap.  You watch his reflection look out of the viewport and scan the empty void of space for the twentieth time in the past five minutes, clearly just as desperate to get back to base as you are.  “So what is it you call saying—wait, no no, not even saying, loudly declaring—‘Of course I can go longer without sex than “wham bam thank you ma’am” Dameron, you brainless fucks, it’s a simple fact!’”

“Alright—I don’t sound like that, fuck you very much,” you return, in reference to his shrieking, high-pitched impression of you surrounded by your fellow pilots in the rec room when you’ve had a bit too much to drink.   “Also, you don’t have to finger-quote literally every single syllable of my fucking sentence, Dameron.  First and last word, that’s all it takes.  And if it’s so superiority complex-ey of me to state simple facts, then what is it you call saying ‘betcha two weeks worth of pay you can’t, pretty baby’?”

“Uh, easy credits?”  He immediately asks, side-eyeing your reflection through the transparisteel.  “ Easy credits.  Just begging for it.  Two weeks of your slutty, sexy, easy fucking credits just begging to be taken and used— ”

“You need to get laid,” you cut in to tell him bluntly, scrunching your nose in what you hope looks like disgust.  As per protocol, the power to the x-wing was cut at the beginning of your shift—what feels like a fucking eternity ago—as a preventative maneuver in case the target falls out of hyperspace unexpectedly.  Avoiding the scanners of a fleet that may never actually show means it’s cold and dimly lit in here—just starlight in front of either you, but you’re hoping he can gauge the severity of your revulsion with your back to him.  “You just turned my money into a sex object.  It was vile.  I feel violated on its behalf.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who needs to get laid,” he tosses carelessly back at you, and you roll your eyes with as much sass as you can physically muster, so tired of all the dodging.  You know this hasn’t been easy for him either, he just has too much pride to admit it.  “Besides, you’ve gotta be past the withdrawal stage by now.  Is it really all that bad?”

“The fuck you mean, ‘Is it really all that bad’?”  You snap at him, shuffling around grumpily in your seat, hating the way the bulky weapons controls sit right between your thighs and prevent you from closing them.  Withdrawal stage, ha.   “Of course it’s all that bad.  It’s horrible.  It’s the fucking worst.  And more importantly, how are you not having any trouble with this?  Oh, wait—that’s right,” you answer yourself before he has a chance to.  “Because you cheated.”

“I did not cheat,” Dameron’s reflection immediately challenges with an accusatory finger pointed at you.  “I did not.  When the fuck did I cheat?  I swapped housing assignments with your shitty roommate and slept in the bunk below yours for a month and a half—all because you don’t believe in the honor system—just so you could tell me I fucking cheated?”

You scoff, feeling your annoyance spark even more.  He’s always been able to get under your skin, but the neglect you’ve been forcing your body to endure is just throwing gasoline on an already roaring fire.  “Okay, first of all?  Rude.  I am a fucking joy to have as a roomie, alright?  I put up with your snoring, your 2:00 AM dinners, you blasting your radio while I’m trying to sleep, I barely complain about your body odor—”

“My snoring is adorable, I get snacky at night, only sad people with fucked up lives hate music, I smell amazing,” Dameron casually lists off on his fingers, the self-confidence so easy and unshakeable that you swear he’s almost preening at the compliments he just gave himself by the time he’s finished rebutting everything you can think to throw at him.  And, while you’d never admit it, he does smell good.  He smells… unbelievably fucking good.  Always.  Something dark and woodsy, you can never quite put your finger on.  It pisses you off, so much that you’ve made a habit of pulling a face of disgust whenever the warm, rich scent noticeably reaches you, hoping it deflates his ego just a little bit.  No such luck so far.  

“Whatever.  The point is I’m a good fucking neighbor, alright, I’m neighborly as fuck,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.  “And don’t make it sound like I’m putting a chastity lock on your balls every night, because you can fuck anyone you want.  In fact, I strongly fucking encourage it—I just want to know about it when it happens.”

Dameron smirks and you groan, already knowing what’s coming.  “You wanna hear it?”

Yep, there it is.  “Second of all—”

“Feel the whole bunk rock with it?”  He goes on, completely ignoring you.  “Use the excuse that you’re trapped up top so you can just stay there the whole time and listen?  You know you can do a lot more than just—”

“Second of all,” you project over him, “you’re seriously telling me you haven’t had any wet dreams then, hm?  No snorgasms?  Hmmm?  No happy naps?  No captain midnights?  No mattress fracking?  Hmmmmmm???”

His voice very quickly sounds… shocked.  “How many fucking euphemisms—?”

“Wait wait, one more—” you quickly interrupt, too much momentum to stop now, “—sleepskeet.”

You watch in immense satisfaction as his expression seems to progress through all five stages of grief, before he exhales a long, unamused sigh and scratches his beard again.  You want to pluck each strand of it out of his face one by one.  “Anyways.  Wet dreams are totally different and don’t count.”

“It’s not different!”  You burst out, unable to help yourself, “it’s an orgasm, and rule number three is no orgas—”

“I know what the rules were, Gold-Ten,” he returns calmly, and it infuriates you, how he’s always able to make it seem like you’re the instigator who’s overreacting.  And he knows exactly what he’s doing by calling you by your flight designation, and it pisses you off even more because calling him Black-Leader in any other situation besides active warfare just feels like an unnecessary reminder of his skills.  Why he’s currently behind you manning the guidance controls and why you’re currently stuck in the front seat with the bulkier weapons systems.  “The question is if you’re seriously that bad enough of a sport to automatically disqualify me because of something that happens to any human with a dick indiscriminately when we blueball ourselves.”

“But that’s the entire fucking point, Dameron!”  You shrill, throwing your hands in the air in pure exasperation.  “There it is!  You need it more than I do, you just said it yourself!  Not to mention I said I can go longer without sex than you can— sex , not orgasms, but as it turns out I win at both.  Now can we please call this shit off so I can finally cum?  This isn’t fun anymore.”

“Nope,” he says immediately, popping the P with a bit too much hard emphasis to be genuinely amused.  He’s frustrated, too—his voice is too pleased, too fake to not be masking irritation underneath.  “Sorry.  But this was also your stupid idea, so.”

“You’re insufferable,” you grumble, anger flaring equal to his, just way more… verbal.  And descriptive.  “Wet dreams don’t count, fucking right.  Tell that to the oceans of Kamino I got going on down there, huh?  I move on this seat wrong and I’ll slide off it—”

A loud slam of a palm against the controls suddenly echoes throughout the small cockpit, causing you to jump slightly.  

“Don’t,” Dameron snarls, “... say shit like that to me.  Not right now.  Not right now, fuck .”

You go quiet for a moment, not expecting that much of an outburst at something you considered to be a throwaway remark, but then… oh.  Something occurs to you, something… sinister.  Oh, well, now there’s an idea.

Everything inside you immediately surges up and burns at the thought—the mere whisper of a way out of all of this, quickly, without giving in and letting him hold your surrender over you for Maker knows how long.  It’s so fucking simple, you don’t know why you didn’t think of it before.  You don’t have to wait him out at all; instead, you just need to… entice him into giving in first.

Neither of you say anything for a while, and you don’t know what he’s thinking (nothing, probably—a dry tumbleweed bouncing across an empty desert landscape, you imagine) but you take the dip in conversation to consider a plan.  You can’t go at it too outright, it’ll be too big of a turnaround and he’ll see it coming lightyears away.  A halfhearted joke about your pussy tossed out without thinking is what catalyzed the most substantial reaction from him you’ve seen, so… maybe you can keep steering the conversation towards the idea.

“How many wet dreams have you had?”  You suddenly ask, your heart beginning to pick up in your chest as soon as the words are out of your mouth.

“Excuse me?”  Dameron grunts from behind you, and you catch his reflection raising a thick eyebrow at you.

You take a deep breath and disguise it by stretching your back out just a little bit, lifting your shoulder blades and arching the sore muscles there, before settling back down in your normal crappy posture once more.  “Now many times did you cum in your sleep?  Had to at least been once for you to claim they don’t count.”

“Why does it matter?”  He asks, completely sidestepping the question for the second time.  “It was involuntary.”

You shrug.  “Just so I know how many freebies I can get tonight.”

“No,” Dameron instantly counters, his voice dead serious.  “Not fucking allowed.”

“Why not?”  You ask, and this time, there’s significantly less challenge than you’d typically deliver it with.  Instead, your voice is soft, questioning.  Not argumentative, but curious, and there’s just enough of your point left unsaid that it’ll seem like he conjured the rest of the image himself.

There’s silence while he considers his response to the perfectly executed bait.  You assume you’re both picturing the same thing, because it’s what you’ve pictured almost every single night spent in this celibate hellscape.  The cool darkness of your shared quarters, the standard-issue sheets that still feel crispy and rough on your skin no matter how many nights you’ve slept in them, with one of your hands pressed tight over your mouth and two of your fingers circle your clit.

“You only get to do it if I’m in the room,”  he poses instead, and you swallow thickly, feeling your body tighten with an unintentional drop of pure heat through your tummy at the thought.  Maker, it must be really bad if Poe fucking Dameron is getting to you like this.  The bane of your existence shouldn’t make your insides twist in on themselves—at least, not in a good way.

“Not like I’d have much choice,” you eventually respond, keeping it purposefully ambiguous.  “It’s your room, too.  Unfortunately.”

Stars, it’s been so long since you’ve done this, since you’ve walked the fine line between flirtation and seduction, wanting to turn on the charm slowly—gradually ease it up like a hyperdrive lever under your fingertips so that you’re at maximum by the time he realizes you’re even there.  You take a moment to glance at his reflection, watching Dameron look back at you curiously, a flash of interest in his eyes.

“By the way, how does that one girl feel about us doing this?”  You ask out of nowhere, suddenly remembering the existence of his pretty little number.  You’ve seen her under his arm around base at least a few times, which is more than you can say for the rest of them.  “Red-Six.  Tall brunette with the tattoos—I don’t bother learning names, they all come and go.”

“Nihla,” Dameron nods with a wistful sigh, tilting his head to rest against his shoulder.  “Or, wait… Neah.  No—it was… Nalal.  Yeah, Nalal, I think that’s right…”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.  “One of the greatest mysteries of the universe is how many people get in line for you, I’ll never fucking understand it.”

“They just want me for my cock,” he tells you without missing a single beat, sounding like he’s not joking in the slightest.  “It was starting to get obnoxious.  Glad I finally have an excuse to turn them down.”

“Unbelievable,” you repeat, stunned by how truly, mind-blowingly full of himself he is.  “You’re… fucking…”

You end up just staring at him and making a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, at a complete loss for words, and Dameron eventually shrugs and continues on after you fail to form a coherent thought in the allotted time frame he provides.

“Now I can just tell them I’m in a long-running bet with Gold-Ten over who can sexually deprive themselves the longest and weirdly enough, they don’t seem all that interested anymore,” he remarks, tilting his chin up and rubbing at his beard again, and for some reason… the sound of it bothers you somewhat less now, the way he phrased that resonating deeper inside you than it should.  Lower than it should.  You blink a few times, almost shocked by your body’s unprecedented response to his admission—Poe Dameron uses you as an excuse to turn down sex with pretty girls?  Happily?—and your mind goes blank for a second while he watches you through the transparisteel.  “It’s alright,” he eventually goes on, tilting his head.  “Sometimes a sabbatical is good.  I do really miss pussy, though.”

“Well,” you finally tell him, oddly not having much else to offer at the moment.  “I’m sorry?  And… you’re welcome.  I guess.”

Dameron shrugs once more and makes an apathetic sound without opening his mouth, and you drop your stare down to the machinery between your spread thighs after feeling like you were looking at each other for too long.  The position started uncomfortable and seven hours later, it’s still fucking uncomfortable.  At first the discomfort twinged at your hips and lower back, but now the sensation seems to be… centering itself a bit more, finding a spot right between your legs, especially when his words echo through your subconscious and make you naturally want to push your thighs together.  I do really miss pussy, though.

You try to snap out of it a bit, try to stop hyperfixating on the way your underwear has felt sticky and wet for fucking hours now, but it’s so fucking difficult to chill yourself out when your body already went into this whole situation with a month and a half long stumbling block.  He’s not really doing anything at all—he’s leant back in his chair and staring out the window into the black emptiness of space when you steal a look once more, but something about how his casual responses are affecting you makes it seem like he’s the one currently seducing you.

Maker, you have to focus.   You have to control yourself.  You’re starting to feel a little warm in your thick jumpsuit—a particular shade of orange that does not compliment your complexion but you normally rejoice in wearing regardless.  It’s baggy and uniform and hides most of your curves and most importantly, it keeps you toasty on missions like this.  Space is cold —especially this far out in the Cauper Void, and there’s no fucking reason this powered down hunk of floating metal should feel as muggy and stifling as it does in here.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you suddenly hear yourself say, spontaneously, no thought put into it whatsoever.  One last try, one last attempt to avoid it, a last-ditch go at flight before he gives you no choice and you’re left with this one remaining option.  “This isn’t a good idea.  It’s… not healthy.  I don’t want to do this anymore.”

This gets a small chuckle out of him.  “I know you don’t, pretty baby.”

“Then let’s just call the whole thing off,” you propose once again, trying to lighten your tone, make it a… a friendly thing.  It sounds so fake, even to your own ears—since when would you be desperate enough to let the dreaded petname slide?—but granted, you know what they say about time and measures and all that shit.  “We can call it a tie, just go back to the way things were befo—”

He cuts you off and pins you with his gaze through the reflection.  “You realize that you begging me to put an end to your suffering is—ridiculously hot, mostly—but also only an incentive to make me keep pushing until you finally give in?”

You groan and comb some of your hair off your forehead, not liking the way it’s getting just the slightest bit damp.  “Fine, we won’t call it off, but can we at least just stop—”  You immediately catch yourself, not wanting to unintentionally push this too far too quickly, but your hesitation is clear and compelling enough for him to prompt you.

“At least just stop what?”  Dameron asks, and though you don’t think it’s intentional or even noticeable from his perspective, something about the way his voice sounds… husky.  Low to the ground.

“Stop dragging it out,” you breathe, your heart pounding.  Why is your heart pounding so fucking fast?  This is a fucking sting op, a facade, so why are you getting so caught up in the lie you’ve spun for yourself?  “Finish it.  Sooner, rather than later.  Quit being masochists about it, just fucking put it to—”

Maker, your eyes instinctively snap to his at your poor choice of wording, having almost said bed on complete accident.  Genuinely, you didn’t mean to phrase it that way, but at the same time, the thought of it almost burns you alive.  Fuck.  Dameron, and you, in bed.  It could be mean.  It could be rough.  A fight for dominance more than anything.  He’s bigger than you and he could make it fucking hurt, especially after going without it for as long as you have, but something about how double-edged that type of relief would be isn’t really sinking in for you right now.  Like a person slowly dying of thirst that’s fantasizing about drowning.  Regardless, the idea of a night with him and the sudden assortment of vivid imagery it provides is enough to get you to shut up and take a deep breath, just wait with your mouth shut for whatever his response is.

Unfortunately, you don’t have to wait long at all.

“This is cute,” he suddenly tells you, and you jerk back and sputter a bunch of consonants stupidly like he smacked you.

“Fuck you?”  Are the first recognizable words that can be heard.  “I’m not—this isn’t fucking— cute?”

“It’s cute,” Dameron repeats, hiding a soft smile from you with a few of his fingers pressed to his lips.  “You,” he says as he points at your reflection, twirling his finger around in circles, “trying to be all sneaky about it, go about your little performance.  It’s like… watching a little kid just blatantly fuck up a magic trick but they’re naive enough to think it’s working.  Keep going, I’m enthralled.”

You hold still for just a second as ice suddenly sinks through your tummy and clears away any trace of warmth you may have once felt from before.  Of course.  Stupid.  Stupid, you shouldn’t have even tried something like that, you don’t know why you thought…

Horrifyingly, you go dead silent and the lack of an immediate response from you hangs awkwardly in the still air.  You’re usually so quick with him, so fiery, letting the things he throws at you just glide right off you, but for some insane reason, you’re actually fucking… embarrassed?  A little bit?

You should say something, but your whole body is just frustratingly blank, almost buzzing in mortification, and it gets worse and worse the longer you stay quiet.  You don’t usually put yourself in a position to be compromised, and you certainly didn’t think the place he decided to jab this time had particularly thin skin.

You… you’d forgotten what it’s like to have someone laugh at you when you’re genuinely trying your best to flirt.

Well, it’s too late to say anything now, you think.  Now it’s just uncomfortable in here—true discomfort, not the typical angry silences.  You’re used to that, you’re used to huffing and crossing your arms and ticking your jaw through the breaks in conversation, refusing to say a word because you’re beyond pissed off.  This is different.  This quiet sits different in the air, this emotion hits different in your chest, somewhere vulnerable.  A crack in your armor he found without even necessarily intending to, but at this point, the stupid way you can’t seem to hide the wound from him is just as much to blame.

“So, uh…”  Dameron clears his throat as you shut your eyes tight against the awkwardness, but you can still feel a strange little shift in the air from behind you.  There’s something about the enclosed space, the quiet darkness surrounding you both, you feel… too close to him.  Sharing his air, feeling the energy when it’s cramped and you’re not able to just get up and storm away from him like normal.  You don’t like it.  You don’t like that you can immediately tell something has changed without being able to see him, that type of intimacy between you is pushing a boundary you can’t quite pinpoint but know exists.

You snap your eyes open and look over at Dameron’s reflection when he’s quiet for too long, and though you try to glare as fiercely as possible at him while you do it, the look on his face almost stops you dead.  The pure intensity raging in his expression, the way he’s got his eyes narrowed, flicking back and forth between yours, carefully studying you, wondering if perhaps he may have gotten it all wrong.  “I mean, y’know.  Theoretically speaking, and all.  If I broke, you’d let me fuck you?”

You… aren’t expecting that.

You don’t know why but your heart suddenly starts to race again, but it’s not the same as before.  Before it was speeding up and at an angle, like a rocket trying to escape a body’s gravitational pull, to go somewhere, search for something.  This time it just feels like it’s ricketing downhill, unsteady and out of control, about to break apart with every single pothole that rattles and slams through you.  Shit.  You didn’t expect the ultimatum would be presented to you so up front like that—you thought there’d be… some resistance, at least.  

Fuck, you take way too fucking long thinking about it, and your face feels warmer and warmer the more you mentally pick apart his specific phrasing, wondering where you should even begin.  You still haven’t said anything, but the damage is already done.  What should've been a firm, instantaneous go fuck yourself is left suspended, unanswered, open for interpretation.  You miss your window of opportunity to shut him down, you overshoot it by a longshot, and then you feel that spark of a what-if flare deep down once more.

No, fucking stop it.  Stop it.  Maker, your eyes do everything they can to not look at him while you concentrate and work to tap into your anger, stoking the flames of your fire to avoid feeling… temptation.  How dare he?  How fucking dare he do this to you, especially when there’s no chance to get out of here, to abort mission and cut your losses?  You clench your jaw and isolate that fury, magnify it until it’s the only thing you can feel anymore.

“My turn now,” Dameron eventually breaks the silence to clarify, blinking at you, and by this point you’re so fucking pissed off that you don’t recognize that isn’t actually a question.

“No,” you immediately snap, strung far too thin to deal with this new, treacherous territory with him.  Defaulting to normal is best, it’s easier.  “No, it’s not your turn, and fuck no, you can’t fuck me, not even if it means I win this stupid bet.  No to everything that has anything to fucking do with you, alright?  Don’t talk to me.  You’re lucky if I agree to sleep in the same fucking room as you tonight.  And—and?—I think your beard looks dumb.”

Okay, so maybe the last part was just a little bit childish, but you’re in such a bad fucking mood and you want to insult something he’s clearly just trying out for right now, hasn’t yet solidified as part of his usual appearance and unshakeable confidence in it.  It’s a downright lie—you think he might look more attractive with it than he ever has.  Effortlessly rugged and masculine, framing his face and making his eyes all the more piercing.

You don’t think it works, but regardless, he heeds your sharp words and says nothing for a good few minutes at least.  You had hoped the break in interaction would allow you the ability to reset a little bit, give yourself time to work through it, but it’s like the pressure in the air steadily increases regardless of how silent it is in here—or perhaps, because of it.

You can’t help it.  You flick your eyes to the transparisteel in front of you once more and catch his reflection staring directly at you, unmoving.  It jars you as much as it sparks your anger, and you glare down at your hands and give him a few seconds.  A few seconds of grace, of mercy, before you try again.

Sure enough, he’s still got his dark eyes pinned to you when you go to check once more, like he’s actually fucking thinking about something right now, which is just… astounding, for obvious reasons.  Mainly, the nerve of him.  The fucking nerve of him to be able to look at you like that, like he’s just entitled to study your every feature, searching your eyes for things you’ve never looked deep enough to find within yourself, making incredibly loud assumptions with his mind that he has absolutely no right to be making.

“Shut up,”  You snap at him defensively, feeling like you’re sweating buckets even in the freezing emptiness of dead space.  You can’t figure out if it’s a cold sweat or if your body is legitimately just malfunctioning under his stare.  “Shut up.”

You watch as his reflection suddenly drops his head back against the seat and rolls out the stiffness of his neck, blinking his eyes shut and raising his eyebrows like you’re completely overreacting, like he has absolutely no idea.  “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not that dumb,” you challenge.  “You’re… plotting.  Evil plotting.”

A thick eyebrow drops so that only one is quirked up, and a grin pulls at his lips.

“You’re right,” Dameron admits casually after a moment with his eyes still closed, his voice pitched low in the cramped ship.  “I was thinking about what it’s gonna take to get you to lose.”

You swallow against the dryness in your throat, starting to unintentionally bounce one of your legs up and down without even realizing it.  Fuck, this ship is small, it’s too fucking small in here—you gaze wistfully out at the vast endlessness of space, wanting to grit your teeth at the irony of being surrounded by the one thing you so desperately wish you had.

“I just have to find a weakness,” he shifts forward in his seat and reveals to you, bewilderingly shameless in his honesty.  Like all of a sudden you’re an accomplice to this endeavor instead of its target, as if he isn’t spoiling the secret by letting you in on it.  “Something that you like, that gets you going.  Something that riles you up, gets you all hot and bothered down there—”

“So you can exploit it,” you huff, slouching over a bit and trying not to sound like you’re pouting.

“—so I can exploit it,” he finishes happily, collapsing back into his seat like he’s glad you caught on so quick and he doesn’t have to explain further.  “Now we can do the whole routine—the bickering, the tension, the undeniable sexual chemistry we have—or we can skip all that and you can just tell me flat out what it’s gonna take to rev that pretty little engine up, because I want it purring.”

And, it’s so fucking weird, because the specific verbiage that would normally make you cringe just hearing it spoken aloud doesn’t inspire the typical response, even though it feels like it should.  It feels like you should be grossed out, it feels like a moment you should screw up your facial expression and act offended, but you’re… not.  This is actually fucking working, it’s unbelievable.  The undeniable fact infuriates you just as much as it stumps you.

“You do realize that everything you say is a game that two can play at, right?”  You point out, not really sure where you’re going with this but feeling heated about it all the same.  “What’s stopping me from exploiting something you like?”

“See now that’s a great idea,” Dameron announces, clapping his hands together happily and sending you jumping a few inches in your seat at the sudden sound, your hand automatically shooting up to rest on your thumping heart.  “I can tell you what I like, and you can just listen.”

Alright, no, wait—backtrack—

“How about I tell you what I don’t like,” you snip breathlessly, tucking your hair behind your ear and feeling all the blood rush to your cheeks.  Default to normal, default to normal.  “Your fucking attitude.  Your demeanor.  The way you talk down to me.  You don’t listen.  You walk around like you’re such hot shit just because you’re a good pilot but none of that means anything when you don’t ever fucking listen.  You’re terrible at it, doesn’t matter who’s talking—you don’t listen to me, you don’t listen to people who actually like you, you don’t listen to orders, you don’t listen to reason—”

“You think I’m a good pilot?”  He suddenly asks, and you have to take a second.  This cockpit isn’t designed for anything other than sitting, much less turning all the way around, but you’re sure you can find some way to throttle him from here.  He chuckles as you let out the loudest sigh you’ve ever heard yourself make—which, is an incredible feat you think both of you should be congratulated for—before Dameron eventually carries on.  “You could tell me that,” he admits with a shrug, a hidden smile on his face that he’s trying to bite back.  “Or you could tell me the truth.”

You shouldn’t encourage him, but you just can’t fucking help it.  There’s something inside you, something you can only compare to a morbid sort of curiosity.  Maybe you’re just a glutton for punishment, even more so than agreeing to this bet has already confirmed.  “And that would be—?”

“That you use anger as a defense mechanism because I touch a nerve you didn’t realize you had,” Dameron replies breezily.  “Have since the moment we met.  And that you maybe want me to touch something else, but you’re too stubborn and proud and committed to hating me to ever admit it.  You can admit it, it’s okay, I can touch whatever you need me to tou—”

“How about the emergency eject button?”  You hiss, finally feeling your frustration peak.  “Pop the top on this bitch.  Put me out of my fucking misery, right now.  You’ve got such a big head that the blood flow will probably keep your tiny little brain warm enough as long as you strap yourself down beforehand, I’ll wait.  And then you can go back to base, alone , and find another poor girl to emotionally torture since you probably don’t get enough of it from the ones you work your way through but can never remember the most basic things about.”

Remarkably, that actually shuts him up.  You’re doubtful the jab really hurts him, but you’re not going to feel bad about it either way.  He deserved that.  You cross your arms over your chest and don’t even bother looking at him, huffing and flushed with the climax of your ferocity, now left feeling strangely exhausted in its wake.  Eventually your breathing evens out and disappears into the silence, until nothing at all can be heard.

It’s like that for a moment—only a moment, before the loud tearing of velcro suddenly shreds through the quiet in the cockpit, completely rattling you.  Automatically your eyes shoot over to his reflection, watching large hands pull the orange jumpsuit apart at his chest and then shrug it over broad shoulders.  It’s not sexual.  It can’t be sexual, because there’s just no fucking room to allow it—it takes him forever to pull the long sleeves down his arms, but the way he drags it out somehow just increases your anticipation for an event you should have absolutely no interest in spectating.  He’s wearing a white sleeveless undershirt underneath and the jumpsuit bunches at his waist, making him look all the longer and more defined as he finally collapses back into his seat and reclines in it, the distant constellations bathing his lean torso in dim speckles of starlight.

Your gaze catches on every good part of him—it falls down the muscular lines of his neck and follows the thin gold chain wrapped around it, disappearing into the white of his scooping neckline.  His toned body finds a place to rest and stretch out without looking awkward or uncomfortable, coarse hair darkening his jaw and dusting the strong lines of his forearms—but it’s his eyes that make your heart stutter.  They’re endlessly deep and dark and knowing , and you can’t seem to look away from him, not even when he opens his mouth to address you.  

“You’re always so fucking mean to me,” Dameron remarks, and for just a split second—just a split second, you feel a stab of regret.  “I should eat you out tonight.”

Fuck, he hits the nail right on the head on his very first try, and just hearing the words come out of his mouth so effortlessly makes your pussy clench in on itself in need.  Nothing about his inflection changed from one sentence to the next, nothing in his voice made it seem like he just flipped the fucking galaxy upside down with just a few words.  To an onlooker who doesn’t speak Basic, they’d have absolutely no hint as to why your face is suddenly radiating heat at an industrial capacity, blazing hot enough to warm the whole cockpit.  You feel like you’re literally burning up with it.  You have to put a palm to your cheek to make sure it’s not actually on fucking fire.  “What— what did you just say to me?”

“That’s what you need,” he drawls, unbothered by the sharpness of your tone.  “What you’ve needed, ever since I can remember.  Should’ve done it a long fucking time ago, now that I’m thinking about it.  How long’s it been?  Tell me the truth, I know it’s been awhile.”

You feel like you’re being roasted alive like one of those hairy little Kowakian monkey-lizards that you’re pretty sure have sentient designation but are the first to be skewered and cooked over the firepit regardless.  Your heart is slamming against your sternum and you scramble to come up with an even slightly clever response after such an ambush.

“This is your plan?”  You raise an eyebrow at him, feeling a bead of sweat drop down your temple and onto the corner of your lashes.  Oh fuck, be cool, be cool.  “You think this is gonna work?  Ask me if I want a weak orgasm and rugburn on my thighs?”

“I can shave,” Dameron proposes quietly, lifting his chin and gently scrubbing the side of his cheek.  The sound of the thick bristles against his fingers makes you swallow thickly and push back very vivid thoughts of how his face would feel between your legs.  How soft and wet his mouth would feel at the center of that thick, coarse beard.  “Tonight, I’ll shave it off.  Make it nice and smooth for you.”

Something inside you surges up to assure him he absolutely should not shave, and you actually have to bite your tongue to keep it buried at the last second.  Stars, that was a close one, what the fuck prompted that?

“I don’t give a shit what you do,” you quickly return, resisting the urge to wipe your brow.  “Beard or no beard, makes no difference.  Foreplay is overrated, I’m not big on wasting time.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” he immediately laments—so quick , and the worst part is that the sympathy in his voice actually sounds sincere.  You’re having trouble looking him in the eyes right now, hearing the genuine pity come through in his tone.  “Who… who did this to you?”

“You said you want to figure out what I like, what turns me on,” you return, tucking your hair behind your ear once more and trying not to sound self-conscious.  Maker, how long until your shift is over?  You need to get out of here, this shit is… way out of your league.  “I’m not into it, so try again.”

“Really?”  Dameron takes a moment to look at you, furrow his thick eyebrows at you in barely concealed curiosity, before his head tilts sideways and drops to his shoulder.  “Normally I’d respect that, but I meant it when I said you need it.”

“We fucking hate each other, Dameron,” you hiss, a reminder to him as much as it is to yourself.  Fuck, you really don’t like where this is going.  “You don’t know anything about me, you don’t know what the I n—”

“I bet you think we’d fuck hard,” he murmurs, low enough that you have to take an unsteady breath and physically brace yourself for whatever is going to come from that dirty mouth next.  “You think that maybe I’d throw you around a little, give it to you from behind, teach you a fucking lesson for always talking back to me.  But that’s primitive shit, Gold-Ten, that’s not for you.”

Resist.  Resist .  You’re part of the fucking Resistance, for Maker’s sake, you’re taught to hold out until death in torture scenarios.  Since when did this tin can suddenly become a new POW camp simulation you have to train for?

“I want to take you apart so slow that you can’t talk at all,” Dameron continues quietly, and you close your eyes, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.  “We don’t even have to fuck—I mean, I want to, but mostly I just want to taste you.  Go nice and slow.  I want you on your back, so I can look in your eyes and see all that anger just… fade away.  I want to watch you try to fight how fucking good I’ll make it.  How hot it’s gonna be when you can’t glare at me anymore, when your pretty doll eyes go all soft and sweet and you finally realize that I’ve never hated you at all.”

Maker.  This is a trick.  It’s not a question, it shouldn’t be presented like one—this is a dirty rotten trick , and you’re not gonna fall for it.  You can’t fucking fall for it.  It’s a low blow, and you refuse to even acknowledge he said anything at all.  He’s lying to get your guard down.  He laughed at your flirting.  He’s a shit person, he’s using you, this isn’t real.

Real or not, you still gulp loud enough for him to hear it.

“We could go back to our room after our shift is over,” he offers out of the blue, and you have no clue why, but when he pauses and lets it hang in the air for a second, you don’t interrupt him.  You stay completely silent while he waits for you, waits for your typical snarky comeback.  You have it in your head instantly, you know what you’d normally say.  Your room.  It’s not ‘our’ room, it’s fucking your room that you’re generous enough to let him bunk in, a privilege he’s this fucking close to losing—but you can’t find it in yourself to say it right now.  Your anger is gradually losing the war to your arousal and you’re forced to watch every single small defeat inside you happen from the sidelines.

His reflection blinks at you through the transparisteel, his eyebrows raising just slightly at your prolonged silence, before he suddenly sits up a little and leans forward.

“And I could lock the door,” Dameron continues, lowering his voice, both in volume and register.  “The lights in there are way too fucking bright but I don’t want to be in complete darkness, so maybe we can turn them off and open the port shade, let just enough light come through to see.  I could turn on the radio, find something quiet, easy to listen to.  Something you like, I’ll let you pick it out.  And then… Wait, hang on, which bed?”

You clench your jaw and purposefully say nothing even as your pussy squeezes, glaring right through his reflection into the black void of space.

“Mmm.   Your bed,” he eventually decides.  “I want you comfortable.  You shower at night.  Your hair will be wet and you’ll be in those baggy pajamas that you think I can’t see your nipples through, the ones that I know you take off under your covers and then put on in the morning when you think I’m still asleep.  That’s good, I want you relaxed, so that maybe… maybe you’d let me take your panties off at some point.  And you could lay back and open your legs, and I could go down on you for a little while.  However long you need.”

Fuck.

No, this isn’t fucking happening.  Your lower muscles aren’t twisting in so hard that it actually fucking hurts, your pussy isn’t leaking through two layers of fabric under your jumpsuit, your body isn’t outright revolting against the sheer neglect you’ve put it through.  Maker, it’s fucking painful.  You have to clench your hands into fists and dig your fingernails into your palms before you can open your mouth.

“You want to know what I need?”  You nearly wheeze, a drop of sweat sliding down the back of your neck this time.  Your body feels like it’s three sizes too big for this cockpit and your skin feels like it’s three sizes too small for your body.  “I need you to shut the fuck u—”

“What you need,” Dameron purrs, sliding up closer behind your seat and sighing soft against the worn material of your headrest, “is a warm mouth to cum in.  Don’t be shy, pretty baby, you can tell me.”

You growl out his last name as threateningly as you possibly can before he purrs yours right back in your ear, and fuck, you’ve never heard it sound so sexual before.  Last names allow pilots to maintain a respectful distance from each other.  Flight designations are Resistance-wide, but last names are just… allies.  Not friends, not companions, but a vast network of people brought together by a common enemy.  It hurts to lose a first name.  But the way yours sounds rolling off of Dameron’s tongue is just too sinful, too intimate when calling you that is meant to sever intimacy by design.  He says it slow and makes it dirty, muddies it in the back of his throat as he slides up even closer to you, until his face is right next to yours as you stare at each other through the transparisteel.

“I’m really…” he pauses, before exhaling through his nose and swallowing thick enough to make his Adam’s apple drop and bounce up again, his tongue coming out to wet his plush lips as he blinks slowly at you with a heavy gaze, “… really good at it.  Call me Poe and I’ll do it for you all night.”

Shit, your pussy is just a fucking mess right now.  It feels like it’s melting sweet and syrupy all over your thighs, throbbing and pounding and clamping up and screaming at you to do something, at least press your hand down there to alleviate some of the aching tensi—

No— stars, no touching yourself is rule number two.  You drop your hands to your thighs and squeeze them, trying to reign yourself back in.

“I think you’re—just projecting,” you try, but turns out responding in general is just an all-around bad idea.  Nothing about it comes out right.  The ‘just’ sounds like your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and your voice cracks on the word ‘projecting,’ but you don’t even have time to be self-conscious or embarrassed at how much you’re giving yourself away—all your energy has to go towards fighting the tightness between your open legs, how you’re so fucking turned on that you’re worried you’ll cum without even touching yourself.  Oh Maker, can you imagine?  How fucking proud of himself he’d be?  You can’t let that happen, but fuck, holding back something so appealing is so much harder than it sounds.

Tap into that anger, tap into that anger—only, you can’t suddenly find it.  Where’d it go?  Fuck, doesn’t matter, conjure it.  Quick, before it’s too late, get mad —don’t let him lure you into a… a false… 

Dameron tilts his chin down towards the line of your shoulder and then slowly turns his head towards your neck, breathing you in gently.

A false sense of…

His soft exhale makes goosebumps break out all the way down your arms.

… What?

“Maybe you’re right,” Dameron acknowledges, talking just under your ear.  You watch his eyelids dip and the dark beard brushes against your skin and you catch just a hint of that woodsy, spicy scent engulfing you.  Like… teakwood, maybe?  Stars, you don’t know, you think you’re starting to lose your mind.  What the fuck does teakwood even smell like?  “Maybe it’s just what I need.  You should exploit it, chances are I’ll still cum first.”

That rockets another painful spasm down low.  It hurts so fucking bad—fuck, maybe you could… rub yourself up against these weapons controls?  Just a little bit?  That joystick, right there, just ease yourself up against it just to nurse this wound a little bit…?

No, fucking— bad.  That’s bad, you have to stop—

“This isn’t real, this isn’t—y-you just…”  You flutter your eyelashes shut, digging your fingernails into your thighs like it’ll help break through the fog of his lulling voice, how fucking amazing he smells right now.  “You just want to win th-the b—”

“ Fuck the bet,” he tells you quietly, his head dipped low enough now that his lips brush against your neck, and you shudder so hard at the sensation that your shoulder almost knocks into his chin with it.  “You really think I’m doing all this for a fucking bet?”

Don’t trust him, don’t trust him, don’t—

Your deep breath is so stuttery and uneven that it’s technically just a series of shallow inhales all anxiously strung together, too desperate for oxygen to go about it legato.  It’s painfully obvious to him by now, it has to be, but you very quickly miss the shaky breathing as soon as he takes away your ability to do it all together.

“Let me taste you,” he whispers, his voice almost breaking with how gentle it is, how it sounds like it flips in and out of his register when he speaks this low.  “Right now, let’s make it real, let m—I know you have to be soaking fucking wet, baby, just let me try a little bit of it, please—I’m… holy shit, I’m so hard just thinking about it.”

“You c-can’t,” you stammer, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.  At him, at the situation, at the painful throb of emptiness between your legs.  “Fuck, it’s not allowed, it’s against the rules—”

“It won’t be,” he assures you, and you hiccup when you suddenly feel his hand brush against your side, strong fingers branching out to curve against your ribcage.  “You don’t have to do anything, you can stay just like this.  Just a few seconds and then I’ll stop, I promise.”

Oh, Maker, it’s on the very top of your tongue, so unbelievably close to telling him something—but you don’t know what it should be.  You’re right at the tipping point, on a tightrope right between what you want and what you should want.  And, knowing you’re this close to giving in, Dameron slowly eases his hand down your side and starts to trail it inwards, and just the lightest brush of his warm tongue against your neck shatters any composure you have left.

You whimper and instinctively try to close your legs, but you fucking can’t— your knees are forced wide apart by controls and your whole body freezes when his hand slides down and folds gently along the curve of your pussy through the thick fabric of your jumpsuit.

The feeling of being held like this by him is just too good , cradled so perfectly in his palm as he opens his mouth and flutters his tongue out to taste your skin again, giving you a little more of it this time and letting you feel the roughness of his beard with the way his lips move.  Your breath catches, then he hooks his fingertips up just the slightest bit and pulls back, and you suddenly have to smack your whole hand over your face in a terrible attempt to stifle your loud gasp.

“Oh, Maker, I c-can’t,” you stammer against your fingers, not being able to trust him or your own body.  You continue to protest even after he moves back up, resting his palm low on your abdomen, letting the heat bleed through the fabric and transfer directly to your floor muscles as he lifts his head up from your shoulder.  “I can’t, we can’t, I…”

You can’t see him, but you know he’s looking at you.  He’s staring right at you through the reflection, studying the way you’re hiding your face from him, how you’re still melting, still losing your composure just from the warm palm pressed tight your tummy.

His touch leaves you for a second. But then the deafening sound of velcro ripping at the crotch of your jumpsuit has you dragging your hand down your mouth and your eyelids dipping.

“Dameron,” you breathe into your fingers, just as his carefully slip into the small opening and begin to work at the button to your pants. “Dameron, this isn’t—you don’t want—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I don’t want,” he grunts at you, and you try not to bite yourself at the sound of him unzipping things and yanking fabric to the side.  “What I really fucking want is the real thing, but I guess this’ll have to do for now.”

“I—”  Your mind whirs desperately, trying to process when his fingers wedge under your panties and down.   But he doesn’t give you a single fucking second.  As soon as the tip of his middle finger reaches your slit, he’s dropping it and sliding it through your slick, hot, unbearably neglected cunt.

“Fuck,” he spits, and you feel like you might be about to break your own fucking jaw with how hard you’re clutching it, trying so desperately not to make a noise.  The pad of his finger is rough and calloused as it drags against your clit in slow, tight circles, and you clamp your eyes shut and try to breathe normally, but it’s no use.  Fuck , it’s been so long .  You’ve been aching for it for a full fucking month and a half now and you know that even if he couldn’t feel it, he can hear how drenched you are right now.  It’s making an obscene sound as he steadily masturbates you with one heavenly finger, giving your body what it’s desperately craved for so many weeks.  “Fuck, baby’s pussy got fucking wet hearing me talk about how good I’d lick it, huh?”

That sends a bright flare launching through you and you gasp raggedly, both hands whipping out to snatch at his forearm where it disappears between your legs.  “No, shit, wait, stopstopstopstop stop , I—”

His hand slips out immediately and yet you continue to tremble like his finger is still right there, like your clit is just imagining it so vividly that it’s successfully convincing itself of the illusion.  The aching bit of flesh is burning, that good burn, the one that’s searing and bright that makes your muscles continue to chase the sensation long after the stimulation is gone.  Fuck, he almost made you cum.  He barely touched you for a few seconds and yet your fingers have to tighten into claws to slow your body down the fuck down, flexing against your thighs and trying your best to halt the impending climax.

By the time you’re able to wrangle yourself back from the edge and look at his reflection, his middle finger is already in his mouth and he’s blinking slowly at you, his pupils blown wide.  You’re breathing hard at him, staring open-mouthed at the way his lips are closed below his second knuckle, how he takes forever dragging it back out again.  You have to close your eyes.  You have to clamp them shut and keep them that way, knowing you won’t be able to look at him through whatever he’s going to say next.

Except, oddly, he doesn’t say much.

“Shit,” he breathes, dropping his mouth to your neck once more.  “Shhhit.  I…”

Your eyes snap open in sudden, blind panic when he doesn’t continue, horrified at the possibility that he doesn’t like it.  Dameron always has something to say, he doesn’t go speechless.  “Oh—Maker, is it not—?”

“Mmmfuck, just—” he grits, panting hot air against your skin, “—fuck.  Give me a second.”

You can only see the crown of his head with the way he’s angled, but you can see his shoulders a little further back.  They start… moving slightly.  Just the littlest bit, a smooth motion, like his whole body is slowly easing back and forth—

The nav controls are between his legs, you immediately realize.  He’s grinding up against them with how close he is to you and your seat.

And suddenly, it’s like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.  A ray of sunshine that breaks through the raging storm.  Dameron might cum in his pants like this.  Which means you’ll win, and arguably more importantly, you’ll finally be able to cum.  You don’t even take a moment to consider the potential consequences—how you’re going to have to withstand the stimulation until he succumbs to it, how you’ll have to outlast—but you’re not thinking straight.  You’re not really thinking at all.

“You can…” you suddenly hear yourself whisper, and your heart pounds in your throat when he instantly stops moving.  “One… one more.  If you want.  You can put your finger inside this time, it’s where I’m the… w-wettest.”

“Fuck,” Dameron croaks into the crook of your neck, his voice scraping low and rough and sending a tremor through you.  “Fuck, okay, yeah—”

His hand slides across your hip and down, but you catch him just in time.

“But don’t touch my clit.”  You try to sound as firm as possible through the breathlessness, still trying to put your foot down even when you’re giving in, and Dameron’s teeth come out as he stifles a soft groan into your neck in response.

“Yes, baby,” he murmurs obediently as his hand sinks down once more, and so diligently, he avoids it altogether.  His fingers slide under your panties and fall straight down to your entrance, down to where you know you’re the hottest, where your pussy is flexing and pushing wetness out with a steady, wicked throb.  The pad of his middle finger presses gently against the tight muscles there, rubs just the slightest bit to feel that resistance, and then the length of it eases inside you so slowly that your knees rattle against bulky metal.

“Fucking Maker , ” he hisses as he slides it in, his body making a sudden jerk against the controls.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of something inside you after so long, after such a torturous buildup, and you grasp at his forearm again when it curls naturally up against searing pleasure.  Oh, it’s so good, it’s so good, your hands shake while he very carefully moves it in and out, the raw sparks of heat threatening to incinerate you as your muscles cling to every ridge of his finger.  He gets it sopping wet, bathes it so completely in your slick that you’re almost certain it’ll come out pruny and drenched.

“Shit, okay,” you pant, squeezing desperately around his finger, “o-okay, fuck, that’s enough.”

His hand pulls out… slower this time.  He slips his finger out of you quick enough, but he drags the tip of it through your folds as he retreats, just barely grazing your clit and making you jolt in your seat.  Shit, you don’t know if it felt intentional enough to fault him for it—mostly it just excites you, thrills you to have him edge you like this without really needing to put any effort at all into it.

Dameron lifts his head to sink his finger deep into his mouth once more, and you tremble as you watch him enjoy it, staring at the way his shoulders seem to relax as soon as your taste is on his tongue, how his face goes soft with it and he almost slumps.

Relief.  Genuine, not embellished.  He still doesn’t say anything after he slowly slides it out and blinks at you, no sugar sweet drawl telling you how amazing you taste, no candied words to make you give in and let him have another go.  You’re both breathing hard at each other, staring, waiting to see who will break first.

Stars, you… fucking like this.  You want him to keep going, but you can’t offer it again.  It’s just too exposing, too revealing to let him you’re actually really fucking enjoying this, you can’t—

“Do you w—?”  Your voice automatically comes out through the silence without your permission, sounding just absolutely fucking wrecked by this point, but his palm is already slithering back down as soon as you speak, and you make the softest little submissive noise in your throat at him taking immediate initiative like that.  He’s not as careful about it this time—his hand finds its target with less frill, his finger slides in quicker, sinking deep into your heat with little hesitation, lighting you on fire from the inside out, and you bite the meat of your thumb to stay quiet.

“Fuck, this is so hot,” he suddenly breathes next to your ear while your legs spasm and you gasp brokenly.  “This is so—fuck, pretty baby letting me do this to her, I can’t fucking believe—”

Dameron eases a second finger inside you this time, letting you feel that delicious stretch from this angle, unable to lift your legs or shuffle around to help and subsequently resigned to simply experience it the way he gives it to you.  Your teeth have probably permanently indented your bottom lip from how hard you’re clamped down, a testament to how much you’re trying to hold back the loud moan you miraculously haven’t released yet.  Somehow it makes it sexier, not letting him hear you, not having your own noises to drown out the spark of urgency in his voice beginning to peek through.

Shit, it’s too much.  You can only let him touch you a few seconds at a time before you feel that familiar tug towards mind-numbing bliss, and the more he does it, the more appealing that feeling then becomes.  It’s teasing you, floating right in front of you and calling into question what could possibly be so bad about just reaching out to meet it?  You could.  You could cum right now.  What’s two weeks of pay?  You could cum all night long if you want, that is a thing you can do—

Quickly snapping out of your hypnotic downfall, your trembling hands snatch at his forearm once more, and Dameron, the fucker, drags his fingers slowly over your clit on the way out— so not accidental, not even close to it this time, but the sensation makes your hips stutter upwards and chase it nonetheless.

“Fuck you,” you groan at his audacity, your chest arching as you drop your head back, “I said don’t touch my—” but two wet fingers slipping past your lips and onto your tongue muffle the rest of your sentence.  Your heart does half a somersault before slamming down early, the taste of your pussy filling your mouth as you automatically start sucking on them.

“None of that,” Dameron tells you softly, massaging his fingers along your tongue before pressing a sweet kiss under your ear.  “Be nice.  I’m being nice.”

You should bite him.  Instead, you just close your eyes and mphh weakly around his fingers, your body sagging as you give into it and let him explore your mouth with them, your lower muscles cramping up in painful desperation even when he’s not anywhere near that part of your body right now.  Your tongue even comes up to lick between them, swirl around them so soft compared to how hard you’re puffing through your nose.

Dameron slowly inches his fingers out, letting the tips of them rest against your bottom lip for just a brief moment, before his hand is moving again.  Not down, but back and around, so he can open his mouth and taste you another way this time.

Shit, you feel like you’re dying.  You need air.  Your hands clench into fists and you use the back of one to wipe the sweat from the bridge of your nose while he takes his time sampling you like this.  If anything, he looks just as blissed out as before, continuing to rub his crotch up against the solid metal between his legs and teasing you with it as much as he’s teasing himself.

“Maker, let me do this for real tonight, okay,” Dameron pants after dropping his fingers from his mouth, sounding like he’s fighting for his breath while you can’t find yours at all.  Your eyes flick down to watch the way his hand disappears behind the chair to grab the controls and push his cock up against them even harder, how he drops his forehead to your neck like he just can’t fucking handle it anymore.  “Fuck, I’ll shave, I’ll do anything you want, just let me—”

“Cum,” you gasp out before you can stop yourself, and there’s a moment after it where his hips suddenly stutter against the controls, and you both freeze.

Shit.  Shitshitshit, did that actually work?

No, you very quickly realize, his body isn’t spasming like it would if he finally emptied his load after a month and a half.  He’s just… holding there, his head buried in your neck, completely still.

You didn’t mean it like that.  Well… fuck, you did, but you didn’t realize you’d be that reckless about it, that upfront about reissuing the challenge.

Dameron pulls back to look at you from the side this time, but it’s too cramped—he keeps his head turned facing you even as his eyes flick up to the transparisteel to take in the finer details of your features, the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead, and the slightly alarmed way you’re blinking back at him, worried you just shot your blaster at him in the midst of a mutual ceasefire and you fucking missed.

You see the understanding in his eyes instantly fall into place, and it’s not fucking good.  Ohhhhhh no, it’s not good.  Your chest starts rising and falling rapidly, suddenly registering the position you just put yourself in.  Fuck, you didn’t think—you saw your opening, so clearly, you didn’t have time to think about the consequences.

“D-Dameron…” you try your best to placate.

“Don’t touch your clit?”  He asks quietly, the raspiness of his voice ripping a hole through you while his hand suddenly shoves its way back down your body once more.

“Dameron,” you whimper, your heart stuttering in panic as you grasp weakly at his arm reaching between your spread thighs, “Dameron, this is—this is against the r-rules—”

“You keep saying that,” he comments, his fingers easily finding the opening in your jumpsuit no matter how hard you flex your thighs against bulky mechanics to try and close them.  “How clearly do you remember the rules?  What were the rules again?

You open your mouth to respond but his hand sliding under your panties and down just obliterates any chance you were going to attempt.  No words, nothing comes out but a shaky whine as his finger sinks into your soaking heat, going right for the kill.

“Come on, baby, the rules,” Dameron reminds you when you never give him an answer.  “Tell me.  No fucking, no jerking off, and…?”

You suddenly struggle forwards in a last-ditch attempt at preventing the inevitable, hoping you can scoot up enough in your seat to escape his reach from behind.  But fuck, your thighs have been shoved wide open for nearly eight hours—none of the muscles are working the way they should be anymore.  There’s just enough room in front of you to get there and you probably would’ve been able to do it at the beginning of the shift, even with his hand between your legs like this, but you’re sluggish and your thighs pull sharp and urgent with the movement.  The frantic maneuver enough to veer his fingers off course just slightly, moving one of your lips to the side at an angle, and you keep pushing against the pain no matter how useless it is.

“—No cumming,” he finishes for you, and his other hand is slithering up under your arm and groping one of your breasts through the jumpsuit before shoving you back tight up against your seat once more, totally helpless against it.  “Probably have another fifteen minutes or so before our shift ends.  Better hold it in, pretty baby, because this one is all you.”

“This—this isn’t fair, this is—”  The second the slippery pad of his finger presses hard against your clit, you’re biting your lip to cut off a breathless whimper that slips out.  “This is… is sab— sabotage— ”

“Oh, I know,” he moans next to your ear, mocking your high plea of distress with a fake, overly sympathetic whine.  “Feels so fucking good though, doesn’t it?”

Fuck, it does.  The build feels like an orgasm in itself, just working your way to it.  You’re already so unbelievably close after just a few seconds of direct stimulation, an obvious consequence of originally agreeing to such a hardcore edging workout.  You’re pouring sweat, so swollen and tight between your legs as you do everything you can to revolt against your body’s needs.

“Oh fuck, stop touching my clit—” you gasp raggedly, heart thundering in panic while your lower muscles start to immediately seize up, “oh—fuckfuckfuck— Poe, take your finger off m—”

Instead of doing it, his hand just slows down until the tip of his finger comes to a halt, maybe less than an inch over top of it.  You still can’t catch your breath though, not when you feel yourself throbbing against absolutely nothing, the calloused pad holding perfectly still over the bundle of nerves.  The swollen bud still arcs and flares at a steady frequency, building and building, and you choke out a wordless garble, absolutely fucking furious that this is what’s gonna make you cum.

“Don’t make me cum,” you switch up your sentence but not the terrified plead in your voice, the way it’s pitching up and out of control in the dead quiet of space.  He doesn’t even acknowledge it.  “Don’t make me cum, don—”

“Say it again,” he prompts instead, and lightning arcs up your spine.

“Poe,” you wheeze, the words coming from you without thought, your fingernails digging into his forearm even as your hips jerk up into his touch, “fuck, don’t make me cum, Poe—please don’t make me c—”

“But it’ll be so good,” he counters lowly, and your clit throbs in desperation at the richness of his voice when he speaks like this, saying things from deep in his chest.  “It’ll be so fucking good when it happens.  Stars, you’ll feel so much better, won’t you?  Cum right now and I’ll give you as many as I can until we have to go home.”

“N-No,” you whine, feeling his teeth scrape at the crook of your neck.  “No, I can’t—”

“Cum for me,” Dameron raises his voice, sharpening it into a direct order.  “Right now.  Come on— fucking make yourself lose.”

“But I—I—” you sob, starting to feel your body curl inwards, nearly about to succumb to the burning, the tightening, right on its last breath, “I-I don’t want to cum—”

“And I don’t fucking care,“ he hisses while your hands start flexing unintentionally, grasping helplessly at his immovable forearm where it disappears between your legs, the dark hair sliding under your fingertips as you claw desperately at it.  “You’ll fucking cum when I tell you to cum and you’ll like it, you disrespectful, cock-deprived, bratty little—”

And then everything goes dark.

No, literally.  The stars disappear.

The cockpit is suddenly shrouded in pitch blackness, and you’re almost certain it’s because you pass out, except then Dameron is all but ripping his hand out of your jumpsuit and cursing repeatedly in alarm.  You crumple in on yourself, eyes clamped shut and not hearing anything, right at the peak of your ecstasy and ready to soar into the light completely unassisted, your muscles doing all the work on their own—

“—shit, they’re way too close—” you hear his voice shout, “—we have to turn the engines on—Gold-Ten, baby, turn the fucking eng—”

You’re almost there, you’re almost there, you’re gonna cum, you’re gonna fucking—

Your first name, roared out in startling, blinding panic.

You don’t often hear it.  Just during roll calls mostly, but only if you’re flying with a different squadron and need a new temporary flight designation for the day.  First names hurt.  You can’t remember a time you’ve ever willingly told anybody yours.

Your head jerks up to look at his reflection but something else beyond the transparisteel takes immediate precedence.  Your brain takes about two seconds to catch up before thundering terror slams through you and halts your previously inevitable orgasm in its fucking tracks.  A runaway train about to launch off its tracks suddenly slamming directly into a megaton force-field of cold, hard fight or flight instincts.

A staggering fleet of First Order ships silently plunging out of hyperspace on all sides—your powered-down x-wing stationed right in the middle of the drop location.

***

Stay tuned for part two coming soon!!