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thedreamlessnights · 10 months

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Accismus - pt. 6

{previous chapter} || {next chapter upcoming}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: On the journey, you and Ciri bond, and she and Geralt give you some training. A series of unexpected things occur. The road goes ever on.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of major injuries and death, mentions of vomit, mentions of personal injuries. Intense scenes of fighting, multiple mentions of blood, graphic description of a monster death, moderately graphic descriptions of a corpse. Spoilers for The Last Wish (in particular, The Lesser Evil story). While prior knowledge of that book and story is not needed, I highly recommend it - it's a masterclass of writing and exposition.

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I am very, very excited for you all to see this chapter. I feel as though we're finally reaching the heart of the story - the scenes I've wanted to write since the very beginning, when I first had the idea for Accismus. I hope you'll all enjoy this segment (though many of you may also hate me afterward). Comments are incredibly encouraged and appreciated! Without further ado...

Leaving Novigrad is nothing but chaos. It’s sheer, overwhelming, and somehow endearing, but nonetheless chaos.

As soon as the three of you are on your feet, there’s a desperate rush of teasing, goodbyes, and demands of letters, as if it’s just now sunk in that you’re actually going. There are calls for a final round of drinks, goblets of honeyed mead being shoved into open hands, wishes of luck murmured over the rims of glasses.

Dandelion starts chattering as fast as he can about the djinn, too fast to give you any room to speak. He squeezes your shoulder and promises the ballad will be his best one yet, then assures you that you’re welcome to return at any time you’d like - which is so kind you don’t even know how to respond. Luckily, he doesn’t give you the chance. He’s off to chat with Zoltan about something.

You, Ciri, and Geralt try your best to lug your things to your horses in the midst of everything, but the two of them keep getting pulled away. Just as you’re thinking you’ll get out unscathed, Priscilla pulls you into her arms for a hug, and you nearly drop your bag in shock.

“I wanted to ask if you’d join us for Yule,” she says, giving your shoulders a tight, comforting squeeze before she pulls away. “Only if you’re interested, of course,” she adds quickly. “You’ve been such lovely company! I know we’ll all miss you just as soon as you’re gone. If you could manage it, we’d love to have you. There’ll be no ballads, I swear it.”

Your throat feels tight. “Thank you,” you tell her, forcing a smile. “I’d love to.”

As soon as you’ve said it, you know that you’ll have to be there. If not to see them all again, then to avoid disappointing her. Was it really just a few days ago that you and Geralt were in that cave, hiding out from the rain? When you had been telling yourself to shut him out, to not tell him a thing more about yourself? It seems years away now - as if the train of thought had been washed away the moment you’d stepped inside the Chameleon.

At your answer, Priscilla beams at you, and with a final squeeze of your shoulder, escorts you out the door. “Stay safe, all of you,” she says.

Then, Dandelion is shouting out something else about the ballad, Eskel and Lambert are snickering over something about Geralt and a broken leg, and the three of you are finally, truly off.

For the first time, you have something to look forward to after you and Geralt find the djinn. If only your hands would stop shaking.

From the very beginning, the journey out of the city is different than the one coming into it. Your days do not pass away in lengths of unbearable heat or blistering palms. Not that the heat is not there, of course, but it’s more manageable in fair company, when you feel less of a burden and more of a friend.

If Yennefer’s presence had been a shard of ice, then Ciri’s is a warm glass of mead, filling you up from the inside out. Geralt clearly cares tremendously for her, and it’s not long before you do, too. And how could you not, coming to know her?

Everything comes and goes in a blur of sun and moon - strengthening hands on the reins and calluses being built, Ciri’s witty, snippish remarks, and Geralt laughing, laughing, at her tales of being a witcheress. Somewhere in between, you’re being roped into talking about yourself.

Geralt may not push about your past - or who you are at all, really - but Ciri wraps her inquiries in innocent questions that have you talking much longer than you’ve realized. Then, with your throat raw and hoarse, you’ll finally notice her tricks and - with no small sense of betrayal - drop off in the middle of a sentence.

“What?” she’ll laugh. “Go on!”

And then you’ll be talking again.

You can’t stand to speak about certain parts of your past, so you talk about everything else - tales of your rambunctious childhood, memories of your parents that aren’t painful enough to silence you.

You tell them about your father raising horses, and how the first gift you can remember was a mare named Mead - the same one you’ve named your current horse after. You tell them about being five, imagining you were the village’s doctor, going from door to door with a piece of wood and noting down ‘illnesses.’

You’d even pretended to treat your father’s case of ‘measles’ - which was nothing more than a scrape on his arm - with a mysterious plant which had turned out to be poison ivy. It had given you both a horrible rash for a week.

Your mother had tried to be stern then, but couldn’t hide her shaking shoulders from you as she rubbed soothing creams over your arms, concocted from the herbs in the gardens in front of your home. Nor could she hide the fond smile she gave you afterward, gently brushing her thumb over your cheek.

From then on, you’d been banned from touching mysterious plants - which led you to reading books instead. Your parents had been educated, and they’d taught you how to read, too. You’d gone around, begging neighbors for any spare works they could spare. It had been before the war, and times had been different - the people, too. More willing to share, even in Velen, where need bled into the very soil.

Every chance you’d gotten, you’d read and reread books about gardening, history, healing, and anything else you could get your hands on. When you were old enough, you worked any odd job you could, because you wanted to become a doctor. Cleaning, gardening, finding lost items. Mending torn clothes, fetching something from the next town over, catching a fish someone needed for a meal. You’d done it all. Everything you could.

“Busy as a bee, weren’t you?” Ciri muses with a smile. “Buzzing around from place to place.”

You can’t say her description is inaccurate. In those times, you hadn’t been still for a moment. Becoming a doctor had been your lifeblood, the reason behind every action you made. It was planted in you, a root that would not come out.

And, for the first time since you left The Chameleon, your words choke in your mouth, and you can’t speak - not about that. You leave the story there, and Ciri doesn’t question it.

But you feel Geralt’s eyes on you, those warm, inspecting eyes that never seem to leave you. You wonder what he’s thinking. You’d give anything to know.

Just a few days after you’ve set off, Geralt and Ciri take to training you. Even with two witchers, they explain, it’ll be good for you to learn. A real sword is too advanced to start with, and neither of them have practice ones, so Ciri shows you basic defensive actions, dodges, and escapes, and has you repeat them until they’re instinctive. Then she has you practice them in more depth, in various scenarios.

“That’s it,” she says. “Keep spinning. Buzz around! Just like a bee!”

Eventually, that shortens down into a two-worded application of the phrase. “Shift left! Faster! Buzz - bee!”

Any time you’re paired with her, you do alright. Not perfect, but enough to draw a look of pride when you successfully disarm her or escape her grip. She’ll give you a tip or two, then have you do it again.

“How was that?” you ask afterward, panting.

She grins at you, a twinkle in her eye. “Perfect. Just like a bee.”

With Geralt, it’s a different story.

Every time you’re paired with him, even before you’ve started, you freeze up. Your mind goes completely blank, as if the sight of him wipes your memory clean, wipes every instinct away. It’s even worse when he touches you. All you can seem to think about is the warmth of his body pressed against you, and even though you try with all your might to remember what to do, your movements always end up jarred and clumsy.

“Try again,” he says softly, over and over. “One more time.” It’s never unkind, but he’s strict, drilling the moves into you with an intensity that you can only describe as fear. He’s worried about you.

“Gotta use more force,” he says. “C’mon, faster. No, the other arm. Remember what Ciri said?”

You do. Buzz around like a bee. But if you’re a bee with him, you’re certainly a dead one. Your body just will not move the way you want it to, no matter how hard you try. This sort of thing goes on until you’re both exhausted, and you turn in for the night. And, naturally, when Ciri practices the same moves with you the next morning, they come naturally.

“Well done, busy bee,” she says.

And there are Geralt’s eyes again, fixed on you. Golden. Piercing. Almost teasing, as he raises his brows. And you know he knows.

For the fleeting moment when your gaze meets his, you regret not kissing him when you’d had the chance. More often than not, you’ve caught yourself ruminating on the softness of his lips, on how they might feel pressed against yours. On his hands, warm and sure, tracing a path down the small of your back.

Then your mind rushes back to you, and you remember why you hadn’t. Your reasoning seems less and less sound when he’s looking at you like that.

Most nights of the journey are spent outside, but there’s the occasional inn that you come across, and none of you can resist the chance of a warm bed. You and Geralt share a room as you had before, and Ciri takes her own. That’s the only moment of awkwardness you can feel, when the three of you bid each other good night - but it’s brief and fleeting, and there aren’t any moments of tension with you and Geralt like before. Even if you might wish for it.

The inns are rare, and the farce you’ve put up for yourself is bearable. Usually, the three of you sleep in shifts, and the two of them drill it into you to wake them if you hear or see anything.

You never do, not in those nights under the stars, keeping alert in the progressively cooling air. There’s never anything but the three of you and open air, the soft sounds of Geralt and Ciri breathing. It’s the one time you seem to get for yourself, and you come to look forward to it. Being able to think, without Geralt or Ciri watching you, you can almost pretend that the djinn isn’t real.

Almost.

As time goes on, something between you and Geralt slowly shifts. Ciri is a buffer, too clever for anything to slip by her, and Geralt would never do anything while she’s here - not even if she’s ten minutes away, gathering some food for the journey.

There seems to be a silent agreement that settles in. You don’t know what it will be like, in those days after she’s gone, but you do know with an absolute certainty that nothing is going to happen while she’s with you. And, with the lessening number of inns that show on the journey, it makes for very little room between you and Geralt. Not enough room for romance, that’s to be sure.

Thoughts of kissing him fade. Your eyes still linger - on his sure hands, strapping up food to Roach, on the scars of his arms, soft and pink - but you’re quick to catch them. The message there is clear. Not now, it says. It’s not the time.

Maybe not ever, you think, a deep pit in your stomach.

Eventually, with this sort of emotional blockade put up, solidifying, you’re able to do the defensive moves even with Geralt. They collectively decide that you’re ready to move on to something else. The further on you go, the more dangerous the roads are.

Initially, Ciri tries to give you a dagger. Unfortunately, as soon as she hands it to you, your hands start sweating so much that you can barely grip it. It might be helpful if you didn’t feel like throwing up every time you look at it - much less holding it. Geralt finally notices the way you’re trembling and takes the thing away.

Which means you must resort to other methods of protection. As soon as the three of you come across a town with a blacksmith, you’re set up with your own crossbow, equipped with bolts. Thankfully, this turns out to be a success. You’ve worked with a bow before, after all, and Geralt and Ciri make you take turns shooting it while riding on Mead, hitting random targets until you’re very pleased at your aim.

And, of course, Ciri can use a crossbow bolt to hit a piece of wood mid-air. Like father, like daughter, it seems.

When the three of you cross over the border of Kaedwen, the mood changes. You’re not sure why. There’s something deeper, something veiled in the air. You spend your nights tense. Your dreams turn feverish, plagued not only by visions of a dagger in your hand, but by the cave you’d seen that night in Novigrad.

The deep, dark pit seldom leaves your mind. You grow so weary of it that your eyes turn desperately to your surroundings as the three of you ride, pleading for something else to attach to. Rain falls heavily and fog chokes the pathways, making it hard to see.

And, for the first time, the three of you come across some danger.

For a first event, it’s not much. It could be much worse, really. Just a few ghouls, eating a decaying corpse. No bandits. No giant centipedes bursting out of the ground, or swarms of nekkers ready to claw you apart.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. It doesn’t stop your immense sense of discomfort, the sweat pilling up on your palms, trickling down the back of your neck as you mindlessly put an arrow toward your bow.

You hate monsters, but there’s something in particular you hate about necrophages. Something… unsettling about the way they crave rotting flesh. Only one thing lies between them eating you, and it’s your loss of life. Not exactly an encouraging thought.

As the three of you ride in closer, your stomach starts churning at the smell in the air. Death. You’d give anything to never smell it again.

Being at the front of the line, Ciri leaps off her horse and kills three of the ghouls in a quick, clean motion. Then she looks at you. “Just one left,” she says, motioning to one that’s a little further down the road. “Go on, Bee, give it a shot!”

“Ciri,” Geralt says, hand tightening a little on his sword. Hesitation brims his tone. “Gotta be careful.”

She simply shoots him a look, eyes twinkling. “Aren’t I always?” she asks.

You know the answer to that, and you don’t like it. You also do not want to do what she’s asking. You can barely stand to look at the remaining ghoul for a second longer, much less target and kill it. Then again, you really should know how to defend yourself. And if you can’t kill a ghoul, you’re almost hopeless with anything else.

“I’ll do it,” you tell them.

Mead is shifting uneasily under you, so, with your heart pounding like a drum, you swing off the saddle and tighten your grip on your crossbow. You can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Geralt’s silence and his gaze on your back aren’t helping.

It’s the ghoul dashing near you that rouses you. Your heart starts thrumming even faster, as if your mind has finally comprehended the fact that there’s not only disgust but danger here, and you grab the bow and attempt to do what you know.

In, out. In, out. You notch an arrow and take aim. These are natural movements, ones you’ve repeated, and they should come with ease - but this situation is anything but natural. The thing keeps running in circles, distracted by Ciri, who evades its attacks with clean, fluid movements.

She’s clever, steering clear enough to give you a good aim, letting you predict its movements without worrying about hitting her. She’s putting herself in danger for this, and waiting for you, and you need to shoot.

So you do. You line up the ghoul in your sights, take one more deep breath, and your hands shake like a leaf as you finally pull the trigger. A split-second later, there’s a horrific, sick sort of noise, a terrible splatter that you can’t bear to watch. You keep your eyes on the ground and tremble in silence.

“Well done!” Ciri says. “Excellent shot!”

When you look up, the ghoul is dead. You'd actually hit it - something you didn’t think you could do - and on your first try, at that. You give a weak smile at Ciri’s enthusiasm, but can’t turn away from the ghoul’s body.

Blood is spilling onto the ground like dark wine, sickly metallic in the air. The uncannily humanoid face is twisted up in agony, frozen in death. And, worst of all, it’s laying a few feet from the corpse it’d been eating. This close, your gaze takes in every terrible detail. Your throat goes tight.

These are scraps of someone, someone who was like you, now laying in the dirt. Someone who lived, breathed, loved, someone now unidentifiable, rotting and alone. What a terrible way to remain in this world - nothing but a bloody, stinking mass of bones on the roadway. And, for the life of you, you can’t look away. The image burns deep into your mind even as you shut your eyes.

It’s become hard to breathe. The scent of death is burning through your nostrils, choking through your senses. You’re shaking worse than ever. Geralt is saying something, but you can’t hear him - your heart is thundering in your ears, and your stomach is turning again, and all at once, you bend over and vomit up your breakfast.

Geralt swings off Roach and is instantly at your side, gently patting your back. “Hey,” he says soothingly, softly. “You alright?”

You can’t manage an answer. Your knees don’t feel steady. You have to fight the urge to reach out and grab onto him, choosing to plant your hands on your knees as you retch instead.

Ciri is quick to join the two of you, sheathing her sword. “Not to worry,” she says, her tone bright as ever. “That’s the adrenaline, Bee. You’ll adapt over time.”

You spit the acrid taste out of your mouth and wipe your face with your sleeve, tearing your eyes away from the corpse with all the strength you have. You’re still trembling.

What you want is a hug. You really, really just… want to be wrapped up in a warm pair of arms and held. Squeezed tight, like Priscilla had squeezed you. But neither Geralt nor Ciri can read your mind, neither of them have really hugged you before, and you’ve just been vomiting up your breakfast - so of course they don’t hug you.

“What - what were you saying?” you ask Geralt, voice as shaky as you feel. “Before? I didn’t hear you.”

“Told you that was a good shot,” Geralt says. “Gotta aim higher, though. Hit it a little low.” He’s taken to rubbing your back instead of patting, and the action feels so nice that you’re half tempted to lay down in the dirt with your exhaustion and let him keep doing that.

But the smell of death is still in the air, and if you don’t get away from here soon, you’re sure you’ll throw up again.

“Thank you,” you shakily tell Geralt, attempting to straighten up.

He watches you closely, tensing - as if he’s waiting to catch you. “Could take a break, if you need,” he says.

You quickly shake your head, starting shakily back toward Mead. “Not here.”

He must understand - he can smell it too, after all. Stronger than you can. Much, much stronger. How does he stand it? But, from the look on his face, maybe he doesn’t stand it at all. Maybe he simply survives it, because he must.

Geralt gives a nod, helping you up onto the saddle with a firm hold that seems to sear into your skin. “C’mon, Ciri,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not much longer before Ciri’s time with you comes to an end.

You can hardly believe it, when she pulls to a halt and announces that this is where you must part. She hasn’t said it, but the fact that she’s parting with you instead of going all the way to the caves, it’s clear - this is urgent business.

Gods, are you going to miss her. It seems as though just yesterday you’d been at Dandelion’s inn, sipping on honeyed mead, saying your goodbyes. Yet, here you are, and you’ve arrived at Ard Carraigh, and she’s going. Can this be real? Had those days - a little over a month, if you’re counting correctly - slipped under your fingers so quickly, unnoticed?

Yes, they must have, because there’s a numb, aching loss in your chest that only could have come from coming to know her. Worst of all, there’s a terrible feeling that you’ll never see her again - one that pulls deeply at your gut. You can’t stand it. You’re so tired of regrets that you pull her close without thinking and hug her, and she hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you for letting me travel with you, Bee,” she says. “I hope we’ll meet again one day.”

“We will,” you stubbornly tell her. “I’m sure we will.”

She pulls away and gives you a smile, and you watch fondly as she steps over and hugs Geralt.

“Take care of yourself,” he says softly.

“Always,” she replies, grinning at him. She steps back, grabbing the reins of her horse, Kelpie, then swiftly mounts up onto the saddle. “Good luck, you two!” she calls, waving. “I’m sure you’ll sort everything out, and Dandelion will have a lovely ballad to sing!”

You wave goodbye and watch as she rides off, leaving you and Geralt behind. And, in her absence, there’s a large, gaping hole.

You and Geralt do your best to fill it, but you can tell it’s still there. Furthermore, you can tell Geralt is constantly tense - and that does nothing to soothe your addled nerves. You two still have a ways ahead of you, and despite your newly formed skill with the crossbow, your unease remains.

Mostly, you spend the days quiet, and struggle to sleep at night. Geralt does the same. You miss Ciri’s chatter, her warmth, her ease of getting you to speak. Without her, everything is strange and much too silent, much too eerie.

During your night shifts, you keep alert, rubbing warmth into stiff hands. With clouds covering the stars, you often turn your eyes to Geralt - murmuring things in his sleep, brow creased. Sometimes, you’ll catch a few words, a repeated whisper as soft as the wind. Ciri. Yen. And, only once, another name - Visenna.

When he jerks awake, hand automatically reaching for his sword, you scoot back from him - not afraid, but a little space won’t hurt. After a long moment of staring at you, realizing there’s no danger, Geralt relaxes and takes over the shift from you. And you don’t sleep any better than he does.

Three days after Ciri has gone, the two of you come upon more danger. It’s in a small town, one reeking of trouble, and you’d be tempted to shy away from it - if the growling in your stomach wasn’t so prominent. The two of you are riding through when you see him - a boy, no more than eighteen, laid on the ground. He’s surrounded by a small crowd, face red and pained, blood soaking his tunic.

And, for reasons neither you nor the gods can explain, you don’t think for a second before you jump off your horse and dash toward him. Thankfully, Geralt is right behind you.

“What is it? What happened to him?” you ask breathlessly.

“Bandits, likely,” someone replies, voice hushed. “Been worse than usual, of late. The lad came riding up, yelling something about being attacked. Slumped over. Fell straight off his horse into the dirt.”

As you push further in, the crowd starts to separate, people fleeing back into their homes for safety. But you can’t leave this boy here. You can’t. There’s a voice at the back of your mind, shouting out something you should remember, but you can’t hear it past the rush of blood in your ears.

When you lift up the boy’s tunic, you find a great deal of bruising, surrounded by a deep, seeping wound in the abdomen. Without hesitation, you scramble for the bandages in your pack and press them against the wound, applying pressure.

The boy yelps in agony, hands clawing at yours hard enough to draw blood, tears coursing lines in the dust on his face. “Stop,” he groans, “stop it! Gods, it hurts - stop!”

He’s thrashing about with so much force that you can barely keep the bandages on him, much less apply the pressure you need. Blood is pouring out of him, staining the grass under him.

“Geralt,” you pant. “Help me - hold him down!”

But Geralt doesn’t. He simply stares at you, unmoving, an indiscernible look on his face.

“Help me!” you cry, attempting to press harder. “He’ll bleed out!”

When he finally kneels next to you, you sigh in relief, watching as he grips the boy’s shoulders and holds him still. Finally able to apply the pressure you need to, your mind spins, trying to remember if you have a needle with you. A wound like that… it’ll need to be cauterized, too. Stitched up as quickly as possible.

But the boy’s face has gone blue now, and he’s started gasping. Too much blood loss - no, no, no, please. His body shakes with spasms, breathing going ragged. You desperately try to staunch the bleeding, to keep what blood he has left in him from spilling out. “Stay with me,” you tell him, muscles wound so tense you can barely breathe.

But after another horrible round of jerking, the boy’s breathing falters, and he goes still. And then… then, there’s silence. Only silence. Not even the call of a bird, or the stir of the wind. Just… nothing.

The unbearable quiet is interrupted by the soft sound of Geralt saying your name. Slowly. Cautiously, as if he’s testing the waters of your reaction. Then he releases the boy’s shoulders and rises to his feet.

“No,” you say numbly, refusing to look at him. You keep your eyes only on the boy. “You can’t go - I won’t let you!”

Fiercely blinking back tears, you start a series of resuscitation compressions, pushing strong, even movements into the boy’s chest. “Stay with me,” you say helplessly, panting out the words. “You can’t go!”

You work methodically, desperately, waiting for the boy to revive, praying for it. But the body stays motionless under your hands, lifeless, still warm. Your arms are searing from the effort and tears are streaming down your cheeks, blurring your vision.

You can’t fix this, your mind is telling you. There’s no chance.

But you can’t stop. You can’t.

Suddenly, there’s a pair of arms behind you, pulling you off the body. You start clawing, lashing out like a wild animal, screaming and kicking with all your might. “Let me go!” you shriek, wriggling around, beating your fists out until they make an impact on something. “Let me go, you - you bastard!”

“He’s gone, Bee,” Geralt says calmly, his voice soft in your ear. “A wound like that? Nothing anyone could do. C’mon. Gotta get you cleaned up.”

But his soothing tone only makes you more wild, more feral. You scream and kick and claw some more. He gently sets you in a sobbing pile onto the ground, and by the time you come into contact with the soft, fragrant earth, his words have set in. The truth of them, that deep down you already knew. You pull your knees toward your chest and weep.

Kneeling down next to you, Geralt places a hand on your back, rubbing slowly - the way he had after the event with the ghoul. You’ve realized what your mind was screaming at you, now. You wish you’d listened.

“There’s - there’s something wrong with me,” you sob softly. The words are bitter in your mouth, acrid. Tears are choking in your chest, slow to die out, leaving you wracking painfully. “Everything I touch… That’s why I can’t go back to Oxenfurt. I just make things worse.”

Geralt’s touch pauses for a moment at your words, but only briefly. He goes back to rubbing your back. “Did all you could,” he says gently. “Didn’t make it worse. He would have died anyway.”

You shake your head. “I hurt him. He needed comfort, and I hurt him because I wouldn’t stop. And it wasn’t only him,” you choke. “It’s everyone, Geralt. I try to help, but it hurts people. I should just stay out of it. I try to, I really do, but it still just… happens.”

“People getting hurt like that, dying - that isn’t your fault,” Geralt says.

“And how can you know?” you ask. The words are bitter, spitting from your tongue like venom. You regret them, but the anger doesn’t die away.

Geralt sighs, letting his hand go still on his back. “Know it because I used to think like you,” he murmurs. “Never got involved, if I could help it. Thought I made things worse. Maybe I do. Don’t know, sometimes.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his words, inhaling sharply. “Couldn’t stay away, though,” he says. “Figured it was better to try.”

His words shock you into complete silence. They carry such an intense vulnerability that it numbs you down, every nerve, every sensation. You lay on the ground, stiff as a board, taking it in. He’s never talked to you like this, so openly. Your sobs shudder to a halt and you close your eyes, breathing heavily.

He knows, then. He knows what it’s like. Not everything, of course. Only you could ever know that. But the sickly, squirming pit of guilt in your stomach - Geralt knows what that’s like. And he’s somehow lived with it for decades.

“C’mon, Bee,” he says. “Gotta get you cleaned up. Ought to bury the body, too, before the necrophages smell it.”

Oh. Bee. He’d called you that several times now, hadn’t he? In the midst of everything? You hadn’t quite processed it then, but now that your brain is working… it’s always been Ciri, calling you that. Geralt has never called you Bee before today.

You give a nod at his words, feeling a little calmer, intending to sit up. Your muscles are slow and aching, and you’re still trembling. Geralt shifts and reaches toward you, and you reach back, thinking he’s offering you a hand up. What you’re not expecting is for Geralt to lift you into his arms and carry you. But that’s what he does.

He picks you up like you don’t weigh an ounce and carries you to the nearby inn. His arms are strong and sure, and you lean your face into his chest, too weak to resist the temptation.

“Need a room,” he tells the innkeeper.

They don’t argue with him.

You don’t take in much of what happens right after that. You know you’re set on a bed, and the innkeeper comes and goes a few times before Geralt kneels in front of you, dabbing a clean cloth into a bowl of water.

He keeps searching your face, looking for something. You only start registering what’s happened when he finally starts speaking.

“What you said before…” He pauses, hesitating. “At Blaviken. I felt like you do, afterward. Kept thinking - should have stayed out of it. Tried to, before that. Tried for a long time after, too. Guess, in the end, I couldn’t.”

He takes your hand in his, gently scrubbing away some of the dried blood. “I was passing through, on the way to Yspaden,” he starts. You sit unmoving, afraid you’ll break the spell of his words.

“Stopped at Blaviken on the way,” he continues. “Brought in a kikimora, hoping there’d be a reward. There wasn’t. But the alderman told me to bring it to the wizard - Stregobor. I’d met him before. He didn’t pay me for the kikimora, but he invited me in. Wanted to ask for my help. Wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with him, but I listened.”

He sighs heavily, looking up at you. “Ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?” he asks.

You blink in surprise. “I… I have,” you reply, swallowing hard. “I read about it. It was a prophecy, wasn’t it? During an eclipse, sixty girls would be born, made servants of the goddess Lilit, and bring the end of the world?”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s the one.” His face tightens with anger - just a flash, but enough to jar you. There are so many situations where he’s been completely composed even in the face of chaos, of pure frustration. What on earth could have made him so angry?

“These girls,” he slowly goes on, “people were convinced they were demons. Stregobor talked about mutations, insane tendencies… changes in the internal organs, unidentifiable tissue, cruel and aggressive behavior. People who believed the prophecy used it as a justification for murder. They did autopsies, studying the corpses, claiming it was for the greater good. One of them… they vivisectioned her.”

Your reaction is instantaneous. You jolt as though you’ve been slapped. Vivisection? What the hell were they thinking? They’d murdered and tortured these girls just because of the day they were born? Frankly, you couldn’t care less about their internal organs or behaviors. That doesn’t sit well with you.

“Gods…” you say faintly.

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “The girls - they weren’t easy to pick off. After a time, they started locking them in towers, instead. Isolating them. But some would escape. Others died.” He stalls, lost in thought for a moment. “Stregobor had once been sent to supervise one of these girls - a princess of Creyden. Renfri.”

Pain flashes over his eyes at the name, as if it wounds him to say it. Perhaps it does. Even so, he continues.

“Her stepmother, Aridea, had been told by one of Nehalania’s Mirrors that Renfri would kill her and a number of others. They sent a huntsman to kill her. She escaped. Tried to kill her multiple times after that, too. Poisoned apples. Assassins. They failed.

“When Renfri came across Stregobor again, she recognized him - knew what he’d done. So she pursued him, wanting revenge. Tracked him down to Blaviken, where he’d locked himself in a tower at the edge of town, used a spell to keep anyone out unless he wanted them to get in. He asked me to kill her. I refused.”

As if he’s just remembered what he was doing, he goes back to cleaning the blood off of you - but it’s clear his mind is still far away. “I met her,” he says. “Renfri. The alderman couldn’t arrest her - she was protected by King Audoen. But she wanted to talk to me. Snuck into my attic later that night, told me what happened to her. Asked me to kill Stregobor. Told me it was the lesser evil.”

He shakes his head. “Stregobor told me that, too - when he asked me to kill Renfri. But I told her that I wouldn’t kill Stregobor. And that I wouldn’t stand by, letting her slaughter innocent people to get to him. I asked her to leave Blaviken; to stop seeking revenge, because she wasn’t going to kill Stregobor. She gave in. Told me she would leave the next morning and never return.”

His expression has gone permanently pained now. His hand rests on your arm, frozen mid-action. “The next day, I told the alderman that Renfri and the gang she’d brought along with her were going. And he told me… told me one of her men had been at the massacre at Tridam, three years before. Hadn’t heard of it, but he told me what happened.

“A group of thieves were captured by the Baron of Tridam. The remnants of their men seized a ferry of innocents - demanded he set them free. When he refused, they killed hostages one by one until he finally released the prisoners. And… Renfri had mentioned that to me. ‘The Tridam ultimatum.’ I hadn’t known what it meant at the time, but… when I heard it, I realized what was going to happen. And I ran for the market.”

Geralt’s face has gone deathly white. “When I got there, Renfri’s men were waiting for me. All of them except her. She’d gone to the tower to talk with Stregobor. Left a message for me, though. ‘Choose. Either me, or a lesser.’”

He finally sets the cloth down, too distracted in his story to clean. His words sit in the air, tinged with a regret you can almost feel in the air, thick, and heavy. But why? you think. Surely it had been right of him to do? You listen to him go on, scarcely breathing.

“I made my choice. I killed them. All of them…” he says. “After it was done, Renfri showed. Asked me if I was sure I made the right choice. I told her it wouldn’t be another Tridam. She told me that it wouldn’t have been. Stregobor had refused to come out. Even told her she could butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages, but he still wouldn’t leave his tower… I told her to go. She wouldn’t. We fought…”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to finish. You don’t need to hear it to know.

“People stoned me, afterward. The alderman stepped in. He asked if… if that was my idea of lesser evil. What was necessary. I told him it was… Didn’t know what else to say.”

He inhales sharply, looking out the window. “He told me to leave, to never return. And I did.”

His words fade into silence. Something in your chest aches so deeply that you can’t even speak. It throbs, pitching amidst the knots of guilt built into your ribs. The Butcher of Blaviken. That’s what they call him, now. Because of that. It haunts him, everywhere he goes.

“Geralt,” you finally whisper, resting a hand on his arm. He inhales sharply and stands, gently pulling from your touch.

“We should bury the body,” he says softly. You follow him without a word out to the grass.

You’re still mostly covered in blood, and now you’ll be covered with dirt. The sun is brutal and the air is sticky, and you can still smell the iron on you, sharp and nauseating. The two of you find shovels and take to digging, your hands reddening from the effort, sweat dripping down your neck. Tears course down your cheeks. And you don’t stop digging until it’s done.

A makeshift grave, marked by a pile of rocks. You hadn’t even known his name. He’d been so young… The town members are still hiding in their homes. No doubt watching you, though.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur to the grave, hoping the boy can hear you wherever he is now. “What you sought in life, may you find it in death. Rest peacefully.”

After a long moment of silence, you and Geralt go back to the inn, this time to properly wash off the blood and dirt. The guilt cannot be scrubbed with it, but it pains you less. Maybe because it doesn’t pain you alone.

The next morning, the two of you are off again. There’s quiet between you, but not uncomfortable. Both of you are grieving. Your thoughts go over Blaviken again and again. Then, hesitantly, over your own past.

You’re going to have to tell him. You don’t know how, or when, but you will. Now that he’s told you about Blaviken, it’s as if something’s come loose. You can no longer keep it in, the way you’d once resolved to. You keep catching yourself opening your mouth - trying to find a way to speak. But the timing isn’t right. It just isn’t right.

The further into Kaedwen you get, the colder it is, and it’s especially brutal that night. It may be blistering hot in the days, but the nights turn icy as death, unnatural and unsettling. The chill bleeds into your bones. Makes you want to curl into a ball and never move again.

And, of course, there are no inns around. You set up your bedroll and try your best to keep warm, but even with the fire Geralt makes, shivering takes a hold of you. It’s not long before your teeth are chattering. You ache for the Chameleon, for the warm, soft feather bed you’d slept on. Your eyes grow heavy, but sleep won’t take you.

When Geralt rests a hand on your shoulder, you jump about ten feet into the air, startled.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m alright.” It comes out between chattering teeth. You don’t need to see his face to know he doesn’t believe you.

“Come here.”

You force yourself to sit up, giving him a look. He raises his brows, patting the bedroll next to him. Surely he doesn’t mean… no, that can’t be it. It’s closer to the fire, that’s all.

With frozen fingers, you pull your bedroll toward Geralt, laying it next to his. It’s a little better now.

Geralt lays down next to you, tilting his head up to look at you. “Get over here,” he says. “Got me worried you’ll freeze to death.”

Your heart starts racing. Fuck. If only he couldn’t hear it. If only the warmth of his arms wasn’t so appealing. You crawl over, resting yourself at his side, and he automatically wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer, into his chest.

Gods, he’s warm. Heat practically radiates off of him. You can’t stop yourself from sighing in relief, tucking your face into his neck. This close, you can smell the smoke on his skin, the hints of wood and earth and sweet leaves, mingled with hints of his sweat.

It’s already overwhelming enough to have him holding you like this. You practically stop breathing when his hand goes to the back of your neck, wrapping it in more warmth, callused fingers that you truly believe could rival silk on your skin. His thumb rubs a slow, soothing motion in the space behind your ear, and you inhale sharply.

Him touching you like this - well, it’s making you cry. Tears start to spill onto your cheeks and you try hopelessly to stop them, terrified that he’ll pull away, stop what he’s doing. But, even though he must know, he doesn’t stop. He keeps touching you, the way you’ve so desperately needed to be touched, and you relax little by little.

After a few minutes, your brain is barely there - melted, as though your body has become liquid. Your thoughts swirl into the heavy grip of sleep, and the world slowly fades away.

For once, you don’t have nightmares.

When you wake the next morning, you’re still in his arms. You can hear the crackling embers from the dying fire behind you, and you can feel Geralt’s breathing - even, steady. His hand still rests on your neck.

You never want to move. You know you’ll have to, but you don’t want to. For a while, you close your eyes and lie there in a meditative state, so content you’re practically purring. Then, Geralt jerks awake, and to your absolute dismay, he lets go of you and sits up, looking alarmed.

The explanation for that comes very quickly. There’s a group of men on horseback riding toward you. You can’t see them, but you hear them, crashing through the trees, clearly not caring if you know they’re coming.

“Geralt-”

“Grab your bow,” he says, pulling out your sword. His voice is low and firm. “Get behind me.”

You do as he asks. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to breathe slowly, readying an arrow. You try not to imagine what sound it will make, if you’re forced to kill.

As the men crash out of the woods, you can see that there are three of them. They circle around your camp, whooping and shouting before they come to a halt, grinning down at you with a smile that makes you want to recoil. You step closer to Geralt.

“Look at this, lads. A camp!” one of them says. “What’ve we got here?” He casually rests his hand on his sword, and you can see Geralt stiffen. The speaker is missing an eye, and he reeks so badly that you can smell him several feet away - sweat and whiskey and gods know what else.

You wait for Geralt to respond, but he says nothing - and what could you possibly say?

“Oy!” one of the others shouts. This one is wearing a red vest, stained with something that looks terribly like blood. “You fuckin’ deaf? We asked you a question!”

Still, Geralt says nothing, but his hand tightens on his sword.

“Won’t speak to us, eh?” the third asks. With the authoritative way he talks, he’s clearly the leader of the group. He leaps from his horse, bounding with nimble steps toward you and Geralt. His teeth are black and his hair is matted, and a jagged scar runs down his neck. “I’ll make you talk,” he says. “Could use some entertainment, couldn’t we, boys!”

“Aye, we could!” the man with one eye says, sliding off his horse to join the leader. “Been nothing but sniveling cowards, lately. I bet that grey one would put up a fight.”

And put up a fight, Geralt does.

He slashes so fast you barely see the blade move. All at once, the one-eyed man is crumpling to his knees, blood pouring down his abdomen. The leader draws his sword and leaps back, snarling.

“A lot of nerve, you have!” he says. “You’ll pay for that!”

And, suddenly, everything turns into chaos. The leader strikes, and instantly, the air rings with the sound of blades. The man with the red vest urges his horse on and gallops around, yelling out insults, slashing in your direction. You barely manage to dodge them.

Geralt is preoccupied, so - despite your shaking - you turn your bow toward the red vest and shoot. It hits his shoulder, and he cries out. His horse startles, bucking below him before it throws him off, vanishing into the woods. You’re hoping he’ll stay down, but he gets to his feet all too quickly, favoring his right leg and spitting insults.

You grab another arrow and try to load it up, but you’re too slow, too slow, why couldn’t you have just taken that dagger-

In a moment, he’s on you, shoving you to the ground and knocking the wind out of you. The djinn is tugging, tugging - Geralt’s dancing the line of acceptable distance - and you blindly scratch at the man’s face, gouging your nails into flesh until you hear a scream. His grip slackens, and you prop your feet up on the ground and force your hips up, throwing him off of you - one of the moves Ciri taught you.

Gasping and stumbling to your feet, you dart in Geralt’s direction, but a hand catches your shirt and drags you back, momentarily choking you before he pins you to a tree.

Blood is streaming down his face. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he says. “I’m going to tear you into pieces, you hear me? You’ll wish your mother never popped you out!”

In the midst of your panic, you have the sense to knee up into his bollocks. Pain radiates through your leg, and despite the howl he lets out, he doesn’t let go. More crashing comes from the woods - more bandits, presumably. The look on his face practically spells it out.

For a moment, he’s distracted, slightly tilting his face toward the woods and easing his grip. Taking your opportunity, you slam the base of your hand into his nose with as much force as you can possibly muster. His knees buckle and he stumbles back, cupping a hand over his face.

Limping away, you catch a glimpse of Geralt - standing over the now-dead leader, panting but seemingly unharmed. More men pour in from the trees and slink in, raising weapons, and he readies his sword - but you know there are too many, just too many, and as a hand snatches around your waist and pulls you away, the world begins to crumble.

Nausea sets in, a turbulent dizziness, the world crumbling apart - too far! He’s too far! Something cold slices your arm, and the smell of blood hits you. You throw your elbow backward and make contact with bone, stumbling away and vomiting, knees buckling as the djinn’s wish takes hold. Your palms hit the ground.

Geralt lets out a cry of pain - the kind that can only mean he was hit. You call his name and helplessly crawl forward, trying desperately to get closer. Then, just as the djinn’s symptoms stop, something strikes the back of your head.

Blinding pain erupts through your skull, and Geralt shouts with you as you crumple to the ground. Everything has gone blurry - the voices around you are muffled, but you can see Geralt, laying on the ground and barely moving.

We’re going to die, you think, cheek pressing into the soft dirt under you. Colors spin before your drooping eyes and the urge to vomit again comes and goes. We’re going to die, and it’s my fault.

A heaviness takes over you. The pain is lulling you away, taking you somewhere far from this place. In the last moments, as the world fades, you hear screaming - multiple men screaming - and noises that can only mean death.

Then, everything turns to darkness.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix @enrapturedbythemoon @angie2274

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #game!geralt #geralt x you #geralt/reader #geralt of rivia x you #mywriting

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olivexii · 5 months

Text

⚠️ - 100 days

Charlie Slimecicle x f!reader

Chapter 2

Tw: Violence, gore, language

Based on the film by Slimecicle

┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐

The journey back to Charlie’s base was long and strenuous. You had gotten lost, Charlie leading you the wrong way multiple times, as well as it being dark.

Many zombies swarmed around the both of you as you hid up in the trees, trying to stay out of reach.

“Why do I hear them everywhere now?” Charlie sighed as he leaned over the edge of a branch.

“Charlie don’t lean that far over you’re going to fall…” You reached for him and grabbed the back of his shirt just in case.

“I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about how we’re going to get back without being eaten alive. Oh no, there’s a bunch over there too.” He pointed in the distance towards the direction of the base.

“It’s alright,” I re-assured him, “I’m sure there’ll be an opening at some point, then we can make a run for it.”

“Oh man, it’s only the start of the night as well. We might be here for hours!”

“Can you calm down for 5 minutes and help me look for an opening please?” Unlike him you didn’t loose hope.

“Alright, alright, little miss hopeful.” He mumbled the last part with an attitude.

You chose to ignore it and look around through the leaves for a gap in the swarm of zombies.

Eventually a cow walked past close to the tree you were both sitting on, temporarily distracting the zombies so they swarmed to only one side of the tree.

“Okay okay, now’s the time. Jump onto that shorter tree then we can make a run for it up that hill.” He moved without thinking and immediately jumped to the smaller tree.

You followed behind him quickly, stumbling when you landed.

“Be careful,” Charlie said as he wrapped a hand around your arm, holding you steady “won’t be very nice of you fall to the ground and I have to watch you being eaten.”

“Wouldn’t be very nice for me either.” You replied quickly.

Charlie then jumped onto the raised ground, the zombies still distracted by the cow.

“C’mon, I’ll catch you again.” He joked and you rolled your eyes, getting ready to jump.

This time you didn’t stumble, and landed on the ground steadily.

“Right let’s go before they follow us.” Charlie turned around and began walking up the hill, away from the city and towards his base, with you trailing behind.

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

When you were a few minutes from his base the grumbles of zombies grew louder, causing panic in him and you.

You both began walking faster, constantly checking your surroundings with weapons drawn at your sides.

“Go go go,” Charlie said quickly as he opened the wooden door to his base, rushing in with you behind him.

“And in.” He sighed in relief as he slammed the door behind you.

His base was entirely made out of wood, lit up with a few torches and a ladder leading up in the middle.

“There’s one bed on the second floor. We can take turns sleeping and keeping watch.” He told you as he emptied the contents of his backpack into a chest.

“Great, I’ll take the first watch then.” You stated.

“No, no. I’m taking the first one,” he turns around to face you, “firstly, you need the rest and secondly I’m not even tired. And don’t even try and protest.”

“Okay fine, but if you try anything while I’m sleeping, or if you kill me, then I will kill you.” You glared at him, still not fully trusting him.

“H-how can you kill me if you’re dead?” He let out a short laugh and shook his head. “Anyway, just go up the ladder and have a snooze, I’ll wake you up in an hour or so.”

He turned back around and put food into the furnace to cook.

You began climbing the ladder up to the second floor, there was less candles up there and only a singular white bed.

“Wow, how homely.” You jokingly whispered as you placed your back pack down beside the bed, sitting down on it.

You placed the knife underneath the pillow, just in case, and took off your jacket to make yourself more comfortable.

As you lay down, the crackling sound of the furnace below became white noise, along with Charlie’s quiet foot steps.

Your hand was placed on the knife underneath the pillow, making you feel more re-assured as you drifted off to sleep.

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

You woke up to Charlie shaking your shoulder softly.

“Y/N?” he whispered, as if he was scared to wake you up.

You grumbled in reply and looked up to the taller man with your hand shielding the top of your eyes, quickly grabbing and stuffing the knife from under the pillow into your trouser pocket when he wasn’t looking.

“I let you sleep for a bit longer than an hour, you looked comfortable. But not i’m getting really tired and I don’t think I’ll be able to stay awake any longer.” He said drowsily.

“Yeah, okay. Just give me a minute to wake up.” You yawned in reply, his hand still on your shoulder.

As soon as you sat up on the bed he sat down next to you, eyes half lidded.

You turned your head to look at him and made eye contact.

“I didn’t… thank you properly before, Charlie. When you saved my life in the city. “

“Oh uhm, you don’t need to say thank you. I think it’s nice to have the company. And you being alive of course.” He stumbled over his words in tiredness.

“Yeah, but I want to say thank you,” you placed your hand over his resting one on the bed. “I probably would’ve starved to death or would have been eaten if it wasn’t for you.”

He brought his hand not resting underneath yours up to his face, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Good thing I was there then.” He chuckled and tilted his head to the right, still making eye contact with you.

“You need to sleep, I’ll take watch.” You broke the long eye contact with him and stared down at your hands.

“Thank you, I’m so tired.” He said while going to lay on his side, you now sitting at the end of the bed.

He soon fell asleep and you climbed back down the ladder into the well lit floor.

The mumbles of zombies were distant, meaning you had nothing to worry about at the moment. But you still looked out the windows every now and again cautiously, knife in hand, as Charlie’s soft snores and breathing could be heard from upstairs.

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

A/N: sorry if this is short but it’s 2am 😔😔

#charlie slimecicle #slimecicle #charlie slimecicle x reader #slimecicle x reader #mcyt #apocalypse au #x reader #zombie au #youtube #qsmp #dsmp

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multifandomfix · 2 years

Text

Thomas Barrow Smut Alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Kind of distant. He can retreat into himself a bit unless you get him talking or get him to cuddle.

B = Body part (favorite body part of their partner’s)

Shoulders and collar bones. He loves to pepper both with kisses.

C = Collar (do they mark you as theirs in some way?)

No. He likes you to know you’re his, but he won’t mark it. Too afraid of being found out.

D = Dominant (do they prefer to dominate, or be dominated? are they a top or a bottom?)

He’s a bit more of a bottom, but he’s okay with switching it up every now and then.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s decently experienced. Enough to know what he’s doing, but you can open up new possibilities for him still.

F = Fuck (do they prefer to fuck or make love?)

Fuck. Love only really comes into play once he’s really committed and knows it’s something more than just sex.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s been known to laugh a bit once he’s comfortable enough with you. But for the most part he likes to be more serious.

H = Hot (what turns them on, gets them going)

Giving him bedroom eyes, or whispering the things you want to do with him are usually the two best ways to turn him on.

I = Insatiable (how do they act when they’re desperate to have you?)

Quiet, reserved about it, but easier to snap at someone when his mind is otherwise occupied.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He feels so guilty for masturbating to the thought of you, even though he knows it’s not a crime. And he’s doubly guilty if you happen to catch him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Blindfolds. Thomas loves to be blindfolded, having to wait to see you as you tease him is really hot for him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere that he can rest assured that there’ll be no interruptions. He’s petrified of being caught in the act.

M = Mood (what’s the foreplay like? how do you get them in the mood?)

Either he’s in the mood or he’s not. He’s a bit awkward at foreplay, but will go along with it for your sake.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He wouldn’t like any sort of marking, unless it’s somewhere not easily visible. But even then, he’s not all that into it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He’s moderately skilled at giving, but his preference is to receive.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He likes to take it a bit slower. Rough isn’t really his style.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If it’s feasible to take in a quickie, he’s usually game, but he would really rather take his time.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Thomas doesn’t take very many risks. He prefers to play it safe. But you can get him to experiment and get out of his comfort zone on occasion.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Usually just one, maybe two, depending on his mood and how his day went.

T = Tryst (are they into casual sex or one night stands?)

No. He’s far too untrusting for something like that, at least as a general rule.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not much at all. He’s not much for waiting, so a bunch of teasing would be torture to him.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s very quiet and prefers it if you are as well. He’s like to let loose and be loud but he can’t quite bring himself to be.

W = Wait (how long do they wait before having sex with their partner for the first time?)

As long as it takes him to believe he can fully trust you. He’s been burned before and doesn’t want to make that leap with anyone until he feels absolutely sure about them.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Thomas may be pale, but he is fit. A nice amount of muscle definition without going overboard.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Moderate. It’s not something he thinks about all the time, but it increases when he has a committed partner.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not quickly. He tends to replay the events in his mind and get trapped in his own head for a while, causing sleep to be a bit difficult.

For @rapierblack

Thomas Barrow: @riveranddoctorsong123

#thomas barrow #thomas barrow smut alphabet #thomas barrow x reader #downton abbey #request

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phoeebsbuffay · 2 years

Text

Imagine you were rescued by Obi-Wan in a mission with his master Qui-Gon Jinn where they discover Force is really strong in you. So you are trained to become a Jedi. In the meantime, however, feelings grow between you two but all of a sudden your paths are separated… until you find each other ten years later. So whatever happens now? Part III.

Warnings: smut, fluffy, drama, violence. It wasn’t meant to be this long, but I assure those interested in the story that it ends here. Hopefully.

***

Obi-Wan does not leave your side ever as the days go by. Where you go, he goes. Although disguised as an ally to the Separatist cause, it is thanks to your technique that he learns how to disguise his Force.

“You have become very powerful”, he says, admired. “I see master Yoda did a great job, after all. Qui-Gon would be proud of you.”

Due to the many tasks that required your presence, you two barely have time to talk. But eventually you manage to steal part of your time in the morning to be with your beloved in the gardens.

You miss your former master as he is mentioned and a look of sadness crosses your eyes. Qui-Gon was like a father to you.

“I think I disappointed him, though”, you tell Obi-Wan as you take a seat in the midst of high gardens, away from public sight.

The Jedi Master looks at you, puzzled.

“Why would you think that?”

You have made peace with your past, but there would always be that part where the Order Jedi had hurt you. It would take some time to heal and you were oddly in good terms with it.

“Because I love you. I always did.”

Obi-Wan furrows his eyebrows, but he takes your hand into his. You see no judgement in his eyes, but the pain that mirrors yours.

“You know, had you said one word and I would have left the Order for you.”

His words come out in a whisper, but you hear them well. You blush furiously and you part the gaze, lowering the gaze to your locked hands.

“I could never ask you this, Obi-Wan.” Perhaps it is then you come to realize that you both were never different. Two sides of the same coin, that’s what you two were. “Never. I am not selfish. That is why I learned in due time to let you go, as much as it mean to have my heart broken in the process.”

It is weird how speaking your feelings out this way, so naturally, works as a healing process for you. It is as if you are putting a weight out of your shoulders after all these years. When Obi-Wan hears you say so without any sign of resentment, he comprehends more than you know.

“I’m sorry. I…” he makes a pause. Obi-Wan was never good with words, rather he was a man of actions. Words were better used as diplomatic skills. Anakin would claim he was hardly charismatic whenever he opened his mouth, which offended him to hear so.

But you understand him. More than you know. So you lift his chin and makes him look at you.

“There is nothing to apologize. This was beyond us, I see this now. But what matters is that we are here, together.”

“Together, yes”, Obi-Wan gives you a small smile, to which you give him that characteristic smile that once made his heart swell. And it does again.

So now you are well again and peace has never been felt before as it does now.

***

But peace is not destined to last for so long. You and Obi-Wan begin to plan a way to meet Dooku. After a decade of planning, the moment is here. You manage, ever so skillfully to arrange a meeting with you.

“So let us recapitulate”, says Obi-Wan as you are found alone in the meeting room. You are dressed in your black and red velvet gown with your hair carefully braided, a sight that tempted the Jedi more than you’d know due to his ever composed self. But now is not the best moment for him to notice your beauty or your curves. “You will approach the Count how?”

“I will let him know how we are going so far”, you say confidently. You’ve seen him and reported informations to him in person before and he never dreamed to know you were a spy all this time. “There’ll be talks as I will report the way I do. But we must work carefully. He must have his guard down.”

Obi-Wan rests his chin in his hand, a pose you are familiar with. He is concerned.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

You move closer to where he is. He can tell you are more confident than in your first missions. You are a woman who knows what you want and how to get it. Every inch a queen. But the concern for your safety remains.

“I’ve done this before. A battle will eventually happen, but until it does, I have to figure out his weak spot. There certainly is one”, you ponder. Ten years in politics made you see how most powerful men were not entirely powerful. Tyrants once fell for being too self confident.

“He is not like the men you’ve dealt before, Y/N.” Obi-Wan tells you. Something weights on his heart. “He is a Sith Lord. Took us many years just to figure out his whereabouts.”

“And yet he never found out I’m a Jedi in disguise”, you remind him. “As long as you check your emotions, things will go well and the head of the Sith will be cut off, if yet we may call that. I personally don’t believe he works alone.”

Obi-Wan runs a hand in his hair.

“Yes, but how we should find this out?”

You give him a look.

“We will know soon.”

He sighs, but there is no other way to prevent this to happen. Obi-Wan regrets for letting you be so exposed. The Jedi fears for you, but he could not feed that sentiment. As you told him, it is he who has to keep his emotions in check.

But it does appear that your plans are going to be put in practice earlier than both of you expected. As soon as you follow a different path from Obj-Wan in order to disguise your relationship with the Jedi, you are told by your secretary that Count Dooku is coming to see you.

“He looks pleased by how we’ve been conducting our affairs”, you hear the man say, proudly so. “I think he wants to congratulate you.”

You conceal your feelings, doing so ever naturally. Sensing the presence of Obi-Wan, you manage to talk telepathically.

“He’s coming, Ben.”

“I heard that. We ought to be careful. Looks like this is happening before we expected. I will report Anakin to prepare his fleet as you meet the man.”

“Of course. May the Force be with you.”

“And with you.” He pauses before adding. “Please be careful, Y/nickname.”

It’s difficult not to smile at how affectionate Obi-Wan calls you.

“And you, Ben.”

So you finally part your ways.

***

The Count awaits you in the chair you usually occupy as Queen. It’s one that looks fancy, made of black velvet. This futuristic throne reclines back and forth, one of the few spots you usually feel comfortable in the palace because of how nice it is to sit there, especially when you feel the need to spend time with yourself, away from everyone.

Dressed in black robes, Count Dooku is looking right at you. He senses something is wrong and it frustrates him that he can’t tell what it is. But he does come to realize you are more powerful than him.

“Queen Y/N”, he greets you, annoyed as usual.

You don’t curtsy at him. You only nod. Even now you don’t play his game of submission.

“My lord, Count Dooku. It is a pleasure to see you.” You slide into the room, head held high as you don’t part the gaze. Your face shows defiance, aware of his ever typical distrust of you.

You notice, as you make your way to stand before him, the two lightsabers that stay each his side. You feel, almost unconsciously, yours pending behind your back. You also make you look fearful, an energy that seems to please the evil man.

“I’ve heard about the participation of your planet in the domination of your neighborhood in order to make more clones and send them to me. You have contributed to our cause.” He smirks. The Count is testing you.

You feel a slight hint of anger boil in you. But you pretend it’s all about the sphere of his influence that might affect you. Not so far from you, Obi-Wan reported to Anakin and the Council and is now going back to where you are with Dooku. He closes his eyes and is ready to meditate. He feels you, the bound you share stronger than in early days as Padawans of Qui-Gon Jinn.

“But something is amiss”, he tells you. “I have noticed one thing: only half percent of the slaves are coming to me. I wonder why. Is it your soft heart that is ruining you? An attribute I hear it’s often associated to women.” Dooku’s sly smirk twists in the corner of his lips upon his remark.

“You underestimate my influence, Dooku.” You tell him cooly. “A woman is as capable of great things as you men are.”

He laughs. It’s a cold laughter, deprived of joy. Dooku stands and moves to your direction. He had been told by the Chancellor to kill you and subdue the entire planet. The reason why, the Count was not told.

“Is it? And yet, as impeccable and impenetrable you conduct your planet, something is always amiss Y/N.”

To prove you his point, he opens the door abruptly. Just as Obi-Wan walks in, prompted for a fight.

“Do you know this man?”

“No”, you lied, so convincingly that Dooku narrows his eyes.

You are powerful after all and these last years you managed to go unnoticed in apparent loyalty to Dooku remain a reminder of his annoyance to you. He could tell something was wrong with you, but what exactly that was, he never knew. It annoys him profoundly, but he has no rush to take his angry at you. Not now.

A game is played and you follow the rules.

“Hello there, Dooku.” Obi-Wan breaks the silence between you two. “Long time no see.”

“Obi-Wan, you master the weakness eager of being the hero each time we meet”, says Dooku, sounding bored. “You came by yourself to an enemy field. Will you not get tired of getting defeated every time?”

“You will lose, Dooku. Mark my words”, he says calmly and there may be a small smirk twitching in his lips, but his eyes are serious.

The fight thus begin. You watch, baffled and perplexed, as Count Dooku takes his two red lightsabers and begins to attack Obi-Wan. Your heart is pained at the scene that devolves under your nose.

You have to play the game though. You need to convince Dooku that you are at his side, but your conscience is tired of pretending. Your sentiments are at your behest.

It is when Dooku notices it.

“So it appears I was right all along”, he says as he fights Obi-Wan. “Your feelings betray you, Y/N. And you will fall too.”

He attacks Obi-Wan with ferocity. For a moment the Jedi appears to have been defeated. And it is when Dooku turns to you. His hands are filled with small waves of lightning bolt, ready to shockwave you, but you are faster. You use your mind to create a field around you.

“What?! How?”

Anger boils stronger. You take your lightsaber and prepare to fight after years out of action. Your body is eager to taste adrenaline again. The sight of Obi-Wan unconscious makes you mad.

Dooku laughs. He tortures your beloved beneath you as you prepare to attack. He is ready to counterattack you. There is fight.

“Yes! Yes! Release your anger, Jedi!”

The Count is pleased in fighting you. He knows what the Chancellor meant now. And you know it too by extent because of the mind reading. But you would not lose Obi-Wan.

The fight is equal, neither side falls. You press your lightsaber against him, quick to defend form him. Your body remembers every lesson both Yoda and Qui-Gonn Jinn taught you.

However, there is fear and angry within you, masking the goodness in your heart. Obi-Wan might be dead. It is only fair Dooku dies in your hands.

“I hate you, Dooku!” You yell at him. “You destroy everything I hold dear!”

Dooku is just as angry, for you proved a difficult opponent. In the meantime this fight happens, an aircraft lands the planet Y/C. The Chancellor comes discreetly. It’s by twilight he gets to your palace and he comes in the right moment.

You ignore his presence, concentrated in resisting his blows. In the meantime, you barely notice that Obi-Wan is not, in fact, dead. He begins to regain conscience and he soon realizes you are tempted to the dark side.

No.

He has to do something, but it’s when he knows the Chancellor is in the Palace. There’s little time to confabulate, but Obi-Wan, slow as he may be to some points, realizes the only explanation is that Palpatine is the Darth Lord that stands behind Count Dooku’s machinations.

He has to stop him. But he also has to prevent you from falling. Obi-Wan has to make a choice. Which one, though?

***

You manage to remove one arm of Dooku. Dark side surrounds you. The Chancellor knows he’ll get you right where he wants. There’s only one Master and one Apprentice, after all. He senses you are defeating Dooku and his plans again are going right where he wants you.

You are hurt in the process, though. Your hair is a mess, there is bleeding around your neck and a new scar prompts to rise in the cut in your right cheek.

It is when you finally put Dooku in the ground. You could kill him. It’s in his eyes. Kill me. A voice is heard then:

“Kill him! End with his life, Y/N.”

You might do that. In your mind, Dooku embodies every frustration you never could deal well. To worse all, he took away the love of your life. Your eyes are filled with tears.

But there’s hesitation.

“Kill him! Do it! Do it now!”

It’s the voice of the Chancellor. You don’t need to turn your head to know. It scares you at how you have a Sith Lord in his mercy.

A voice, ever so gentle, comes to your mind: “Revenge is the not the Jedi way.”

You begin to remember the kindness and gentleness in Qui-Gonn Jinn. In your recollections, flashbacks of memories spent under his training go back. It’s about Obi-Wan. It’s about Master Yoda.

Oh. What have you allowed to become? What were you about to do?

The Chancellor looses his patience.

“Stupid girl!”

You are suddenly put under torture. You are lost, you are conflicted.

It was precisely when Obi-Wan comes. You think you may have died for you fall in his arms. Maybe that is how it ends. You are in peace and the dark that is in you dissipates. Your eyes close.

But you are not dead.

When you open your eyes, you are lying in a white bed, covered by white sheets. Obi-Wan is by your side, his eyes full of concern. He had been under a whole stress, but it seems to relieve as you awake.

He had witnessed your conflicts, your temptation, your powers. But he was also there when you resisted the calling of the dark side. Obi-Wan held you in his arms after defeating the Chancellor and Dooku.

How everything could have ended differently if you had killed Dooku mercilessly. How you would be apart had you fallen.

He weeps. You are the savior of the grace. You saved the Galaxy. You are the chosen one. However, what does it matter when he has you in his arms?

“Ben?” you ask him.

“Don’t make too much of an effort. You need to rest.” He tells you.

“Am I alive?” You question him, confused.

Obi-Wan chuckles. There is innocence intact in your heart. He melts internally at such display. You are back to being you.

“Of course you are, darling. I am not dead. I was merely unconscious.”

You blush at how he addresses you. You lean against him.

“What happened?”

“The Siths are defeated”, he tells you. “And all thanks to you.”

You reluctantly break the embrace he’d pulled you in.

“I…” your eyes are filled with tears as you now remember what happened. How close to be merciless you were, how the hurt turned to angst in the moment you faced Dooku. “I failed you. I failed you, Obi-Wan”

To feel your sadness and disappointment break his heart. Obi-Wan is quick to reassure you this is not true.

“On the contrary, my darling. You saved me, you saved us all. You were tempted by the dark side, but perhaps it was what you needed to do before you found your way back to light.” He tells you. “You restaured the balance.”

Obi-Wan tells you how, despite the Chancellor’s strength, he could not kill you. You resisted him by being good, but there was a moment where he thought he’d beat you because your resistance was indeed diminishing. But by then Obi-Wan had defeated the Count for good and Anakin’s forces came with the Jedis to rescue you. A huge fight happened, but, in short, the Chancellor had been weakened by your resistance, so he died.

You cuddle him again, feeling that same old peace as you felt when Obi-Wan held you the moment you fell in his arms.

“Now rest, dear one. We are going home.” He tells you, a smile on his face as you fall asleep in his arms.

***

You dress impeccably for the occasion. The Republic is in feast: because of you, there is no more evil. Everything is back to what it should had always been.

As the heroine, as the chosen one, you are to parade next to your fellow Jedis. You were told you’d officially become Master this day. So far you’d been acknowledged as knight Jedi.

So here you are. No more a queen, but a Master Jedi in a simple purple gown, your favorite color—which also happens to be the color of your lightsaber.

You let your hair loose and a small tiara is pressed on top of your head. Small earrings you put in your ear—the only inheritance of your times as queen. But in truth you want to look beautiful for him.

Obi-Wan is waiting for you outside. He is looking so charming in his fancy clothes, there is just something about him that makes you hot. A strange feeling you never thought to feel. You blush.

He too feels the same. The Jedi Master feels as if he’s knocked out by your dashing beauty. He wants you to himself in so many ways. But this has to wait. There is a ceremony to attend. You take the arm he offers and you go the party.

***

“I have to say”, Obi-Wan tells you as he takes you to the dance floor. Everyone is having such a great time that no one is paying attention in how close you are. Or perhaps they are pretending not to. Anakin finds so amusing how blatantly clear it is every time you look at each other. “I thought I was a man who had no issue whatsoever with sharing. But when it comes to you, I am very selfish.”

You laugh heartily at his remark. When gazing at his blue eyes, you feel at home. You smile before pulling him gently against you.

“You don’t have to share me, Ben.” You lean to whisper in his ear. “I am yours. I had always been. This is not open to discuss.”

He chuckles, his face going slightly red at your words. Your smile spreads upon what you see.

“I never thought I’d make you blush, General Kenobi”, you tease him.

Obi-Wan laughs. You bring the best out of him, he feels so light and himself with you. He does not have to go through a road of suffering.

Not anymore. No more losses.

Because you saved the day. You saved his day.

“You can do it easily, but if I remember correctly, in the days of Master Qui-Gon, you were the one who blushed easily.” He smiles as in turn you go pink.

You feel the grip in his waist go tight. You don’t complain, but, to be honest, it makes you want more. What could this be more? Such a strange sentiment…

“I wish I’ve had reasons to argument you”, you admit as you both laugh. “It was so much easier back then, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe it was”, he agrees. “But we are better now. I think all of this time required me to value you. Who you are, and who you became.”

You melt under his eye. Some other gentlemen would ask you dance had you not been so concentrated entertaining Master Kenobi. As if you cared, though.

“Ben…” it’s as if there’s just the two of you in a crowd room.

“It’s true. You have always been my chosen one, Y/nickname.”

Your blush deepens. You look away, in the hopes he does not see how you feel, how your face betrays the same old foolishness that you had as you were a blossoming young woman, when you were firstly attracted to him.

But he not only sees it, Obi-Wan feels it. His heart races. He feels the same and wishes he could tell you how much, but he’s never been a man of words.

“Are we getting shy with each other now?” He says, making you both chuckle. “We are not strangers to behave like ones.”

“But your flatteries, Obi-Wan, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them.” You could not believe in what he’d told you. Whatever others might think about you, you could not care less. But him? To be his chosen one? You beam.

The dance eventually ends and you are forced to interrupt your flirtatious conversation so either of you participate in the rites of what would be a long night.

You realize how much you detest to be the center of people’s attention when Senator Organa praises you in a long speech and there’s a round of applauses. But everything is better when you see Obi-Wan applauding enthusiastically with pride stamped in his eyes.

“If you are trying hard to make yourself a fool, you are succeeding it”, Anakin teases Obi-Wan.

“Oh shut up, Anakin”, he responds, not really in a bad mood.

As you are awarded with the title of Master, you surprise all by refusing a chair in the Council of Jedi because you preferred to teach the younglings and going to the field when necessary. An old flame is revived and you could not help yourself. As a result you earn a Padawan. Ahsoka Tano is her name and you gladly welcome her.

“I think we are having so much fun together”, you assure her, excited with the perspective of having a Padawan.

But all you really want is to be with Obi-Wan. As the ceremony comes to end, you manage to escape people’s attention and it comes to him to find you. It doesn’t surprise him to see you in a random room.

He enters and closes the door.

“I knew I’d find you here”, he says. It used to be a favorite place for you to study in the days where both of you were Padawans. “It’s not surprising at all to track your steps, Y/N.”

You giggle, leaning against the wall. He notices your hair is loose, as if paying attention how the curls drop perfectly and naturally to your waist. Suddenly, it occurs him this gown you dress not only matches the color of your lightsaber but also salients your curves. Obi-Wan holds his breath as he steps to you, carefully holding back his long desire for you.

“It was beginning to be overbearing. Besides, you know me, Ben.”

You could not look away. He has a way to hold your gaze. You smirk as he steps closer because you feel it too. The heat there is in you, there is in him. Moved by a strange boldness that was never you, you pull him close to him.

“I want to be with you.” You whisper against his lips.

He sighs heavily. The desire is too much to bear. But even so…

“Not here. Not now.”

Without waiting for the response, or to see the disappointment that comes to your features, he leads you to his bedchambers instead. You leave the ceremony behind and no one seems to notice your absence because the party is coming to an end anyway.

Finally, you reach his bedchambers and you are positively surprised as soon as Obi-Wan closes the door, he urgently pursuits your lips, claiming them with yours. It’s a messy kiss, fervent and desperated. All the attachment you both struggled in ten years returns intently.

Neither of you can tell what to do with the unbearable heat that rises likes an explosion of flames, except by removing the clothes that are on your way. He takes you to his bed, not before he removes your gown. Obi-Wan breaks the kiss as he wants to see you as you are. Demoted from your gown.

You blush deeply underneath his gaze but you also feel desired, wanted, seen. Your dreams are coming true. Fire is about to blow.

“Touch me, Ben”, you beg.

You don’t know how, you just know. As he looks at you, he cannot help himself. Obi-Wan hears himself asking:

“Have you ever done this to somebody else?”

You smile at the subtle jealousy in his apparent innocent question. You contemplate his handsome features as you caress his face, as you play with his hair, your hands moving to his beard and slowly going to his neck. You lean to sit in his lap, rubbing yourself in his stiffed manhood.

“Never.” You tell when looking into his eyes, those inviting blue eyes. “I was always loyal to you.”

Obi-Wan slowly smiles, pride in his face stamped again. He then kissed you hungrily, turning you to bed just as you tossed away his shirt. You contemplate his well builded muscles, fingertips gently caressing his chest. All the while he kisses your neck, almost moved by instinct as he placed his hands over your breasts and begin caressing. You moan his name, wanting for more, but you don’t know how.

He is aroused by how willing you are. It is funny to an extent to think this powerful Jedi is at his mercy. Obi-Wan smirks at himself as he begins to kiss your chest and collarbone, his hands gripping every piece of you… until he slides a finger in between your legs, positively surprising you.

“Oh!”you exclaim.

Obi-Wan looks up at you, confused.

“What is this “oh” for? Darling, did I hurt you?”

He is so thoughtful that you mewl. You smile warmly at him, cupping his face with your hands.

“Never, my love. I was actually discovering how much I’ve wanted you to do that to me”, you giggle when he blushes in response at your bluntness.

So the two of you tangle your bodies for the rest of the night, discovering ways to please each other that until then none could have thought of.

Gentle as he is, Obi-Wan thrusts into you carefully and slowly, and you find yourself enjoying it so much. Slowly you raise your legs, but it does hurt a little, inexperience you are. He sees it and stops it, but before he says anything, you kiss him eagerly. It does say a lot.

Obi-Wan and you move as one. Pain mixes to pleasure and it does feel so good when he comes inside you. You don’t think about the consequences of having his seed inside you so deliberately. But who cares?

You want more. He is more than willing to comply with your wishes. You now respond to his thrusts more, and Obi-Wan heavily pants as a result.

“It’s so damn good”, he groans against your skin.

He dominates your body and you want more of that. He does not let you go on top of him. And you smile at how he proceeds with such trust.

You want him and instigate him. The slow paces grow faster. Old desperation returns. The kisses are not enough to stop the sounds of your mouths.

You scream and he likes to know he’s the reason why. He wants more. You give him that. The two of you don’t sleep until he seeds you again and again.

When he does realize what’d he done, you laugh.

“I don’t care”, you tell him as you turn on your elbows to contemplate his nakedness. A sly smirk crosses your lips when seeing him blush. “I am glad I’ll provide you children in future, Ben.”

He chuckles at the idea. Obi-Wan cannot stop stare at your bare skin, admiring you. He pulls you against him, cuddling.

“How about we leave this for when it does happen?”

You giggle. “You want it though?”

“Be with you is my priority”, he tells you, kissing your neck. “Whatever comes next, I’ll comply. As I’ll always do when it comes to you.”

You blush and bury your head in his chest. Everything is settled and you couldn’t believe how finally, oh finally, you are living the life you wanted.

***

Epilogue

Padmé tells the Senate she needs your services in Naboo for about a year. No one complains because you’ve done so much for the Republic, and it’s so peaceful that, sure, why not.

The truth, however, is more than appearances could give. The reason why you go to Naboo is because you are about to give birth to twins. Obi-Wan follows you, but no one suspects at all.

“I feel tired”, you tell him. Obi-Wan is anxious and it’s up to Anakin to calm him. “I don’t think I’m dying, Ben. Please don’t stress yourself. It’s just being pregnant does take a lot of energy from me”

You chuckle, but he does not follow your sense of humor. He is preoccupied, sensing something might not go well. And what it does? What if he has a bad feeling about this?

He could not live without you. The idea of a world without you is too much for him. Obi-Wan remembers that fatidic day where you lost your conscience in his arms after a great fight with the Sith. He feared for you.

“Calm yourself, old chap”, says Anakin. “You are not helping at all by manifesting your fears. Remember that old line you told me all the time?”

You smile at that. Usually the scene happens the other way around: Obi-Wan telling his fellow Jedi and now Master Skywalker about controlling his feelings and being not so much reckless as often he is.

“You for once speak reason, Anakin”, says Obi-Wan.

Padmé interferes and takes you to the hospital herself. She does not allow Obi-Wan to come. Eventually, though, you are left alone to face the labor.

It scares you, though. The whole process of being a mother. Republic is at peace now, but will it be always? How would you be able to hide the children from the Jedi Council? You could feel the Force in your twins. Of course, with you and Obi-Wan, this would not be different.

You sigh and fall asleep. The operation begins. There is an initial difficulty, but it ends well. It’s not your time to part yet.

When you are awake, you have your husband (because of course you secretly married your fellow Jedi Master) by your side and the twins crying loud in your arms.

“I love you”, you tell Obi-Wan happily.

He looks at the children in awe, but at you with more love. Obi-Wan takes the boy in his arms.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

The twins you love would, you somehow knew, play a part in the history of Galaxy someday. Perhaps Obi-Want feels it too. But neither of you speak about it. You just want to enjoy that moment together where there is peace and love.

“How should you name the children?” Asks Anakin, curious.

You giggle, but before you open your mouth, Obi-Wan responds for you.

“The boy is Luke.”

“But the girl is Lysa”, you say.

The two of you exchanges glances. Neither seems to hear Anakin say:

“I sense a great force in them.”

#imagine Star Wars #Star Wars #obi wan kenobi #obi wan #obiwan kenobi #obi-wan Kenobi #obi wan x reader #obi wan smut #obi wan x y/n #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi-wan kenobi x y/n #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obiwan smut #obiwan x reader #obiwan x y/n

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thechanelmuse · 1 year

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California Reparations

The conversation on the centuries overdue debt of US lineage-based reparations owed to Black Americans is still going strong from state bills and conferences to articles and panels. Federal reparations is the top goal, but the state ones are being sought as well. The unfinished business of Special Field Order No. 15 plus interest. “Wouldn’t that cause the US to go bankrupt?” Nope.

I was gonna wait until the final Cali report is released on July 1, 2023. (If you haven’t read the full 400+ page interim report, it’s here. I’ll plug the audio version when it’s finished.) But since there’s a definite number for one aspect, here ya go:

The California Reparations Task Force for AB 3121 — who are leading in the first, pure reparative bill to redress the state-sanctioned terror, genocide, discriminatory laws (Black Codes/Code Noir, Jim Crow), stolen wealth and land theft — are recommending each person to receive $223,200 for housing discrimination ($559 billion - the nation's biggest restitution effort ever…so far). This is only for Cali.

Shit like this is just...

Reaping the benefits in your house and the bricks your ancestors laid...

When you get into the liquid assets...

There’ll be protective policies in place and more because after all...

There’s 5 steps to reparations under international law:

Cessation/Assurance of Non-Repetition - like structural and institutional policies

Restitution - like the account for stolen land, property and labor (real or intellectual)

Compensation - like cash

Satisfaction - like a formal apology

Rehabilitation - like free medical care, free education, free legal and trauma services

Kamailah Moore, Esq., who is the Chairwoman of the AB 3121 California Task Force, breaks it down in this 1 minute 37 second clip from a Revolt Summit panel on held Sept 2022.

Whether you live in Cali or not, if you’re the descendant of free people or enslaved people who were subjected to US chattel enslavement of building this country from scratch and (re)classified under the US caste system as Black or Mulatto, later reclassified as Negro to Colored to Black again to Afro American to African American to Black/African American to “Black or African American” currently, do your genealogy. Prepare. This is not that damn spit test. Get your documents together.

There are a lot genealogical websites. I use Ancestry.com and FamilySearch.org. The latter is thorough than a mf and great for cross verifying what pops up or you trace on Ancestry.com. Also, the Card Catalog option on Ancestry is key. Both headquarters are in Utah. You can physically go to the FamilySearch Center, if you choose.

Many of us have family members who don’t fuck with the US census or haven’t done it in decades, so the birth certificate and death certificate paper trail will be the route to go leading back to the census record docs. Dig into the National Archive Catalog. Touch those microfilms if you can. We are well documented. The United States governmental corporation is obsessed with us. They keep them receipts like a serial killer keeps mementos. It’s there. The farther back you go, be patient and take breaks. Also, check that old bible. Make note of everyone from safe kept obituaries. Talk to your fam, especially the elders.

SN: I have more research to do, but one day I’m want to break down the Negro and Mulatto part of caste system because that shit is nothing but a bag of trickery and confusion the farther you go back in records. The complexity of paper genocide in classification that you wouldn’t be privy to unless you crack that 1870 wall and keep going back. (I haven’t just traced mine; I’ve been assisting others.)

Certain words don’t have the same meaning as what we would consider them today. Mulatto, for one, meant more than someone who was half and half. The answers sit in plain sight within centuries back state laws. When I get around to writing it, I’m starting from the most recent one with ol’ Jesse “Cherokee Indian card” Jackson head ass loudly calling for a reclassified people to be yet again reclassified by a misnomer — African American — that we didn’t ask for and looks like an immigrant status. The problem is more than obvious today. Everyone who has differing homelands being classified under the same label as if we’re a monolith...one big nigga 🙃. This is being straightened out.

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dont-offend-the-bees · 1 year

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I was tagged by @bookwhimses to post a snippet of my WIP! I have just OH so many to choose from, none of 'em progressing particularly fast atm, but freshest on my mind seems to be the Sandman so we'll go with that ^^

I'm tagging @kieren-fucking-walker @firstaudrina @girl-bateman @evilphrog @kelpiemomma @excellentcollectionofwords @victorluvsalice and anyone else who has a WIP they're just dying to share with the class ^^

Anyway, this is from the Sandman fic that keeps kinda bubbling away in my mind, which is sort of a semi-AU based on the Fanily of Blood/Human Nature Doctor Who episodes. The 'Daniel' in this snippet is a Dream without his memories, living a constructed human life. I know his human name being Daniel has potential to be confusing, what with Daniel Hall also being a thing, but none of the other names I've played with have really felt right!

Food prepared and a modest glass of wine on the side, Daniel sinks happily into his sofa and once more loses himself in the story, one earbud removed so that the sound of his own chewing doesn't echo thunderously in his skull. The TV sits unused, as it often does. Later on, when he has to drag his attention from stories into grading, he'll replace the audiobook with music. Something else to fill the silence; it always gets so heavy around this time in the evening. He plants his feet on the cushions, tucking his knees up—and lifts his plate to his chin when the cat pounces for her spot in his lap. Silent, assured, her chattering done now that food has been acquired, segueing with ease into the quiet, comfortable routine of the night.

Daniel doesn’t give that silence opportunity to take hold, notching up the volume and listening well as talented young author Miss Walker guides him through her bittersweet debut tale.

Silence has never sat well with Daniel. Unfortunate, since he seems often to be surrounded by it. It’s not that he’s a shut-in, or a hermit; he has friends, thank you very much. He goes out, he has visitors. He dances in clubs where the music is so loud it reverborates in his ribs, he laughs over cups of coffee when the sun rises and pints of beer when it sets. He has in depth conversations with his friends, his colleagues, his students. He listens to the hum of conversation as he prepares a meal for his guests he promises will knock their socks off. He even, on occasion, shares clandestine whispers with semi-strangers, charms them, beckons them into his home and fills his quiet little flat with sounds of pleasure until all involved can only fall into satiated sleep. He lives a life in the sounds of others, and relishes it.

But eventually, everyone must go to their own home. Eventually people go to work, to their families, to wherever they were before they picked each other up for a night of fun. And Daniel, for all that his alone time is important to him and his work, has never quite got to grips with the silence. He fills it in any way he can. With stories, with podcasts, with music, with ambient noise. Sometimes just with his own voice, and conversations with his cat. Why, he can’t possibly say. Something to do with his youth, perhaps. The days of childhood feel far away much of the time, memories tinted sepia. He was a happy child, so far as he can tell. From a happy home.

But somewhere in that past, in a place he can never quite reach; there was silence.

No, he doesn’t like silence. Not one bit.

As the story winds to a close and the plate lies picked clean, he makes an indulgent decision. He sets his paperwork aside for a few minutes—he’s not tired, so there’ll be plenty of time for it later—and reaches for his notebook instead. On his phone he clicks past his usual selection of narrative folk to his other vice, the rambling trip-hop mix that makes his brain jump in interesting ways without filling it with any words that aren’t his own. As dreamy synths and erratic beats fill his ears in chorus to the soft snores of his feline companion, he takes up his pen, and opens his notebook.

A trickle of sand bleeds from the crease of the pages.

Daniel rolls his eyes, shaking the irritating grains out onto the empty plate on the side table. How one little trip to Brighton six months ago could leave it’s impression so thoroughly, he would never know.

Sand decanted, he turns to the next page with blank space, mind already turning over what he wants to spill onto the page. It was nice, actually, talking out loud about his dreams earlier, however brief and impersonal his chats with Robert tend to be. The image feels sharper in his mind, the impressions of his characters tripping off the pen nib as he sketches them into being, as he takes what little snippets of story he can remember and scribbles them into rudimentary shapes. The impressions of his Dream Lord, that strange and lonely creature in his palace of glass and stone.

#my fanfic #the sandman #lord morpheus #dream of the endless #tag game #this was one of the only bits so far that isn't a typo-riddled first drafty mess so this is what you're getting xD #unless I'm in the editing phase my wips are rarely ready for other people's eyes these days #I've embraced the type like a madman and sort out the mess later approach lmao #i will probably not have this fic finished for another 1-6 business years but i am very excited about it #but if anyone wants to talk about it 👀#(yes it is dreamling)#(in kind of a messy sad way)

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airsoftaction · 1 month

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momoiiiyume · 1 year

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assumptions

knight/modern au limbo x risa wc: 1603

note: i asked for prompts on twitter and i got jealously and unrequited love from two different people but i decided to mash them together hehe

===

She hadn’t been to university in forever. Heck, this wasn’t even her school, so it felt like she was a trespasser, however, Limbo assured her they allowed visitors, so long as they visited the administration's office to get a pass or it was an event that allowed visitors.

Risa roamed the halls as she tried to find where the criminology wing was. Why was she here in the first place? So, she could find Limbo, and tell him something.

She likes him.

It was a spur of the moment for her; thinking of all the times they hung out together and how attentive he was to her. It made her heart flutter in ways it usually doesn’t. He made her feel special.

“It should be here…” She says to herself as she walks towards the class he’s assisting in. It’s almost time he ends his shift as she recalls him telling her once. He was not aware she was coming here. She walks to a door and peeks in to see Limbo still in the classroom. There’s a class still going on so she has to wait for it to end.

She is a bit early. She walks around the corner to sit on the available bench.

Risa sits as she exhales deeply. She’s nervous. What’s she gonna say? Hi Limbo, sorry to drop by so suddenly but I have to say something, I like you? Or would she just be a sputtering mess unable to say it out loud? She quietly groans, “This is frustrating.”

She gets out her phone to distract herself, googling how to confess to a crush.

10 minutes later, she hears the doors open and an influx of students chattering as they head out. That means the class is finished. She thinks.

She gets up and waits for an opportunity to get inside. She peeks out to the classroom hallway and sees Limbo heading out as well.

She’s about to move until she sees a girl run to catch up to him. “Limbo!’ He turns to her and smiles at the girl.

Oh.

The girl wraps her hands around his wrist as she talks to him. “Limbo, are you doing anything today?” He shakes his head, “No, nothing really aside from grading these papers.”

“Great, it’ll take like 30 minutes for you to grade those but before that, why don’t you and I grab dinner? A new place just opened up a few days ago” She’s gotten close to him and Risa feels her heart deflate. He’s not peeling her off of him. She turns away from the scene, feeling bad for eavesdropping and makes her head drop. She’s not listening anymore as she missed out on the girl saying as she lets go of his wrist. “Of course, there’ll be more people coming! We decided to make this a group dinner anyway and we wanted to invite you too.”

She gets up from the bench and heads out the back door of the hall in sadness. It was silly to think she could end up with him anyway. He was popular at this school and many girls liked him as well. Of course, he already has a girlfriend. Why did she bother trying? She tries to hold back the tears as she returns to the administration's office to return the visitor’s pass.

Limbo thinks about this and turns to the girl, “Why not, I-” Before he could say, he heard a door close.

He jumps a bit and turns back. There should be no one else at this time and the classroom before is not in use right now. Weird, he thinks.

“Uh…Limbo? Are you coming or not? Clara needs a head count right away.” She waves her hand to his face to get his attention. “Huh? Oh…” He looks at the girl and shakes his head. “Sorry, I just remembered I promised some of my friends I’d go with them.” It was a lie but he felt like he had to make up an excuse.

“Oh, that’s alright then. We can eat some other time then!” She nods and starts texting. “I’ve let Clara know ahead of time then. See you, next class, Limbo!” The girl turns around and heads out for the day.

Seeing Amy round a corner, he looks back to the end of the hallway and heads towards the back door. He’s cautious, as he’s not sure who was here.

He opens the door and he’s led outside. He looks around and nothing looks out of the ordinary until he takes a step forwards and accidentally steps on a plush keychain.

It was a My Melody keychain. He recognizes the model and recalls him winning it in an arcade. And he gave it to Risa.

Was it Risa that came here? He picks up the keychain and inspects it. There is a name on the tag that says “Risa”, confirming his suspicions. “Risa?” He’s confused. If she was here, why didn’t she stop by to see him? There shouldn’t be any other reason as to why she’s here. None of their friends had any reason to be at this school. It was strange to him.

He walks while he looks around the campus courtyard. A few people are sitting on tables and benches. Some played catch and some danced to music. But none of them are Risa.

He quickened his pace, running while hoping she was still on campus. Some students recognize him and say hi to him, but he unknowingly ignores them.

“Oh, that’s a short visit. Was it satisfactory at least?” The clerk at the office asks while grabbing the pass from Risa’s hands. “Yes.” She tries to hide her sadness. “The NSU campus is beautiful, if I may say. I wish I was able to go here.” Risa changes the topic. “Well, you’re always welcome to further your education here, if you wish. It’s June right now so classes are full but we are opening classes in the Fall.”

The clerk informs her. “Oh, and we do have a festival next month if you’d like to visit then too.”

“Ah, we’ll see then. Thank you for everything.”

She turns to the front doors to exit when they open up and Limbo appears. He’s out of breath. She widens her eyes. “Limbo?”

“Risa…!” He pants, trying to catch his breath.

“Did you run here?”

“Yes, I was trying to find you.” He walks up to her. “I didn’t know you were visiting, you should’ve told me.”

“Uhm….” She looks down, feeling guilty. “Yeah, I wanted to see you… but something…came up and wasn’t able to meet you…” She mumbled the last words and she could feel herself cry, replaying the scene in Limbo’s classroom in her head.

Then, she throws her head up and clears her throat. “Um, I gotta go and open up the store soon. You should go too. Your girlfriend is waiting, right? You have dinner today.” She rounds Limbo to the exit. “See you around.”

“Girlfriend?” He’s confused now. He stands there, piecing it together. So she was there. Risa probably witnessed his talk with Amy. He almost laughs at the whole thing. She misunderstood.

“Wait.” Before she can pull the door, Limbo’s hand slams the glass door shut as he stands over her. She looks above her to see Limbo standing behind her. Damn him and his height!

He turns her around and leads her outside and they talk when they sit on a bench.

“Risa, I think you’re misunderstanding the situation.”

“Misunderstanding? About what?”

“That I have a girlfriend. I don’t have one. Never have. The girl you saw was a student in the class I’m assisting. She’s… already spoken for, anyway.”

She blinks, processing the information he gave her. “But… I saw her holding your wrist?”

“That’s probably to stop me so she can talk to me. She let go immediately. Anyway, she invited me to dinner along with other students and TAs. A new restaurant opened up and they wanted to try it.”

Oh.

She feels dumb for misreading the whole thing but also feels relieved, for the most part. “Sorry… sometimes I let my emotions get the better of me and assume the worst.”

“That’s alright. I would’ve done the same, if some guy was talking to you.” Limbo laughed as he muttered something under his breath. She quickly turns to him, was she hearing him right?

“Anyway, what were you doing here? You rarely come to visit me here.” He suddenly changes the subject.”

“Oh! Uhm…” Now she’s embarrassed. Her cheeks redden as she remembers why she was here in the first place. Is now a good time to confess? The words escape her.

“What, is it wrong to see your friend? Can’t I just see you for once?” She jokingly says her excuse. All signs of love have disappeared. Well, maybe next time she can conf-

“Friend… huh…” He repeats in a serious tone. “Limbo?” She tries, frowning. Was it something upsetting she said? What is he thinking in that big beautiful head of his? She wishes she could read his mind.

He shakes his head and smiles at her. “Well. I’m glad to see you too. Since you’re here, let’s go grab something to eat.” He gets up and extends his hand to her, waiting for her to accept, which she gladly did. “Sure.” She says as she gets up, holding his hand with a smile.

“If I recall, there’s another restaurant that opened up too. It’s Chinese and I’d love to try it out!”

“That sounds good to me!”

#drabbles #with limbo #knight au

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g4rous · 3 years

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Garou having a crush (fluff headcanons)

Ask: Hey, You do garou headcanons, right? I was wondering how Garou would act if he ever had a crush on someone? (If you’ve already done this or don’t wanna write it then just ignore this)

Heyy! <3 I didn’t write hcs for this specific theme before but in some earlier works I did add some parts of what could go along with this lol so there’ll probably be a few familiar thingies here but I hope you enjoy nonetheless! 💕💞💓 A lovestruck Garou is all I can think about now sjdjdhhjdhdff

-A couple of times before I wrote that he’d only start developing feelings for someone after an amount of bonding

-Doesn’t necessarily mean chatting for 4 hours straight but rather he just needs to know the person. Genuinely.

-If they acted sweet from the beginning of their interactions some suspicion would cross his mind. Is he being deceived? Don’t blame him he’s been through a lot :’)

-Appearance isn’t really the first thing that makes him swoon (though trust me, later he’ll admire the person and all their beauty with every glance)

-Due to many reasons, before he didn’t think much of relationships or getting into one. However, imagine being in one where he could be and express himself without judgment, maybe finally understood for once?

-Seems pretty neat, truth be told

-If he were to find a person sincere and accepting, kind and without some shallow façade then boom

-The on-first-sight unapproachable badass is catching feelings

-How can you tell? Let me begin ;)

-He may not be exactly chatty with others, but would try sparking up a conversation with you

-And if you two have a bunch of similar things you enjoy talking about he’ll put so much enthusiasm into it you couldn’t help but chuckle at his lit up grin

-A bystander would get incredibly perplexed upon witnessing that gloomy-looking teen turning into an adorable grinning nerd that fast

-Even though he prefers to listen to you talk more, he just can’t help but get thrilled over the fact you have common views AND you’re interested in hearing what he has to say

-Speaking of which, is very observant about your interests and the things you like

-Some days he might get a bit quiet because he’s just busy looking at what makes you happy

-Don’t get surprised if one day he decided to take you to that place you briefly mentioned wanting to go to weeks ago

-Isn’t an overthinker but in all honesty more than once he’s been left dumbfounded on which way to show you he cares

-Is hanging out and listening to you really enough? In a way he can’t help but get a feeling that maybe he should do more

-Casually helps you out with the smallest things (even something cliché and silly like opening a jar or bottle), stares at you while you’re not looking, often speaks in a softer voice and let’s not forget about playful banter and teasing

-Always tries to find an excuse to be near you. Usually it isn’t obvious but if you were to point it out he’d just shrug it off of course

-“Huh? Maybe if you spoke louder I wouldn’t have to get this close all the time.”

-One important thing that needs to be added is that he is actually quite aware about his feelings. Has been from the start, even if he found them initially incomprehensible and odd

-Despite any in-the-first place denial, he’s no dimwit I assure you

-Takes some time getting used to the fluff is all

-And just as he’s naturally tenacious and devoted to something he deems important, this extends to the person he’s crushing on as well

-Isn’t the type of person to do anything half-assed

-Really, he wouldn’t even look at someone else. Why would he since all he wants to look at is you 💗

#garou headcanons #one punch man #opm #garou #opm x reader #garou x reader #one punch man x reader #garou opm #garo #opm headcanons #one punch man fluff #one punch man headcanons

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teddi-too · 3 years

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Shadow x Female Reader (NSFW)

CW: NSFW, AFAB Female Reader

Jumping in to writing some original content a bit more, hope you enjoy!

Another long day at the office done, you return home to your empty apartment and flip on the tall floor lamp in the living room.

“Hello, no one, I’m home.” You called to the emptiness. You sigh and remove your shoes and head to your bedroom to change out of your work attire. It was Friday evening and you got paid today so you opted for takeout tonight. Once your favorite meal arrived, you settled onto the couch and dove into your favorite show.

Your Friday nights used to be much more exciting. Evenings out with friends, flirting at the bars, dancing and sweating with handsome strangers. At one point all of your close friends and you were inseparable but one by one they found someone and paired off. Now you were the lone single friend and your Friday nights looked like this.

Sometimes they invited you over for game nights but you were always acutely aware that your presence made the teams uneven and you could only be scorekeeper so many times. So, alone it was.

Dating? You’ve tried it so many times. If one more of your married friends asks you if you’ve tried online dating, you might actually audibly scream. You’ve had no luck clicking with someone. So, you figured, alone might just be your thing whether you like it or not.

Companionship was a thing you could try to numb yourself to through TV dinners and binge watching tv but you had other needs too.

You knew exactly how to pleasure yourself, all your spots to make you writhe and finish. In fact, you had almost become too efficient at it and it just wasn’t the same anymore. You longed for the touch of another. For someone else to be giving you and adding to your own pleasure.

Later, you lay in bed, half heartedly palming your sensitive parts. You sighed, looking up at the ceiling. Moving your eyes around your room before settling them onto the dark corner opposite your bed. As you stared into the dense blackness, you almost thought you could see movement.

The more intensely you stared, the more you were certain you could see discernible features in the shadow.

“Hmmm,” you whined as you dipped your fingers between your slick folds. “Maybe that’s what I need. A ghost? Something I can conjure?” You spoke out loud towards the shadow. You let your imagination run wild at the thought. An otherworldly creature appearing solely to pleasure you.

“I am not a ghost. But I think I could be of assistance.” A voice low, like old creaking wood filled the room. Your heart stopped for a moment then beat so intensely you felt white hot. You froze. The room seemed to suddenly feel full as if you were not alone.

“H-hello?” You managed to squeak out in a voice that was even smaller than you intended. Your back felt damp with sweat against your sheets.

The features of your room were obscured as an opaque black sheet moved over your field of vision. You would think you had absolutely lost your mind except that this...shadow...seemed to have weight to it. You could feel it passing over your feet, then your calves, soon your entire body felt like it was being touched, held.

The touch wasn’t frightening somehow. It was the first time in so long that you felt the beautiful weight of another being on top of your body—even if this being wasn’t human or even solid, it was still comforting.

“What are you? Are you real?” You whispered dryly.

A ripple of cool energy passed over your body.

“Can’t you feel that I am real?” The voice rumbled back. You nodded, unsure of if it could see you or just hear you. “I believe humans refer to us as shadow people. Though our real name can not be comprehended by your kind.”

“Shadows are...alive?” You tried to take everything in. You shivered as your slick cooled on your skin as your attention had been turned away to the situation in front of you. A chuckle emerged from the darkness.

“No, no. We are beings separate from shadows and yet we can hide and move through the shadows of your world. Shadows cannot touch you, I can.” A pulse of cool energy passed over your soft stomach and ghosted lightly over your core. Heat immediately pooled in your abdomen.

Despite all the logic your mind was trying to throw at you to tell you this wasn’t real and wasn’t happening, the aching in your body overpowered. You decided to allow yourself to submit to the situation at hand.

“You can really...do things to me? I mean, do you...want to?” You fell over your words as your heartbeat raced in your chest. An insecure thought popped into your head, me? Really?

“Oh yes, I want you badly. I’ve observed you for quite some time.” The voice creaked and sounded fuller than before, almost lustful. You felt your cheeks flush as you thought about all the times you had pleasured yourself never thinking twice about another presence in the room.

“I….want this too…” you shifted your weight to open up your body a bit more, unsure what this shadow might have in mind.

“I can and want to do so many things to you. Who do you want?” It breathed over you.

“W-what?” You breathlessly reply, trying to steady yourself to listen to its question.

“Hmm, have you ever noticed when you look for too long into a shadowy room you can sometimes see a face in the darkness?” You nodded. “Who do you want me to be? I can make myself look like anyone...anything” the deep voice cracked through the static feeling of the air. You thought just for a moment, a few faces from your past flashed through your mind.

“No one.” You finally answered. The shadow swirled over you, a concentrated feeling cupping your face almost like caring hands reaching to support you.

“No one?” The shadow repeated back. You sighed.

“There’ll be no one in the morning, so there should be no one now.” You hoped you had hidden the tired sadness in your voice. The energy over your body shuddered and receded slightly. Tears stung at the corners of your eyes. “Please, I-“ you moved your hands down your torso, tracing your soft skin, reaching towards your sensitive spot that was begging for the pressure to return.

You halted your movement when a tendril of energy pressed across your lips. The sensation was warm and somehow wet like the tongue of a lover asking for entrance. Your mouth fell open without thought.

“I wish you could understand how beautiful you are.” The voice rumbled and the shadow engulfed your mouth in a kiss. That’s the only way you could describe it. No discernible mouth or tongue or chin, just darkness but you could feel it all. You returned the kiss with equal passion and the warmth that was pooling in your core previously started to unravel you again.

As you continued your deep passionate kiss, a dreamy light pressure settled on your breasts, making your nipples harden and your back arch just slightly. You let out a soft moan assuring the shadow that it was touching you perfectly. As the shadow massaged your breasts, teasing and pulling your nipples, you slowly rolled your hips hoping to feel more pressure down there.

You were so wet the movement of your hips caused a cool drop of slick to rub on to your inner thigh. You clenched your thighs together, squeezing your sensitive area and giving you some much needed relief. You broke the kiss, gasping for air and reached out into the darkness. Your hands were enveloped in a now familiar cool, tingling pressure.

“I need you...there-uuungh” your plea was interrupted by your own whine of pleasure as the “tongue” you felt earlier on your lips began to glide over your slit. You shook out the disruptive thoughts in your head that were trying to figure out how the hell something incorporeal could give you this intense physical pleasure and tried to let yourself just enjoy what was happening.

The shadowy tendril pressed into your folds and moved upwards from your entrance to your pearl achingly slow. It repeated the movement, wide, equal pressure a few more times before settling over your most sensitive spot. The tendril moved around the bundle of nerves with such incredible deftness, you could already feel an orgasm building. You whined and moved your hips simultaneously wanting more and not knowing how much more you could handle.

Without losing any pressure on your bud, you felt something hard resting against your entrance. Energy danced along your entire body, it was almost as if the shadow was as excited for this part as you were. What felt nearly like a hand grazed longingly across your cheek, as if it sought permission for this next development.

You nodded your head wildly and let out a loud moan. You were already starting to feel over stimulated between the “hands” still teasing your breasts and the “tongue” on your clit. You were fairly certain all it would take is the shadow pushing into your entrance to make you come. Still, you needed it. Needed it inside you. Your dripping entrance needed to be filled and full like every other part of you felt just now.

The shadow seemed to hesitate, seated at your entrance. You pushed your hips down, pushing the shadow just barely inside you, ghosting your inner walls. Your jaw tightened as you tried to relax your body. The shadow finally pushed into you and it created a sensation that was hard to describe. It felt like a cock pushing into you except that the size seemed to change when it was inside you. It moved in to you and felt big at your entrance but not painfully so. Once inside of you, it seemed to grow to fill you perfectly, like it was made to fit inside of you and only you.

The shadow pressed inside of you slowly and finally stopped. You instinctively pushed your thighs out on either side of you to open yourself up as much as possible. The feeling inside you was perfect though you did feel a bit exposed. You missed feeling the weight of someone’s body pressed firmly against your pelvis.

“Shadow…I want to feel you against me….is that...can you?” You tripped over your words. Shadow was giving you every sensation you could dream of but you still ached for the feeling of another body against you. You felt the pressure that was playing at your breast dissipate and a feeling of fullness, of weight settled against your hips. Suddenly the immense “cock” within you felt as if it were connected to a body.

“Like this?” The shadow asked, you swear the voice sounded bashful. A breathy moan was all you could manage as you shifted your hips to feel the weight against you once more. With that, shadow began to move its “hips” in and out of you. The size of the appendage changed to keep you stunningly full all the time while still giving you the sensations of movement you needed.

Your orgasm was building again and you knew you couldn't stave it off and prolong these sensations any longer if you tried. Every nerve ending in your body was screaming with pleasure and your body was heating up white hot. Shadow snapped its hips into you deeply once again and a scream tore through your throat. Your orgasm crashed against you, your walls spasming, your back lifting off the bed.

Shadow never stopped its movements as it did everything it could to your body to help you ride the sensation out as long as possible. As you were beginning to catch your breath, you ground your hips down on to the mass inside you hoping to return the wonderful sensation you’d been given, unsure if the shadow could even experience something like an orgasm.

The energy all over and in your body flickered and receded for a flash before expanding even larger and making your body tingle all over. It felt electric and strong and you forgot to breath for a moment as you let the static wash over your body.

Then the feeling receded completely and you were left lying on the bed alone, covered in your sweat and slick, panting. It would maybe feel lonely on a different night but you felt so completely fulfilled you couldn’t help but smile.

“Does that mean it was good for you, too?” You called out to the empty room. Movement caught the corner of your eye and you stared into a corner of your room where the darkness looked particularly dense. A low, gravely chuckle filled the room and moved over your skin.

“You know, that was the first time I-with a human...I mean, I could do better next time.” The voice responded. You pushed yourself up to sit on the bed.

“Better than that?” You asked.

“Oh yes.” Your core tightened just at the thought. It was the first time in so long that you didn’t feel lonely. In fact, you felt excited about the possibilities your connection with this shadow presented.

“You’ll come back again?” You asked with a tinge of hopeful uncertainty in your voice. The room darkened, filling up with the intense shadow.

“As often as you’ll have me, beautiful human.”

#monster x reader #monster x human #monster lover #terato #teratophillia #shadow monster #monster fucker

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edie-baby · 3 years

Note

Can we please have a smut with Lando where he’s never been that dominant before and decides to try it one evening

whiskey soaked cherries | lando norris smut

summary: Lando Norris decides one day that he'd like to try dominating his partner, and well, he's actually pretty good at it.

word count: 4541

warnings: swearing, smut; face sitting, choking, bound wrists, daddy + sir kink, hint of a breeding kink, aftercare

notes: i'm sorry this took so long, i kind of got carried away

There were always a few indicators when Lando Norris was thinking. It was a common occurrence, the man was an over-thinker till the end, yet it meant he never did anything without being sure. There were levels to his thinking moods however, and they usually gave away the true depth of his immersion in his brain.

Level one: glazed eyes, and slow reaction times. Often when you spoke to him during this time, it would take multiple seconds for him to even acknowledge that you had said something, the journey from his head to in front of you could take a while, but he was usually pretty easy to distract.

Level two: sitting completely still and not blinking. The first few times you saw him lost in thought like this, you were unnerved. He could stare at a spot on the floor for five minutes, unblinking, the only indicator of life being the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic breaths falling from his lips were reassuring in this state. You had noticed once that he was so lost in thought he didn’t breathe for multiple moments. Your head was against his chest, the subtle movements you had felt for many hours before that ceased, and after a few too many seconds, he gulped down a gasping breath. This level was usually reserved for racing thoughts, strategies and tracks all consuming within his chaotic brain.

Level three: mindlessly walking, parted lips, slow, laboured breaths. You had seen Lando like this only once, walking around his house for nearly an hour, never reacting to your voice, never stopping for longer than it took for him to pivot and turn back around at a dead-end hallway. The day after you saw him like this, he had asked you to move in with him.

Level four: laid still on the floor, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed, lights on. You had only heard of this Thinking Lando, Jon and Charlotte having caught him laid in offices or empty rooms on the floor, looking like a perfectly posed corpse. You questioned him about it, and he had never had a true answer for you, something about the rigidity of the floor was grounding whilst his closed eyes let him wander as far as he wished.

But level five, you weren’t entirely sure existed. So, when you arrived home after work one day to a completely dark house, curtains and blinds drawn with every source of light turned off or obscured, you were rightfully shit scared.

“Lando? Honey, I’m home!” You called, your voice wavering slightly as it bounced off the walls of the entryway, travelling through the house in eerie echoes.

“In the living room.” Lando replied, his voice oddly composed, and you began traversing though the house, avoiding walls and furniture from memory. You were tempted to use the flashlight on your phone to get an idea of what was going on, but figured you trusted your boyfriend enough.

“Hey baby, what’s with the lights?” Your voice was laced with confusion, eyes trying to find the silhouette of the man speaking from somewhere within the room, but you were completely lost.

“I’ve been thinking.” He simply replied, goosebumps erupting on your skin as his hot breath fanned on the back of your neck. You thought his voice had travelled from the other side of the living room, but there was right behind you. You tried leaning back, desperate for some contact in the makeshift sensory deprivation room you had found yourself in, but he was gone. You jumped when you felt his hand brush against your calf, his other hand tracing up the outside of your leg to your thigh. You sighed in relief, the barest of touches from him always made you feel alight with pleasure.

“You don’t usually think like this. What’s on your mind?” You asked, voice breathy as you felt the constantly moving palms on your legs, the skirt you had worn that day a barrier between where you really wanted him, and the rough calloused hands that left goosebumps in their wake. He didn’t dare move the hem of your skirt, choosing to roam over it with lazy strokes.

“I want to try something with you. But, I need your full consent, and we need ground rules.” Lando replied, the languid strokes turning to loving touches, the brief brush of his fingertips against a scar on your knee, the same fingers caressing a path down your calf to remove your shoes.

“You know I’d trust you to do anything. Anything you want to do, I consent to 100%.” Your voice was sure, strong and assured. You felt Lando’s fingers still for a bare moment, a long intake of air telling you Lando was revelling in the romantics of your words. He often did that when you spoke about your admiration for him, honey-sweet words warming his heart like nothing else.

“No, I need you to listen to this. I want your explicit consent.” Lando continued, his words firmer, causing anxiety to swirl in your stomach for a brief moment before you realised exactly who he was. It was Lando, your chaotic boyfriend who screamed instead of laughing. A man you had been hopelessly in love with for nearly three years, who treated you like a goddess, who worshipped you for your flaws as much as your perfections.

“Okay. So tell me.” You stated. There was no question, no anxiety, no confusion in your words. Because you knew this man like the back of your hand, and you knew he knew you just as well, if not better. His fingers, which had still been brushing against your skin like a whisper suddenly gripped into the skin of your thighs, a comforting presence as he prepared to let the words tumble from his lips.

“I want to be in charge. I want to have complete control over you. For you to submit to me. Be one hundred percent mine to do whatever I want to do. I want to tie you up, have you completely at my mercy. I want to pull orgasm after orgasm from you until you’re begging me to stop, that you can’t take it anymore. And then I’m going to give you one more, because I can, and because I get to decide what happens to you. I want to drive my cock into your pussy until tears of pleasure stain those gorgeous cheeks of yours. I want to spank you until you can no longer sit down. I want to wrap my hand around that little throat of yours until you see the stars I see in your eyes every day. I want to cover your body in marks, fingerprints, hickeys, bites, whatever I can to make sure everyone knows who the fuck you belong to. And after all that, I want to cum inside this pussy, because it’s mine and no one else’s.” Lando growled, his grip on your thighs wavering as he detailed his fantasy, one that you were all too happy to bring to life.

“Yes. I consent. To all of it. I’m yours Lando, and I trust you with every fibre of my being.” You spoke clearly, wanting him to hear just how willing you were to help him fulfill the dreams he had obviously been thinking of all day.

At your reassuring words, Lando surged forward, his eyes obviously more adjusted to the dark room than yours as he found your lips with ease, finally indulging you in your own desires of finally having his lips against yours after a day spent apart. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, an involuntary gasp leaving your mouth and allowing Lando’s tongue to move slowly against yours. His hands, still with a grip on your thighs, slid them apart, which allowed him to shuffle further forward on his knees.

His lips travelled to your neck, nipping, licking and sucking on the flesh that he knew would make you whimper. Your hands, previously resting on his muscled forearms, reached for the lamp next to you, your eyes desperate to see the hungry look you knew was plastered on his face. The warm light flickered on, bathing his tanned skin in rays of honey-gold that only served to make him look more like a God among men than he already seemed to you.

“Get up. Go to the bedroom. When I get there, I want you naked and spread on the bed for me. You’re at my mercy tonight, darling, so you best not disobey or there’ll be hell to pay.” Lando growled, the intrusion of the light having snapped the remaining thread that held the usually sweet, albeit passionate and hungry, man that you had been sleeping with for so long.

Your breath caught in your throat, the dominance Lando was showing shot heat and pleasure to your core in a way you had never experienced. You stood quickly, beginning a fast walk toward your shared bedroom. Charged nerves surged through your body when you heard Lando’s steps trailing behind you, your hands moving in a frenzy to rid the clothes covering the body Lando was about to devour. When you finally got into your room, you only had a black lace thong remaining, so you threw it across the room and dove onto the bed just in time for the shirtless Brit to appear in the doorway with an impressed look on his features.

“I’m surprised, and almost disappointed. I was sure I’d get to punish you tonight, but I guess I’ll have to leave that for another day. Look at you though, all laid out and ready for me like the needy little whore you are. I bet you can’t fucking wait to be wrapped around my cock, to be filled up with my cum and feel it drip down your thighs.” Lando’s words had you keening, your body almost curling in on itself as he spoke all the words, pressed all the buttons that you didn’t know you had. You already felt like you were dripping onto the sheets beneath your body, and from the way Lando’s eyes were transfixed on your pussy, you were sure he could confirm your hypothesis.

He started towards you, kicking himself off the door frame with a smirk that would make you jump his bones at any given moment. His gaze was predatory, planning all the different ways he could tear you apart and put you back together before you would be sobbing with pleasure, overstimulated to the point of pleasing pain. Lando stopped as his shins met the side of the bed, staring down at you like prey. You whimpered, this new dominant side of your boyfriend was ruining you, and you wished for it to never end.

“Please, Lando, touch me.” You whimpered, skin alight with anticipation and wanton lust, your hairs standing on end, waiting for the prickling feeling to dissipate with the touch of his skin against yours.

“Please Daddy. And I’ll decide when you get touched.” Lando growled, the title more of a command than a suggestion, and that alone had your body curling.

“I’m sorry Daddy.” The name tasted like whiskey soaked cherries on your tongue; all sweet and spicy, innocent and sensual, an invitation and an offering. A spark behind Lando’s eyes let you know exactly how much he liked the keening way you spoke, and in barely a moment, his body was covering yours.

Your legs already opened wide for him, allowing his hips to slot in right between your thighs, your wet core lining up with his denim covered cock, already straining against the material purely from words spoken and the way the light from the lamp in the corner made your pussy glisten with its juices. His hands beside your head caged you in, holding the weight of his torso and unbridled dominance from crushing you.

Your breath came out shaky, bottom lip quivering in anticipation of feeling his lips on yours, every muscle in your body working to keep you from launching upwards and taking exactly what you wanted. Lando granted those wishes, diving down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, the frustration he usually held back while fucking you finally manifesting itself as hot, fiery passion. He needed this release, and you were the perfect vessel to release into. Every nip of his teeth, stroke of his tongue and bare touch of his fingers against your naked skin, it was too much and not enough.

“I need you to tell me if you need me to stop, we need a safeword. Use it if I go too far, or if I hurt you, or if you just need a second. Because I don’t want to lose myself in you and not realise I’m doing something wrong.” Lando spoke, breathless from the head spinning kiss, and you almost cooed, there was really nothing Lando could do to you that would hurt you, and it was sweet that he still didn’t understand that fact, but you followed along for his peace of mind.

“Orange.” You replied, almost instantly. The colour was so deeply ingrained in your relationship that you felt it both fitting and comforting, and Lando agreed as he nodded along, repeating the word in his mind and tying alarm bells and stop signs to it.

“Good. Now sit on my face.”

“I’m sorry what?” You squeaked, the request having given you whiplash, and as you stared into Lando’s eyes, no hin of remorse or asking, you realised the man was dead fucking serious.

“Did I stutter?” Lando asked again, his eyes glaring at your face as you continued to try and process the last seventeen seconds, but when your body was flipped from lying comfortably against your mattress to straddling a muscled chest, you realised you’d have to be a lot quicker to keep up with Lando tonight.

“If I have to ask you one more time, you won’t like what happens.” Lando growled, the deep tones of his domineering voice filling the room and hanging heavily in the air. You looked down to his face, his chin barely five centimetres from your pussy, and decided it was now or fucking never. So you shuffled awkwardly up the bed, apparently too slow for Lando, because he hooked his arms around your thighs and dragged your body to exactly where he wanted it. Your dripping core suspended above him, his nose brushing your clit each time your thighs spasmed in your pleasure.

“Is this okay Daddy?” You whispered, your hands gripping the headboard in front of you like a lifeline. Lando’s entire body spasmed, his arms tensing around your thighs and pulling your wet cunt to his face just as a guttural moan tore from the depths of his chest, his arms shaking with the force of containing whatever beast had just been awoken inside of him.

Lando ate you out with a ferocity you had never expected a man to possess, his tongue lapped, tasted, prodded and fucked through your folds like a man starved. His nose brushed your clit every so often, jolting your hips and causing you to ride his face until a swift slap warmed your ass cheeks.

“Sorry Daddy.” You mumbled, embarrassment warming your cheeks as the pleasure built up much faster and harder than ever before. Lando slid one of his calloused digits into your cunt, his mouth moving to focus on your clit, sucking and licking at the bundle of nerves while you clenched around his fingers with a passion.

“You better not cum until I say you can.” Lando’s voice was muffled, but you understood exactly what he meant. Your whimper that followed made Lando chuckle, and you moaned as the vibrations and exhaled breath hit your core and made your entire body convulse, the pleasure was blinding, but your brain was fixated on not cumming until Lando allowed you to.

Your body was so hot with pleasure, your vision coated white to the point you didn’t know if your eyes were open or closed, and your perception of time had vanished long ago. Lando could have been eating you out for five minutes or five hours, you had no clue anymore, all you knew was that it felt so good, and it was Lando making you feel this way.

“You’re doing so good baby, fuck. If you keep making those sounds I might cum before you even touch me.” Lando’s voice brought you back to reality, as you had been so lost you didn’t realise you had been moaning, the sounds of pleasure verging on screams as you passed ‘about to cum’ and entered ‘about to pass out’.

“You make me feel so good Daddy. So fucking good, shit.” Your reply was garbled, moans and whimpers cutting off words. Lando hummed, his lips latching onto your clit and sucking exceptionally hard as his fingers curled just the right way, and you knew you were a goner.

“Cum now baby girl.” Lando mumbled, syllables lost to the flesh of your pussy, but you got the message. The relief that coated your body was like cold water on a hot summer day, drenching your screaming senses in a blanket of calm, your vision returning in flashes of colour, your ears ringing with high pitched screams, ones which you realised after a moment were your own sounds of pleasure. Lando continued his ministrations as you came down, prolonging your pleasure while you regained consciousness and became fully aware of what was happening around you.

Lando stopped, his eyes opening to see you already staring down at him in awe, and he helped you move from your position over his head to laying beside him on the bed, your skin already shining with a thin coat of sweat.

You looked over at your boyfriend, disbelief in your eyes as you stared at the wetness covering the bottom half of his face, and some of his neck. He looked smug as ever, a sliver of your young boyfriend shining through the dominant facade he had on tonight, but as soon as you started picking out the familiar pieces, his eyes turned cold again, the smirk being replaced with a tensed jaw. Your heart stopped for a moment, the one-eighty made your pussy flutter around nothing, and suddenly you were painfully aware of just how empty you felt.

“Can I touch you?” You asked, eyes wide and innocent, your bottom lip pouting as you looked up at Lando, hoping to run your hands across his chest, feeling the muscles ripple beneath the taut skin, to drag your nails across his thighs, dig your fingers into his skin as he fucks you.

“Do you want to try asking that again?” Lando replied, his tone almost patronising as he looked at you, practically vibrating with desperation to touch him. It filled him with unbelievable pride, to have you so wanting just to feel him, it stroked his ego more than winning any Grand Prix ever could.

“I’m sorry sir. Can I please touch you? I want to make you feel good too.” You whimpered, the new title falling from your lips naturally, and though he hadn’t answered you, or granted you permission to touch him, he pounced.

His lips collided with yours, sharing the taste of you in the kiss and you moaned at the sensation, your nails reaching up to claw at Lando’s back. His hands where everywhere, grabbing your tits with rough hands, flicking your nipples with calloused skin, gripping your hips with intent to bruise, desperate to leave the evidence of his claim on you. His lips traced the familiar path to your jaw, up to your ear where he sunk his teeth into the lobe, letting his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispered sweet nothings to you.

Except the sweet nothings tonight were anything but.

“Can’t wait to fill you up with my cum. Watch it drip out of you and then fuck it back into you with my fingers. Gonna make you a mummy, huh? Have you walking around the paddock with my baby in you. That way everyone knows you’re mine and that I was the one that fucked you so good.” The filthy words being fed right into your ear, along with the strong grip on your hips and the rolling of Lando’s hips pressing his bulge into your core was going to make you go feral.

“Fuck me, sir. Put your baby in me please. Wanna be a mummy for you.” You purred, the words rolling off your tongue in waves that sent shivers down Lando’s spine. He leant back, sat back on his haunches as he took in the sight of your body, still trembling slightly from the powerful orgasm. He slowly undid his belt, your eyes trained on the movements his hands made, biting your lip as you got one step closer to seeing his cock, a sight you could and would never tire of. With his belt gripped tightly in his hands, Lando made a decision he would never regret.

He scooped your hands up in one of his, the other holding the belt, and positioned your hands above your head, fingers brushing against the headboard. He looped the belt through the wrought iron, fastening the leather around your hands tight enough to keep them there, but not tight enough to do any damage to you. You tugged on the restraints lightly, pouting when you found there wasn’t enough give to touch Lando while he fucked you into the mattress.

Lando gave the restraints a few investigative tugs, and when there was little movement and he was satisfied with the results, he leaned back, staring down at you yet again. You were starting to think he was getting more enjoyment out of just staring at you than anything else.

With heavy breathing and the occasional squeak of the headboard as you attempted to break free of the belt holding your wrists hostage, Lando finally began removing his sinfully tight black jeans. He pushed them down his legs with a carefree attitude, as though he had all the time in the world, whilst you were squirming around on the bed, desperate to get a look at, a hold of, a taste of what was hidden now by the thin black cotton that stretched over his painfully hard cock.

“If you keep squirming like that, I’ll tie your ankles next to your wrists and fuck you like that. Is that what you want?” Lando growled, pausing in his tantalising show of getting undressed to glare at you. You halted almost immediately, the image of Lando plowing into you while your wrists and ankles were bound together. You gulped, the vision was certainly tempting, however your pussy wouldn’t be able to take such a beating.

“No sir. I’m sorry sir.” You whimpered back, your words sent shocks of electricity through Lando’s body, and having abandoned his teasing display, he tore his underwear off and climbed onto your bed in a hurry.

He wrapped his hand around his cock, pumping a few times and letting out a shuddering sigh. His eyes cut to yours, a blazing fury warming them from the usual cool blue green to a warm green that made your pussy flutter. He slid the tip of his cock through your wet folds, biting his lower lip to contain the moans that were ready to fall past his lips. Your fists clenched around the belt, desperate for something to hold onto.

Lando thrust his hips into yours, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You both moaned, the sweet relief of finally wrapping your velvety walls around his cock was overwhelming. Quite quickly, Lando set a punishing pace, his hips rolling out of you before snapping back to meet yours, his pubic bone putting delectable pressure on your clit, forcing moans out of your lips at an alarming rate.

His hands held a death grip on your hips, keeping your squirming body in its place while he used your body for his own pleasure. Your moans became louder, his hips forcing his cock deeper into your cunt, but Lando didn’t like that.

“You shut the fuck up and take my cock like a good little slut, yeah?” He spoke, his right hand reaching up to wrap around your throat, his fingers squeezing around the sides. The pressure only added to your mounting pleasure, Lando squeezing intermittently when you let out a particularly loud moan, reducing you to a pile of whimpers and pleas.

His hips began stuttering, the pleasure he was feeling overwhelming the perfect pace he had set. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him further into your hungry cunt, clenching around him like you were trying to pull his entire being into you. And maybe you were, if he kept this up, you were never going to let him out of you again.

“Fuck, I’m so close.” He whimpered, the first show of your usual Lando shining through, his hips moving with a renewed vigor. You couldn’t form words, his cock brushing against your g-spot with each thrust, forcing your body higher up the bed, your arms still bound above your head. The hand around your throat squeezed harder, and for a moment all you saw were stars, the pleasure of your second orgasm ripping through your body like a tidal wave. Each atom in your body was torn apart and stitched back together with the threads of Lando’s hot seed and rough hands.

Lando pulled out of you, watching his cum drip down your thighs for a moment before he jumped from the bed, hurrying into the ensuite as quickly as he could on shaky legs. You could hear the tap running, and after a few moments, he returned with a wet rag and your favourite lotion, leaving the bottle on the side table while he cleaned the mess between your thighs, becoming entranced with the sight for another moment before he finished up, tossing the dirty cloth into the ensuite. Lando crawled up the bed to you, undoing the belt that had begun to rub your wrists raw, and with your finally free hands, you cupped your boyfriend’s cheeks, pulling him into a sweet kiss to stop the steam train of thoughts inevitably running through his head.

With soft hands and caring eyes, Lando began rubbing the lotion onto your red wrists, kissing the skin briefly, then leaving another sweet kiss on your lips.

“Was that okay?” He whispered, insecurity rearing its head yet again, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the nervous look he was giving you.

“More than okay, baby. That was amazing. 10/10 would try again.” You giggled, caressing his shoulders with slow hands, grateful to finally be feeling his skin again.

“Well, I wouldn’t be mad at that. I have some ideas.” Lando replied, a cheeky lilt to his voice as he laid down beside you, pulling the covers up to cover you both.

“Oh, do you now? I’m all ears.”

#lando norris #Lando Norris fanfiction #Lando Norris x reader #Lando Norris imagine #Lando Norris fanfic #Lando Norris smut #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #ln4

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no-droids · 4 years

Text

Rumors, Freebies, and a Race for Last Place

Part Two of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

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

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

***

It’s recommended to read part one first.

***

Getting into the x-wings is always fun.

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

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

You came back in one piece this time. Barely.

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

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

Dameron.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You request mission assignments together,” Rossi adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

You're finally alone.

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

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

And yet, you can’t seem to enjoy it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, this is so fucking… presumptuous of him.

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

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

You don’t even think you want to anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His tongue softly grazes your knuckle as it works.

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

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

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

There. There’s the drop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything except his face, you soon realize.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cum.

You lose. Fair and square.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

You lose count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, that’s it. That is it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you just start giggling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… to pull a bag of chips out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has a nice voice, you think.

#poe x reader #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #reader insert #Smut #no-droids

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