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moonknightly · 2 days ago

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eight fingers crossed—

poe dameron x gn!reader

word count: 1.4k ish

rating and warnings: rated t for injuries/burns, poe is worried that you're going to get yourself killed but this is otherwise tame and mild

summary: “one of these days, i’m not going to be fast enough. i’m not going to make it to you in time.”

notes: @poetic-solo wouldn't let me post this until she read it i'm a prisoner in my own home-

get notified when i post a new fic here *:･ﾟ✧:*

There’s a dull ache on your right side that starts to pull you from your sleep. You instantly know that you’re in your bed—you can hear the soft hum of the fan you insist on keeping in the bedroom. But it’s otherwise silent throughout your quarters, save for the rhythmic sounds of your own breathing.

You can’t open your eyes yet to confirm if you’re alone. You try, but they’re just so heavy and honestly, with the pain growing stronger, you want nothing more than to fall back asleep. The medicine running through your veins is wearing off, you’re sure.

This isn’t the first time you’ve woken up. You know enough to know that you’re hurt, and you also know that you won’t have to suffer through the pain long. Poe will be around shortly with another round of meds and bacta from the infirmary.

But you can’t remember what landed you in this position, not exactly at least. You’d been flying low on a planet in the outer rim when a swarm of pirates surrounded the squadron, and you’d been grossly outnumbered. The dogfight that ensued was mostly blurry at this point. You only know that you’ve been confined to your own bed and reliant on drugs to ease your pain for…you’re not even sure how long, really.

More time passes as you try and try to pull anything from your memories, any little crumb that might be tucked away.

The pain is getting worse, turning from a dull ache to a raging fire. It distracts you, keeps you from reaching those locked away thoughts. A cry catches in the back of your throat and you can finally open your eyes.

Poe is sitting at the very end of the bed with a syringe in hand, ready to push it through your IV like the medic taught him. But he doesn’t move. He’s just watching you, a deep frown etched into his handsome features. You’re sure you are wearing one to match.

You’re both quiet—it’s obvious that there’s something on his mind, something he needs to say, and you’re not sure if you want to hear it. He’s never looked so upset with you, borderline heartbroken. Suddenly any pain you were in didn’t come close to what was moving through his big brown eyes. It couldn’t even compare.

He breaks the silence first.

“One of these days,” he starts, his voice cracking, shattering you further. “I’m not going to be fast enough. I’m not going to make it to you in time.”

The pain is tearing through your side now, but that’s not what brings tears to your eyes. “Poe-”

“I thought you were dead. You were on fire when I pulled you-”

It’s slowly starting to come back to you. Five ships, all larger than your X-Wings, all locked on Poe. Jumping in front of him, putting yourself between him and the danger and taking them out one by one. The two fighters that had been tracking you that you never saw shoot. Crashing to the ground, everything erupting around you.

You remember the heat. You remember feeling it creep closer and closer as you dangled in your seat, hanging upside down by your seatbelt. You remember when the flames first licked at your skin. The way that you screamed.

And then you were flat on your back, and the fire had stopped spreading but Maker did it still burn where it had already charred your skin. You remember Poe’s voice, frantic and full of panic, even louder than it is now.

“-and you’re not even listening to me!”

Poe never raises his voice at you, never at you. It catches you off guard. You want that medicine more than ever. The way he’s looking at you makes you want to melt into the sheets.

“I was just trying to keep you safe,” you whisper quietly, sounding almost broken. Your bottom lip trembles and you can see Poe’s shoulders sag as some of the fight leaves his body—he’s not mad at you, not really. He’s just scared, and he’s not used to feeling this way.

“You cannot risk yourself like that for me.” His voice is low, still dripping with a bit of anger that you’re trying not to let sting. “Not again. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought I’d have to carry your body home.”

He’s right. It wasn’t the first time. But-

“You can’t expect me to sit there and watch you get taken out when I can do something about it.”

“I can’t watch you die-”

“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same for me and I’ll stop. Tell me that you don’t.”

Poe goes silent. He knows he can’t tell you that truthfully. You know it too, and you dare him to lie to you.

But he never says anything, and you’re too heated to let the moment fade.

“Do you really think I haven’t noticed how you’ve assigned me the perfect spot in formation for you to always cut in front of me when we’re under attack?”

“You’re my second, of course that’s where I’m going to put-”

“No, don’t blame it on ranks. You know that’s not what it is, you know that if Jess or Snap or-”

“I’m your Commander,” he finally snaps, effectively cutting you off and holding your gaze steady, begging you to fold first. “It’s my job to make sure you make it home.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re the General, you’re my husband first,” you counter immediately, refusing to be the one to back down. “We made a commitment to each other.”

Poe sighs, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. But you’re not done.

“And if you do want to put it all on rankings, yeah, you are my Commander. And it’s my job to keep your six so you don’t end up dead. Or worse.”

Poe doesn’t ask what you mean, he already knows. You’re the only person besides Leia he’s confided in about his time on the Finalizer, the torture he’d endured under Kylo’s hand. You are the only person who has heard him scream in the middle of the night, the only one he lets hold him when he falls into a panic attack and cries. The only one who is able to remind him he’s safe and not having his mind torn apart, because his fucking panic attacks feel like Kylo’s digging through his brain.

You’re not sure there’s middle ground for you here. You tell him as much.

“I can’t do what you’re asking me to do, baby,” you mumble. “I can’t sit back and watch you get killed.”

He’s still quiet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He knows he’s being a hypocrite. He knows he would face a firing squad for you any day of the week.

But he still fucking hates it, so he hangs his head and sighs to let you know as much. But he doesn’t push, for once he doesn’t become insufferable until he gets what he wants.

The pain in your side flares, and another whimper tries to escape you at the random surge that shoots through you. Your discomfort seems to kick Poe into action.

“Here baby, I’ll make it go away,” he whispers gently, pushing himself up from his seat. He pulls the cap off the syringe as he walks to you, tapping out the air bubbles like he’d seen the medic do. He pushes the medicine through your IV port slowly, knowing he doesn’t have long before you’re pulled back into unconsciousness. He sets the syringe back down once it’s empty and pushes his fingers through your hair.

“Will you stay?” you mumble, reaching for his free hand, wanting nothing more than to intertwine your fingers with his.

He nods, locking your hands together, eight fingers crossed. “Baby, I haven’t left.”

You’re under again within a minute or two, pulled back into the darkness where nothing hurts and you can rest. Poe waits until you’re unconscious to apply the bacta to your side, his fingers gentle against your melted skin that’s looking better and better by the day.

“I just need you to stay too.”

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moonknightly · 4 days ago

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➤𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗲 || 𝗛𝗮𝘆𝗺𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗔𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘆 ||

A/n:Pure filth, I got nothin to say so enjoy 🫡

Tag List: @strawberrydeersimp

The war was over.

Snow was dead. Coin, too.

The Capitol lay in ruins, the rebels scattered in half-celebration, half-confusion. You stood in the remains of what had once been power—glass underfoot, the air heavy with smoke and blood and the weight of too many names.

Haymitch found you in a storage room beneath the rubble of what used to be a government building. No words. Just the creak of a door, the low thud of his boots, and that goddamn look in his eyes. Like something inside him had snapped years ago, and now whatever was left had finally shattered.

“You’re still alive,” he said. Not a question. Not even relief. Just fact, rough in his throat.

You nodded, barely breathing. You both knew what that meant.

He moved first. Fists in your jacket, yanking you forward, mouth crashing against yours like a threat. Teeth clashing, tongues fighting, nothing gentle. You responded in kind—biting his lower lip, digging your fingers into his shirt like you could rip the pain out of him.

He turned you, slammed you against the concrete wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His hands were all over—desperate, shaking, angry. Not at you. At the world. At himself.

“This doesn’t fix shit,” he growled into your neck, voice like gravel, hands already shoving your pants down. “But I need it. I need you.”

You didn’t answer—just grabbed his belt, unbuckling with fingers that trembled from adrenaline or want or both. His cock was hard already, hot against your thigh, and when he finally pushed into you, you gasped—more from the suddenness than the stretch.

There was no rhythm, no buildup. Just need.

He fucked you like he wanted to forget—fast, brutal, punishing. Your back scraped against the rough wall, and you welcomed the sting. His breath was ragged in your ear, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You clawed at his back, left scratches, made him feel it.

“Say my name,” he hissed.

“Haymitch—”

“Louder.”

“Haymitch!” you cried, head falling back, voice echoing in the dead city.

He came with a choked-off moan, collapsing into you, both of you a tangled mess of sweat, blood, and ash. For a moment, neither of you moved. His forehead pressed against yours, the rise and fall of your chests the only sign of life in the silence.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you. Eyes wild, haunted.

“This world’s fucked,” he muttered.

You cupped his face, rough and unkind. “So fuck it back.”

It was days later after your comment, the words still ringing in his ear.

“So fuck it back."

Haymitch didn’t say a word when he grabbed you again that night. The war was over, but the fire still burned in his veins. You followed him into another half-destroyed room in the Victor’s Village, the floor dusty, furniture broken. Didn’t matter. Nothing did except the way he looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to this fucked-up world.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice rough as he shoved you back onto the mattress. “You don’t get what you do to me.”

His mouth was on you before you could speak—biting, devouring, like he wanted to consume every part of you. Clothes came off in frantic, angry motions. He manhandled you like you were his to take—and you were. Right now, you wanted to be.

He shoved his cock inside you with a growl, no teasing, no pause. Just raw, thick pressure and the slap of skin on skin.

“You think I can let you walk around like this,” he rasped in your ear, hips snapping forward with bruising force, “dripping from me and not do something about it?”

You gasped, back arching. He drove into you deeper, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs.

“I’m gonna put a baby in you,” he growled. “My baby. Gonna fill you up and make sure everyone knows who fucking owns you.”

“Do it,” you moaned, eyes glassy, body quaking. “Fill me. Make me yours.”

That broke something in him.

He snapped—fucking you harder, hips relentless, hands bruising your thighs as he spread you wider, deeper. Every thrust was possession. Every groan was a promise.

“Gonna knock you up right here, in the ashes of everything. Leave my cum leaking out of you for days. You want that?”

“Yes—fuck, yes, Haymitch—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, voice low and rough. “You’re gonna take it all. Every drop.”

And when he came—he poured into you. Hot, thick, endless. You could feel him pulse, spilling everything inside you as he kept thrusting, fucking it deeper, grinding through every wave. Like he needed to make sure it took.

You were wrecked. Used. Marked.

And he still didn’t pull out.

Instead, he stayed there, still hard, still inside. One hand on your belly.

“Maybe if I breed you full,” he murmured, voice quieter now, rawer, “you won’t disappear with the rest of the world.”

You pulled him down into a kiss, just as rough, just as broken.

“Then do it again.”

He never pulled out.

Even as you trembled beneath him, skin slick with sweat, your body pulsing with aftershocks, Haymitch stayed buried to the hilt. Still hard. Still hungry.

His breath ghosted against your throat. You could feel the low growl in his chest before he even spoke.

“Still not enough.”

You barely managed a sound—something between a whimper and a plea—but it didn’t matter. He rolled his hips slow and deep, and you arched helplessly beneath him.

“Gotta make sure it sticks, sweetheart,” he said, voice slurred with exhaustion and lust. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to fuck you round after round until I breed you right?”

You nodded, dazed, raw, wrecked. “Yes. Please. Again.”

That was all he needed.

He grabbed your hips, pulled out just far enough for you to feel the mess he’d left inside you—then slammed back in, dragging a cry from your throat. There was no mercy in him now. Just need. Just instinct.

He fucked you like he was running out of time. Like putting his seed in you was the only thing keeping him sane.

You could feel it pooling inside already, every thick, hot thrust forcing it deeper. He pinned your legs back, pushing your knees to your chest, getting deeper, deeper still. You cried out his name, over and over, mind unraveling with every round.

“Look at you,” he panted, sweat dripping onto your skin. “So full, so fucking open for me. You want to be bred. Made for it.”

His second orgasm hit harder—he bit your shoulder, hands gripping your thighs like anchors as he spilled another load inside you, grinding through it, hips twitching, not stopping.

Not done.

Not even close.

He shifted you to your side, wrapping a leg over his hip, still hard inside. He fucked you slow this time—but it was worse. Deeper. Possessive. So fucking intimate you almost sobbed.

“You feel that?” he whispered against your ear, his voice like smoke and whiskey and ash. “That’s two loads. And you’re still clenching. Greedy little thing.”

You whimpered, overstimulated, fucked-out. “Haymitch—can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He pressed a hand to your belly. “Still room in there. Gonna keep going until you’re leaking down your thighs for days.”

Round three came slower. More drawn out. He kissed you through it, hands all over you, possessive and tender in the most fucked-up way. When he came again, he didn’t thrust—just pushed in deep, groaning like it hurt.

You could barely move. Could barely think. Your thighs were shaking, slick and soaked, your cunt stuffed full and twitching around him.

And still… he didn’t stop.

“Think you can give me one more?” he whispered, nipping your ear. “Just one more, baby. One more and I’ll plug you up, keep it in.”

You nodded, delirious. “Yes… fill me again…”

He chuckled darkly, and started to move.

You’d lost count of how many times he’d finished inside you.

Your body was wrecked—slick, shaking, sensitive beyond reason. Every inch of your skin buzzed, raw and tender from his hands, his mouth, his claim.

And still, Haymitch wasn’t done.

He had you straddling his lap now, thighs trembling, knees braced on either side of his hips. He sat back against the ruined headboard, sweat-soaked hair pushed off his face, his eyes locked on where you were slowly sinking back down onto him.

“You hear that?” he rasped, hands gripping your ass. “That’s you—sloshing with my cum. And you’re still taking me. Still opening up like a good little breeding whore.”

You whimpered, the filth of his voice flooding through you just as deep as his cock.

He was so thick, and you were so full. His previous loads were leaking out around his length, making a wet, obscene mess between your thighs—and he loved it. Every inch that slipped back inside sent another rush of heat spiraling through your core.

He bounced you once—hard—and you cried out, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“Nuh-uh. No running,” he growled. “You asked for this. Said you wanted to be plugged full. So here—”

He shifted, slamming you down hard and holding you there. Buried deep. His cock twitching inside your ruined cunt.

“Now sit. Just like that,” he murmured darkly, one hand pressing down on your belly, the other wrapped tight around your throat. “Feel that? That’s all of me. All my cum. Sitting right where it belongs.”

You choked out a moan, so full you could barely breathe. Your belly was taut with pressure, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. It was too much, and not enough.

“Don’t even think about leaking, sweetheart,” he warned, thrusting up into you once, deep and brutal. “I’ll fuck it right back in. Again and again.”

“Haymitch—” your voice broke, eyes fluttering shut.

“No,” he growled. “Eyes on me. Want you to know who did this to you. Want you to remember what it feels like to be bred like you’re mine.”

He held you still, cock twitching inside you, hand firm on your lower belly like he was claiming it. Like he could will it into taking.

And then—he started to move again.

Not frantic. Not even rough this time. Possessive. Slow, deep thrusts while he kept you locked in place, each one designed to push everything back inside.

“You’re not leaking a single drop,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ll keep fucking you until your body gives in. Until it takes.”

You moaned, grinding against him, your own body betraying you with need, pulsing around him as another orgasm built—sharp and hot and aching.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “Come on my cock while I fill you again. Let me breed you so full your body has no choice.”

You shattered with a scream, and he followed—burying himself to the hilt, grinding through every pulse of his orgasm, spilling inside you for what felt like forever.

You collapsed against him, twitching, unable to move, his arms holding you tight as you dripped and leaked around him.

But still, he stayed inside.

Still plugging you full.

Because Haymitch Abernathy doesn’t just fuck.

He claims.

The light filtering in through the cracked window was soft and gray, the kind of morning that doesn’t feel real—too quiet, too still, like the world is holding its breath.

You woke up in Haymitch’s bed, your body aching in the most exquisite way. Every inch of you was sore, marked, used. Your thighs were sticky, your cunt still messy with the remnants of the night before. Three… no, four times he’d filled you. Maybe more. You couldn’t remember where one orgasm ended and the next began.

You shifted slightly, wincing at the dull, sweet ache between your legs.

“Don’t move.”

His voice came from behind you—low, rasped, rough from sleep and sex and cigarettes. A heavy arm looped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You could feel his cock already hard again, nudging the curve of your ass.

“You’re leaking,” he murmured against your neck, his hand sliding down your stomach, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh. He found the mess there, his own cum seeping out of you slow and warm. He brought his fingers up to your lips, smearing it there, watching you with hooded eyes.

“Still fucking full,” he growled, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. “But not full enough.”

You whimpered, lips parting as he slipped those fingers into your mouth. You sucked instinctively, tasting salt and sweat and the raw filth of the night before.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You like this, don’t you? Being ruined. Waking up stuffed with me.”

You nodded, unable to speak with his fingers in your mouth, your cunt clenching around nothing, aching for him again already.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk around today dripping with my cum?” he said, dragging your leg over his hip, grinding into your ass. “You think I’m gonna let a single drop go to waste?”

His voice darkened.

“No. Not happening. Gonna fuck it back in until it takes. Until you’re knocked up and glowing with it. Until this whole goddamn world sees what I did to you.”

He pushed into you from behind in one smooth stroke—your body slick, stretched, and ready, even as you gasped from the sudden stretch. He groaned deep in his chest, burying himself inside like he belonged there. And he did.

“Still so tight,” he hissed. “Still fucking mine.”

His pace was slower now—but deeper, possessive. Each thrust a silent brand. His hand moved back to your belly, pressing down to feel himself through your skin, groaning at how swollen you already were from him.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s all me. You’re full of me, inside and out. And I’m not stopping until your body gives me what I want.”

You moaned, helpless against the slow, brutal rhythm. There was no escaping him. You didn’t want to.

“Better get used to waking up like this,” he murmured, mouth hot on your shoulder. “Fucked full. Plugged up. Marked.”

And with that, he thrust harder—deeper—claiming you all over again as the morning light washed over both of you.

Because Haymitch wasn’t just breeding you.

He was keeping you.

"I love you." Haymitch whispered into your neck as he held you close.

"I love you too."

Because after the end of the day, know matter where or how.

He love's you, Haymitch loves you more than anything.

You are his, you are his everything and Haymitch Abernathy was yours.

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