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the-dendrophile-bookdragon · 3 years

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Shoot to harm, not to kill

I got inspired by this post from @commandersousa. I read it, than I ugly cried and now I want the book. *makes grabby hands at closed book store* Open up when the government says it and take my money. Check out her (hope that's your preferred pronoun) other work. Some are angsty and cry worthy and I didn't know I needed that.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x fem!reader (no usage of y/n)

Warnings: angst, fluff, cannon violence, sad!Poe

'It was a successful mission', this was a mantra Poe repeated in his head. 'It was successful, no one died.' He flew back to base with his squad. While they joked around and made fun Poe stayed uncharacteristically silent in his orange and black X-Wing. The only one who noticed the silence of 'Black Leader' was Snap. With a few pushes of buttons him and Poe were in a private frequency. Snap knew of the silent man's vow, he didn't have to ask what was wrong, "You know, sometimes we have to bend our beliefs so we can serve a greater purpose. Don't beat yourself up, you can't save everyone."

Snap heard a dry, humorless chuckle. The pilot could see the expression of his friend before his eyes. A bitter, humorless smile paired with blank, nearly lifeless looking eyes that seemed to stare into a void. He began to talk again,"I know you don't want to talk to me right now but you should talk to her." At the mention of her Poe sat up straighter, "Maybe.", was the short, emotionless reply from the otherwise cheerful yavaneese pilot. Beebee informed his dad master that he was initiating the landing procedure.

If he could, he would have run away somewhere where no one but her could find him. But he had to land in the hanger and be greeted by General Organa herself. He tried to make the debrief as short as possible. Talking only when spoken to and only the necessary details. Lea could feel the nervous energy radiating from Poe. She didn't need to use the force to sense it. The "dancing" (it looked like Poe was rehearsing the steps of a slow waltz) she called it, was a sign that she knew Poe was listening only to things directly said to him, everything else was a blur in the pilot's mind. As she dismissed him and his squad she gave him a pointed look that said, 'If you don't talk to her I will make an appointment with a therapist for you!' How often she threatened him with a professional, she lost count. But he had his 'Stardust' as he always referred to his other half. Leia knew she was as good as a therapist. She had one conversation with Poe's guardian angel and felt the stress she had slip away.

When Poe walked into his shared quarters he could see her working on a report. Slowly she turned to him as her flyboy entered their shared room. One look and the floodgates were open. "St-stardust," that was the only thing he could say before he collapsed into his lovers arms. The weight of Poe was too much for her tired body, so she tried to slowly sink to the floor. Smooth skin touched his stubble covered face as she put her arms around him. How many times he came home and fell into his girlfriend's arms. "I-I…" he tried to speak but his mind was clouded. She put his head in the crook of her neck, a welcome act for Poe as he snuggled further into her neck. "Sssshhhh, I know. You wanted to give them a choice but they didn't see it because they were taught another ideology. They got blinkers set upon their heads and the chance of free thinking ripped away. Blame the First Order, not you." Poe turned his heavy head to his girlfriend," But I swore only to shoot to harm, not to kill. What is the difference between them and me?" She looked at him with so much hurt and worry in her eyes, "The difference is only minimal. You had a choice, they didn't. There may be some troopers that think like Finn but most of them don't know about the ability to make their own choices and that is unfair. They aren't just numbers and soldiers, they also are human. You had to defend yourself."

Poe shook his head, how could the light of his life be so soft and show so much sympathy in a cruel, seemingly endless war. "Y-you are too soft for this world, Stardust. You are the reason… the reason I still get in my X-Wing and plow up the First Order." His other half looked at him with a soft smile and a question in her eyes. "Why me? There are other people out there needing your help more than me. I can defend myself." Poe chuckled and looked into her eyes, like he was searching in a sea of answers only her eyes could tell him. Like the solution to every problem was in the galaxy of her eyes. And he found his answer. "Because I have to protect my spark of hope. Because you are worth bending my morals. Because you are the light that burns in my darkness." And with every sentence he spoke to her softly he came near her soft lips, "Because I love you." And with his final sentence he kissed his flame of hope.

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Taglist

@nightlockcornucopia @katzenwahnsinn @celess02-blog @stvnnie

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #poe dameron x you #Poe needs a hug #He is too soft for this world #star wars #poe x reader #poe dameron blurb #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron fluff #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron x female reader #poe dameron x y/n

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yelena-bellova · 3 years

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natasha-romxnoff ——> sam-wilsonnn

(gotta honor my Captain, Sam was always a favorite but today he became the favorite)

tagging some mutuals: @edencherries @peterssweetpea @sventeen-daybreak @natromanoffsboys @agentpenas @boxdyeblonde @isvvc-pvscvl @dark--saber @commandersousa @sapphic-rey

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

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Happy new year you lovely people!

I’m almost reluctant to do this because I know I “forgetting” a ton of people who have made my 2020 a lot brighter. (In reality i just can’t remember that many handles all at once. I swear it’s not personal and I haven’t actually forgotten you.)

I see you, I appreciate you, and just so you know, if we have ever interacted you have made my year more special, and I’m endlessly grateful for you (and shout-out to any lurkers, lol, please come talk to me sometime, I don’t bite! I’m just an awkward nerd who’s overly invested in Nathan Bateman!)

Writing and reading (I started this in 2020 and it’s a bright spot in a weird year) and being a part of this community has been really significant and important for me in a range of ways. I said it earlier in the year so I won’t get too sappy about me, but I’m not exaggerating when I say this has changed my life. (If you’re thinking of writing for the first time in 2021 or trying again after a break I believe in you. You got this.)

About you though? You’re amazing. When I say I wish you a happy new year I sincerely mean it. The creativity, generosity, kindness, bravery, inclusivity, wit, wisdom, energy, curiosity, imagination, talent, thoughtfulness, and strength you have blows me away every single day. You are always lifting each other up, and in 2021 I hope that you will always have someone to lift you up when you need it, I hope you will be able to fully enjoy the moments of joy you experience (they are coming, I promise), and I hope you can be as kind to yourself as you are to others. You deserve that kindness. I’m genuinely proud of you and all that I’ve seen you push through and contend with since I’ve been here, all the while with empathy and kindness to those around you, even to strangers.

I thank you for letting me be a small, even vanishing part of your year. You have been a big part of mine. Yes, YOU. Even if you’re not tagged below.

P.s. all your selfies are 🔥

Love and gratitude,

Luna 🌙

@anetteaneta @bluebellhairpin @commandersousa @damerondjarin @galaxy-of-stories @huliabitch @jangohshit @justrunamok @kindablackenedsuperhero @keeper0fthestars @millllenniawrites @mandoplease @mylifeliterally @ollypopp @okay-hotshot @propertyofpoeandbucky @revolution-starter @starryeyedstories @tintinwrites @unstoppableforcce @velvetmel0n @veuliee2 @wasicskosgirl @woakiees @youvebeenlivingfictional @gottalovethefandom @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol @phoenixhalliwell @aellynera @browneyedhimbo @revolution-starter @din-damn-djarin @miss-me-jack @teaofpeach @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall @spider-starry @browneyedhimbo @perropascal @april-14-blog @autumnleaves1991-blog @shakespeareanwannabe @mssr-cellophane @cinewhore @wowjeena @arkofblake @blacksquadron-rougetwo @thirsty-flygirl @browneyedhimbo @wheresthewater @who-talks-first

#oh but tumblr wouldn’t let me tag more than 50 of you anyway so I’m sorry for those I couldn’t include #happy new year #Luna talks

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userpoe · 3 years

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In fact, I sort of feel like Poe is everyone’s best friend, and that’s part of why he’s so fun to watch - Charles Soule

#swedit #starwarsedit #starwarsfilms #starwarsdaily #starwarsblr #usercara #userfulcrum #beedameron #letoatreiides #commandersousa #star wars #poe dameron #flashing tw #nym.gifs #charles soule just. gets it.#also i got distracted by poe's hands waay too many times making this

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mrs-lockley · 3 years

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that would be enough

pairing: santiago “pope” garcia x woc!reader

summary: santi comes home with an ache in his bones. but around you, maybe the pain isn’t as painful as it used to be.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: angst, brief mentions of blood and the fragility of human bones (nothing explicit), hurt/comfort

author’s note: just a little something that’s been in my drafts that i wanted to finish, thank you for being patient with me.

The Santiago Garcia Comfort Series: Part 1 / Part 2

gif credit: @nathan-bateman

tagging: @writefightandflightclub @propertyofabelmorales @houseofthirst @themarcusmoreno @staarshines @commandersousa @zoriis @slfreya @woakiees

Santi had come home from the VA later than usual that evening, the sky darkened in blackness by the time he stepped inside your home. Aside from his civilian job at the woodshop, he had talked to you about helping Will at the VA from time to time, promising you that he would try to come home before the sky would become too dark. You had smiled through the phone at the sound of his familiar voice, gently telling him that you would be fine and for him to take his time.

Just come home safe, you whispered.

I’ll always come home to you.

But he had been quieter than usual during dinner, his voice unlike the same comforting tone that you had heard on the phone an hour ago.

Everything okay? You asked as you watched him wash the dishes.

The corners of his lips quirked into the ghost of a smile as he cradled the cup in his hands.

Cradled, you noticed. Cradled as if it were about to break.

You always loved watching his hands. As you watched him set the cup down in the open dishwasher (a drying rack, the two of you had argued one night against the Miller Brothers), you knew about where those hands have been, what those hands have done. They have not always been gentle and kind as the way those hands have loved and cherished you. Those hands have hurt, have maimed, have killed.

There was red on those hands. No matter how hard he tried to scrub it off, the red would remain.

Perhaps those were the same thoughts running through his head as you found him lingering in the hallway, his eyes fixed on the frame hanging on the wall.

(You didn’t have to look to know which photo he was looking at.)

You were no stranger to the man standing in the hallway. You knew about his service in the Delta Force and the years he spent in Colombia. The battles he fought, the scars he harbored… The unspoken trauma that lingered, hovering over him like a knife behind his neck.

(He never said anything, but you already knew about the scar.)

It was a Saturday night when Santí first told you about Colombia. The two of you had come home from dinner at Frankie’s to his apartment at that time, your mascara a mess after the two of you ran from the parking lot to the gate in the rain. He had accidentally given you one of his old shirts from the military when you caught him staring at the shirt for a moment too long.

It was the first time you’d seen him broken down, but not in the ways that you expected. You sat on the bedroom floor beside him with your back to the bed, watching the man before you fall back into that afternoon, his eyes vacant at the shadow at his feet.

(You knew that look all too well.)

The man standing in the hallway before you was not the same man you had fallen in love with, that much you knew. Santiago Garcia was a different man before you, haunted by the skeletons in his closet, the blood on his hands.

The two of you were not that different.

So you gently tugged at his hand and out of the hallway, your voice soft as you asked him if he would join you in the shower.

The water pours over you in weighted kisses as you stand behind Santí, watching him wash the shampoo out of his hair. But your eyes drift to the harsh bright line on the back of his neck, trailing along the curve of his spine like a flash of lightning in a dark sky.

Santí had tried to hide it from you the more serious your relationship had become. He had always tried to top and maneuver himself around you so you couldn’t see how far it ran down his back, couldn’t guess just how much pain that followed. You had seen it peek out a few times whenever you saw him adjust the collar of his shirt on a few humid nights, but you found out after you overheard him talk to the crew about the real reason for his neck surgery.

You trace your fingers along the curves of his shoulders and down his spine, not noticing that Santí had lowered his arms and finished washing his hair, trying to anticipate your next movement.

But you don’t say anything. Your fingers speak for you instead, tracing over the jagged surface of his scar with the warm water washing over you.

Washing all over you and him, washing everything away. The weight of the sky on his shoulders, the weight of your walls on your chest.

Instinctively, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the back of his neck, right at the tip of his scar.

And down, down the lightning scar, from the tip at the base of his neck to the small of his back. One kiss after the other, your lips trail along his back, your hands tenderly following after.

Neither of you say anything, not until you reach his neck again.

You wrap your arms around him from behind and lay your cheek against his back.

“Does it still hurt?” You ask quietly.

His hands wrap around yours, giving you a slight squeeze before raising your palm to his lips with a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Not anymore.”

…

He didn’t deserve you.

You were too good for him, that much he knew. As you toweled your hair in the bathroom, Santí sat with his back to the headboard of your bed, trying to read an article you wrote for work about advocating and empowering underrepresented students in academia. You had given a complete research presentation to your supervisors at work to persuade them to keep the funding that the institution provided for students last week, and you had yet to hear back from them.

Santí had helped you prepare for the presentation a couple weeks ago, even invited the boys through Zoom as you presented in front of them for practice. You were dressed to the nines (save for the fuzzy Ewok slippers that Benny had bought you for your birthday a few months prior) as you rehearsed in front of them, attentively cataloging their feedback whenever you straightened your posture, projected your voice, or even threw in a well-timed joke until you did not have to look at your index cards to present.

The whole time, Santí had sat in the back with a soft smile on his face, completely in awe of you. A few years ago, he never would have thought he would be where he was now, sitting at the kitchen table with you on the other side of the table, holding your laptop as a makeshift projector of your presentation with his brothers chipping in their feedback from their screens. The same kitchen table where your family and his parents had gathered for a couple holidays now, exchanging presents and food and different languages that he had yet to pick up on.

(He only realized you had gotten a lot better at your Spanish after practicing with Frankie when you told him one evening that you overheard his parents telling him that they wanted grandchildren, only for you to add that the Miller Brothers and Frankie were already their grandchildren.)

And he knew you had thought the same as well. You tried your best to hide it, but even when you tried to hide behind your hair or say your allergies were causing your eyes to tear up, he caught the misty look in the corner of your eyes, only to be concealed with a smile.

“Hey darling,” he looks up to find you in one of his old shirts as you take a seat next to him on the bed. “Have I told you that you look even more handsome with those glasses?”

Santí could not help but laugh as you girlishly twirled a strand of your hair around your finger while batting your eyelashes at him. “You may have mentioned it once or twice. C’mere.”

He spreads his legs for you to sit between them, your back to his chest as he wraps his arms around your shoulders to pull you closer to him.

“What were you reading?”

“Your paper.”

“Oh?”

He smiles softly as he leans forward and tenderly kisses your cheek. “Have I told you that you’re amazing?”

You lean back against him, your fingers lacing with his as you rest your entwined hands on your soft tummy.

(His heart still swells every time he sees your wedding ring on your finger.)

You hum, your hair hiding your teasing smile as you mirror his words. “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”

Santí smirks as he moves to kiss your other cheek, smiling at the sound of your giggle. “Poor baby … maybe I need to remind you again just how intelligent—kiss—eloquent—kiss—passionate—kiss—and beautiful you are.”

Soft peals of laughter fall from your lips as he brings you closer, purposely rubbing his prickly stubble across your chin and neck to hear you laugh again.

“You need to shave! You’re just as scruffy as a bear!” You gasp between fits of laughter and try to pull away from him.

Except he’s too fast. Before you could escape, the soldier had pulled you back and peppered your neck with several kisses, rubbing his prickly stubble against under your jaw and on your neck until you were crying from laughter.

“Are you sure you want me to shave?” He smirks as you laugh, lightly tapping his arm as a sign of surrender. “That’s not what you were telling me the other night when—“

“—shhhh, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you giggle as you turn around so that you’re fully seated on his lap, your face flushed from laughing.

Gently, Santí traces his knuckles against your cheeks, a soft smile on his lips as he looks at you.

Sensing the change in mood, you lean forward until your forehead rests against his with your hands on his chest, your eyes fluttering closed at the warmth of his fingertips delicately grazing against your cheek before his lips find yours.

By the time you pull away, his hands rest on the space where your shoulders meet your neck, the pads of his fingers gently skimming over your pulse beneath your jaw.

You respond by tracing your thumb over his parted lips with a soft kiss to his nose. “You okay?”

A small smile spreads across his lips as he runs his hands from your neck and down your arms before resting on top of your thighs.

“I am now that you’re here,” he whispers.

And that was the thing about you, Santí realized later that night as he listened to you sleep beside him, your breath rising and falling like the steady waves of the ocean. Around you … everything hurt less. The cracked scar on his spine stung less than it used to. The weight in his knees is a little less burdensome.

If he dared to call you an angel, you would scoff and roll your eyes, chiding him for being over dramatic.

Maybe you weren’t an angel, like the stories he heard from his parents growing up whenever they went to mass on Sundays. You were not a painting or a sculpture to be admired or seen. You were far from it.

You were you, with all your wit and sarcasm, your humor, your kindness, your sweetness, and that was more than enough for him.

Sometimes, he worried he would not be enough for you.

Before he could stumble down that path, your warm hands reached around him, your leg tangling with his under the blanket as you tucked your arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer to you, your head on his chest.

Quietly, Santí looks down and gently grasps your head, lightly dragging his fingers across your scalp.

Hands that stained red. Red on his palms, red on his fingertips. The bones that have cracked bones, the bones that have-

How fragile you were beneath his fingertips. Through your soft breath on his neck, the soldier could easily trace the outline of your skull with precision, almost as if he were dissecting the bone on a cold table in an artificial light. How easy it would be for him to split it open with the screams of the skeletons in his closet rattling through his bones.

But as he looks down at you, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks, your relaxed lips resting against the column of his throat, he chases those thoughts away.

After a moment, he whispers softly. “I thought you were asleep.”

At first, Santí thinks you must have fallen back asleep. But he hears your tired voice laced with sleep, your voice a gentle whisper. “It’s too quiet.”

A small smile spreads across his lips as he chuckles softly. Of course. The first time the two of you had taken a nap together, you told him you couldn’t sleep because of his snores.

How funny that years later, the sound you once hated became the very sound you needed for comfort in the night.

Slowly, Santí presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand trailing down to your thigh as he traces soft circles on your skin. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything, but you didn’t need to. Your warm hands gently grasp his bicep, your thumb caressing his skin as the familiar scent of your shampoo brings him back to the present, back to the world resting right on top of him.

It wouldn’t be long before the two of you drift apart, but every morning, you find your way back to each other, limbs tangled with limbs, sheets tangled between different joints and bones.

And in the morning, Santí would find you in the bathroom getting ready for work, testing out the different shades of lipstick on the back of your hand. You would talk to him over breakfast after he had slipped the honey in your tea, but before he grabbed a piece of toast without you looking.

But that morning, Santí would find an extra cream in his coffee, and a peeled clementine wrapped carefully in a napkin with your handwriting etched across a sticky note.

For now, in the whispers of the early morning, you press yourself against his back with your hands entwined with his.

And the scar on the back of his neck stinging a little less than yesterday.

#santiago garcia x reader #santaigo pope garcia x reader #santi garcia x reader #santiago garcia x f!reader #santiago pope garcia x f!reader #santiago garcia x woc!reader #santiago garcia x latina!reader #santiago garcia x black!reader #santiago garcia x asian!reader #sanatiago garcia x brown!reader #santiago garcia x fem!reader

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