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no-droids · 4 years

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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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doctorofmagic · 3 years

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My thoughts on What If... Doctor Strange Lost His Heart Instead of His Hands?

The very title of the episode sends a shiver down my spine. And this is where we’re going to start.

~ long post under the cut ~

A year ago, I wrote this post as an attemp to dive into one of the most important traits in Doctor Strange’s personality: love. Stephen is a being made of love, made to love, no matter which interpretation you have when you watch Infinity War. If you don’t read comic books, you’ll understand the moment you meet Donna. You’ll begin to understand how her death reshaped his entire subjectivity out of fear of failing, being powerless and unable to control everything around him (especially death), thus the arrogant and yet a disaster of a man we all know.

Where do I even start? Stephen loved her sister deeply and felt responsible for her death. And then, slowly, he also lost his parents and his brother. He fell in love with Clea but he also pushed her away. He loved Zelma platonically and lied to her, which was enough for them to break their bond. He felt attracted to Kanna but screwed things up, even though they remain friends. He was forced to kill the Ancient One, the only father figure he had ever since his father died. And lastly, the only person who would never leave his side... also left. Yes, even Wong. Stephen has SO much love to give but he’s also afraid because he’s cursed. He truly believes his love in poison. And would you look at that? What If really delivered a story where this is actually true.

What If Doctor Strange Lost His Heart Instead of His Hands?

The level of understanding when it comes to the character is... inconceivable. What could possibly reshape Stephen into following a dark path but love? The very premise of the whole episode. This is so much more than a love letter. This is literally too much, in all senses.

Fine, let’s begin.

What if the best of intentions has very strange consequences?

No. You used the word “strange” for the pun but this is not the word. Nah-ah. I’d go with ATROCIOUS, for starters. Things are gonna escalate so quickly, my friends.

Seriously, tho? Christine is SO SO SO SO beautiful, they’re so cute together. I have this feeling that MCU!Stephen was quite toxic because of his arrogance and this is why they didn’t work out. But WhatIf!Stephen???????? He’s always praising her, teasing her in a healthy way, respecting her and listening to her. HE TRULY LOVES HER, I’M GONNA CRY ALL OVER AGAIN, PLEASE, NOT THE CRÈME BRÛLÉE, PLEASE

I’m going to leave this shot here because we need to go back to it later. Hold that thought.

And bonus points to “Yeah, well, I would call that quite remarkable.” / “Well, I would say the same about you.”

GODS. THE PAIN. STOP THE PAIN.

So in this reality, Stephen didn’t caused the car accident because he was checking his phone while driving. Also it was not the reckless attempt to pass the truck. Well, maybe it was the consequence of this act? The fact is, the car behind them loses control, which makes them crash. Does it matter? We’ll learn later that no, it doesn’t.

And yep... Christine dies. Have you noticed the shattered heart? Ah, the pain only gets better and better.

Again, Stephen blames himself. More than anything, this is so important because Stephen is all about guilt. We still need to meet Donna so we can add yet another layer of guilt. But the feeling exists. This is what corrupts Stephen’s heart and soul in all his iterations. This is what makes him the character I love so much. I love this SO. MUCH. In addition, his stubbornness to accept his condition. Man won’t take a no. This, this is Doctor Strange in character. Stop complaining about NWH Stephen, it’s pathetic.

Okay, “grief-stricken”, Stephen found the Mystic Arts and became a sorcerer. That’s when he learned about the Time Stone, the Eye of Agamotto and Dormammu. Nothing changes, he saves the universe. But time does not heal his deepest wound.

I love Wong so much. Every time Wong does something, the world is healed. Really. We’re going back to him as well but for now I’ll just leave this shot.

BUT STEPHEN, DOING SOMETHING RECKLESS? HE’D NEVAH

Aaaaaaaannnnnnd then he did.

He goes back in time. It’s been two years since he lost Christine. I think he reacted pretty nicely, despite the circumstances. Now let’s go back to that shot I said I was saving for later.

Stephen is so light-hearted here. Also, during the first time he lost Christine, he had no idea what “The Price is Right” was. He knows now, which means he probably tried to learn more about the show because of her, because of grief. HAHAHA MORE PAIN

AND THEN HE

AND THEN SHE DIES AGAIN

AND THEN HE KEEPS GOING BACK IN TIME

AND SHE KEEPS DYING

AND THE MUSIC

AND HIS VOICE

AND HE TRIES TO CHANGE FATE BUT IT CAN’T BE AVERTED

HE EVEN TRIES TO STAY AWAY FROM HER LIFE BUT SHE DIES ALL THE SAME, WHY

AND EVERY TIME THEY CRASH, HE FEELS THE PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL PAIN AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN, WHY

I’M-- *ugly sobbing noises*

Apparently, not.

And this scene when he simply... closes his eyes before she dies again...?

This is where this episode had me in endless tears. It got me the four times I watched it. I’m dead serious.

Okay, so, next the Ancient One appears to Stephen, explaining that Christine’s death is an Absolute Point in time. It cannot be changed. Stephen needs the accident to become the Sorcerer Supreme and defeat Dormammu.

And this is where Stephen starts his journey into darkness. “Nothing is impossible, you taught me that. I only require more power.” Disobeying the Ancient One, Stephen then travels in time, seeking the Library of Cagliostro. Now, if you’re not aware of that, Cagliostro was a sorcerer who studied time in comics, and later became Sise-Neg (there’s a recent post on this because of the new Defenders run). It’s funny to think that Sise-Neg also destroyed the world when he became a god, however he grew past his pettiness and remade reality. Stephen did not possess such power, as we’re about to see.

PS: “Stop torturing yourself, Stephen.” Naur but he should use this line like a mantra. Especially comics!Stephen.

Not gonna lie, tho. This place reminds me of the Temple of the Vishanti from T&T (of course I was going to insert T&T somewhere, it’s me).

And of course they’d go for a pun with his name haha. I don’t know how to feel about this, tho. I feel like the episode is too heavy and dark for comedy. But it is what it is.

Okay but why some books are in cages??????????? And wow, it seems Cagliostro also gathered knowledge about several fields of magic.

And then Stephen learns that, in order to break an Absolute Point, he needs to absorb more power. This is when I went “oh-oh, here we go”.

And for real, is this Shuma-Gorath? Why are they keeping his name a secret? Is this the same creature from the first episode with Captain Carter, right? RIGHT? It has to be Shuma-Gorath.

Of course he tries to be polite and ends up all hurt haha. O’Bengh warns him about love but he will not listen. “Love can break more than your heart. It can shatter your mind.”/ “Is she worth the pain?”. Please, this is Stephen. He eats pain for breakfast.

Also, also, let’s take a break. We’re finally going to get monsterf0cker tentacle-lover Stephen Strange. It will cost us everything but here we goooooooooooo (yes, I went frame by frame for your more obscure fanservice needs)

Gods, I love this sequence so much it hurts. Okay, here we go.

Shmebulock???????????

AND HE STOLE THE CAPE??????????? AND DREW THE LINE ON BUGS??????

The grasp this man is holding on me right now...

Some of you will understand. I’m with you.

And here are the grostesque ones. These are hard to take SS but I had to.

Animation, sound effects, OST? CHEF’S KISS TO ALL

And lastly... the tentacles. Yeah, if you’re new... this is a thing.

Fanservice. Fanservice everywhere. (low-key the reason I also waited to write this review, I wanted to enjoy this part so badly but I was too sad for that lmao)

Okay so. O’Bengh is suddenly OLD and DYING, until we realize that Stephen spent CENTURIES absorbing mystic beings. CENTURIES. WTF STEPHEN. He had nothing in mind but the goal to save Christine. And people wonder why he went insane???? I’m sorry, O’Bengh, but I can’t take you serious when you still call Stephen Sorcerer Armani. Oh, and also because you watched him absorb beings for centuries in silence lmao. But I guess I have to because you said that Stephen is split in two since the Ancient One cast a spell on him, splitting the timelines and making them exist in the same reality before he could travel back in time. I know, it’s complex. Anything for the plot.

And now good!Stephen has an evil!twin who wants to absorb him back in order to become whole and break the Absolute Point. Cool.

I said I wanted to talk more about Wong because I think people are not talking about him enough. Wong is so important in this episode. He’s the one who’s trying to heal Stephen after Christine. He’s Stephen’s anchor.

Also, THEY FINALLY USED A SPELL WITH THE NAME OF THE VISHANTI. HOORAAAAY

So, for the sake of our understanding, I’m addressing the characters as evil and good!Stephen. Let’s go. Evil!Stephen summons good!Stephen and gods, he still holds such a strong grasp on me... unbelievable. THE DEEPER VOICE BENEDICT USES???? PLEASE, DIDN’T WE HAVE ENOUGH?

Imagine his strength to hold so many beings inside him, fighting to control him. BRO, THIS IS TOO TOO MUCH

Fine, I’ll not post SS about the fight because I’d be here all night long but I WILL say this: NOT CLOAKIE!!!!! NAAAAAAAAAAUR

Also if you ask me if I recognize any of the spells? Maaaaybe the Flames of Faltine, the not-so-crimson Bands of Cyttorak and a little trick Magik does with her portals. That’s how far I go.

I’ll not comment on the “seducing yourself to stay in the trap”. I will not. I’ll just say that the first person Stephen thought of when “Christine” was talking about the crème brûlée was Wong. That’s it.

And finally evil!Stephen absorbs good!Stephen and releases... UNLIMITED POWER (I love when the stone goes red as if it was bleeding aaaaaaa)

I can fix him...

This scene here? Poetic cinema. (I love his wings so much)

And when Stephen says her name and the other monsters’ voices echo “Christine”, AAAAAACKKKK

AND OF COURSE CHRISTINE WOULD FREAK OUT, BRO. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE BECOME BECAUSE OF YOUR TWISTED LOVE. I’M NOT DOING FINE.

Oh, but it’s too late anyways because Stephen broke reality haha. This scene is interesting because Stephen is the only one who sensed and/or talked to the Watcher until now. I read an interview that the Watcher kinda showed up but it’s also about Stephen’s keen senses. Bit of both, let’s say. Still, man, 616-Watcher is not that cold. 616-Watcher would watch this and say “how about I intervene anyway?”. WhatIf!Watcher is brutal.

The way Christine looks at Stephen one last time also KILLS ME, DESTROYS ME, BREAK ME INTO A MILLION PIECES.

And this is where my soul left my body.

This is how they end the episode. This is how you leave me speechless and with teary eyes. This is how you give me a whole existential crisis.

This... this was brutal to watch. Really.

What can I say after this? I’m used to reading painful things when it comes to Stephen. Aaron’s and Cates’ runs are heartbreaking on so many levels. Hickman’s New Avengers is not easier. Coincidentally, What If? Magik Became Sorcerer Supreme and The End. And now Death of Doctor Strange. And yet, after everything I’ve been through, I’d never expect to watch something so brilliant, so tragic, so heartbreaking and unexpected in the MCU. Never. This is top tier content and this is my favorite character with SO MANY LAYERS and SO MUCH UNDERSTANDING. I can’t put into words how meaningful this whole episode is to me, or how deep it touched my heart and soul.

I’ve been struggling to find the proper words since then, I still can’t. All I can add is, I cried for the 4th time now. This is too, too much, even for Stephen stans. Even for the ones who are used to pain, regardless of which media you’re into: comic books, live actions or animated movies. This is literally more than I can take and yet I’m so, so grateful. The voice acting, gods, how did Benedict manage to create a better Stephen than the one he’s literally playing in real life???????????? HOW

This episode really took the max potential Stephen had to offer as a character, added tons and tons of layers based on his grief, depression, arrogance and need to control everything and created a tragic masterpiece. In 7 years of being a Doctor Strange fan, I've never read or watch something that could go this deep into the character. The closest I can think of is Mr. Misery and the metaphor of Stephen's depression. This is a whole new level of respect and understanding. This is more than a love letter. This is peak maestry. It’s perfect, it’s heartbreaking, it’s... gods, I can’t.

Sorry for dragging you until this far. Before I wrap up this review, I just wanted to remind you all that Stephen will appear again, he will smile again, he will be surrounded by people again. So this is not the end. It was painful but be brave. We still have a few more steps to take.

#what if...?#doctor strange #stephen strange #what if doctor strange lost his heart instead of his hands?#wong #christine palmer #the ancient one #long post #review #he did nothing wrong #so what? he destroyed a whole universe #/j #benedict cumberbatch

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chrisevansluv · 3 years

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Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!

#chris evans #cevans #Details Magazine #2012 #interview

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doudecim · 4 years

Text

I want to say that 99% of the fics here are on FF.net for I have only recently discovered the wonders of AO3, and I still didn’t dig deep in there to find all the HitsuKarin goodies.

That being said, I will put the list under the cut because this will be one very long post. So, I hope you all enjoy it!

one-shots

A Constant Fascination, by back-in-a-bit. — 'Colour me blood red passionately.' Hitsugaya makes it his personal mission to get Karin to blush. Pity it's easier said than done. In fact, it might just take him a lifetime. [rated T]

A Fall in the Fall, by MeteorLeopard. — This was ridiculous! There she was, just looking at the fish, and the next thing she knows, she's up in a tree being held against her will! And it's all his fault! [rated T]

a little suffering is good for the soul, by the milliner’s rook. — Future fic. If there are stupider ways to get courted, Karin can't think of them. [rated K+]

A Woman Scorned, by Glowing Blue. — The twisted fairy tale of Karin finding her own invite to the ball, though she's hardly looking for a Prince Charming. [rated T]

but leave the soul alone, by the milliner’s rook. — AU. Death, it's catching. Or: the one where Toushirou and Karin share night shifts at the hospital. And coffee. Terrible, terrible coffee. [rated K+]

Collection, by ichilover3. — A drabble/oneshot dump. Shenanigans, silliness, and sexy-times abound. Also alliteration, apparently. [rated M]

crawl into your shadow, by the milliner’s rook. — AU. There's a witch in this sleepy little village now that goes by the name of Karin, but nothing has changed since she's arrived. Not really. [rated T]

Delirous, by carved in the sand. — Matsumoto finds her captain to be a lovestruck teenage boy. [rated T]

duckling theory, by the milliner’s rook. — The first thing Karin notices is watermelon. Looking back, maybe it should have been startling green eyes. [rated K]

For You, by Glowing Blue. — Death had never been the paradise everyone wished it to be. But then they found each other. [rated T, two-shot.]

frostbitten, by the milliner’s rook. — Set during the time skip. The winter they meet is unkind with snow. [rated K+]

Frozen Moments, by CrazyAce'n'PokerFace. — 101 drabbles/one-shots that give a glimpse into Toushirou and Karin's life together. A love story told in snapshots. [rated K+]

funny valentine, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — I'll be yours if you'll be mine. [rated K+]

humour me, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — True love's kiss. That ought to do it. [rated K+]

i’m high on believing, by the milliner's rook. — For the record, he prefers his plain black shoes to her fancy red sneakers. [rated K+]

ice breaker, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — AU. There are better ways to get found out than making out in a closet and tumbling onto the ground. [rated T]

if my heart was a compass you’d be north, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Future fic. Give me a reason to believe. [rated K+]

In Every Season, by Adobo-chan. — A collection of HitsuKarin oneshots. [rated T]

In the Dark, by ichilover3. — It really wasn't anyone else's business. She should be allowed to fornicate with midgets if she wanted to. [rated T]

innocent guilt, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — AU. Oh, I know! You're a tramp with wings! [rated K+]

Juxtaposition, by Lady Azar de Tameran. — Something within Hitsugaya Toushirou thinks that he may have met his match. [rated T]

keep me in your pocket, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Set during the timeskip. Don't stay out of touch, okay? [rated K+]

Kuchiki Rukia, the Glorified Courier, by MeteorLeopard. — Delivering super-top-secret messages between dimensions is tough work; believe me, I know. If it weren't such a rewarding experience I'd downright refuse to play the messenger. Honestly. [rated K+]

liliputians, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Future fic. It's alright, kid. I'm short too. [rated K+]

Lovely Complex, by Unknown lazy ass. — She slyly grinned, “Wow, you really are head over heels for me, aren’t you Toushirou?” [rated K+]

Momo knows Best, by MeteorLeopard. — Sometimes having a meddling older sister... sucks. [rated T]

of halos and wings, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Future fic. He had betrayed Hinamori with nothing but his heart. [rated T]

Old Haunts, by the milliner's rook. — Future fic. You were just gone, Toushirou, what was I to think? I thought—I thought you'd come back, and you did, twenty years too late. [rated T]

Peeping Tom, by Glowing Blue. — The love story of Hitsugaya and Karin, as seen from open windows and heard through thin walls. "Hisagi's eyes had a tendency to stray." AU. [rated T]

phantasmagoria, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Flickering through black and white, they find their perfect shade of grey. [rated K+, two-shot.]

put down your sword and crown, by the milliner's rook. — AU. When her old man dies to save Ichi-nii's life, everything changes. Days after the funeral, the word Quincy is spoken for the first time, and at five years old, Karin becomes defined by it. [rated K+]

Red, The Colour of Despair, by the milliner's rook. — It was strange how much difference one colour could make. [rated K+]

Revenants, by carved in the sand. — Hitsugaya ponders the ghosts that haunt the girl he still loves. [rated T]

Sports and Sex are Universal (but never the twain should meet), by back-in-a-bit. — Toushirou gives Karin a flat look. "I'm not high-fiving you over sex," he says. [rated M]

Subtle, by nublados. — Toshiro comments on the subtlety that is Karin Kurosaki. [rated K+]

The Art of Asking, by Felix02. — He should have known that her father wouldn't be able to keep a secret, especially from one of his daughters. [rated T]

The Art Of Getting By, by the milliner's rook. — AU. There's some difficulty between juggling flirting, killing Hollows and getting to class on time with the hottest guy in high school, but Karin's certain she'll get the hang of it eventually. [rated T]

The Staircase not Taken, by MeteorLeopard. — Perhaps it was a good thing that the stairs were destroyed, her brother acting demented and a violent fight going on without her just upstairs. After all, the visitor who happened to drop by was worth the wait. [rated T]

the winter sun smiled for things to come in spring, by the milliner's rook. — What is it with you! You're either too young or too old! What the hell! [rated T, two-shots.]

Urahara's Lawn Mowing Service, by MeteorLeopard. — Incorrect phone numbers are a messy business. Even messier though is the business that happens after said incorrect phone call. "Fine, but I bet your girlfriend didn't call back because your lawn needs to be mowed." [rated T]

velocity, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Aim for the goal, and don't look back, no matter what. [rated T]

where angels fear to tread, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — They belong in hell. [rated K]

You Taste Like Birthday, You Look Like New Year, by the milliner's rook. — Future fic. She likes his hands, Toushirou notices. Loves them, in fact. [rated M]

complete

lune, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — AU. Me and you and moonlight shivers. [[rated T] other main pairings are ByakuyaHisana, ShinjiHiyori and UlquiorraNel, so beware that HitsuKarin is not the only focus in this one.]

Waterlogged, Wind-chapped, and Sun-bleached. — They grow up together, and the slow progression of their relationship shapes their world. AU. [rated T]

Wendybird Chronicles, by the milliner's rook. — She wonders if they ever had a chance. If they might have missed it, somehow. [rated K+]

on going

Wrong Number, by Lunatasha. — Unknown (10:22): So! I just read all of the conversations I had last night while I was out drunk and thoroughly embarrassing myself and please let me apologise for bothering you (especially as I think you were working if you were in your office?) last night. I mean in hindsight I probably should have stopped messaging you as soon as it was clear you weren't who I was looking for, but drunk me apparently hates sober me so yeah, I'm sorry. That being said thank you again for helping me out even though I must have been bothering you, I appreciate it. [rated T]

Only in Dreams, by TullyBlue. — Brother, she had called him, but he spent the entire meal acting like she was a ghost. Eating with the twins, he can’t even imagine being that cold to his sisters. Yuzu’s laughter brightens his day and that admiring glint in Karin’s eye, that he only catches every once in a while, means the world to him. The so-called brother in his dreams makes Ichigo’s skin crawl. Everything else, though, he wants to see more of, to know more about, to understand. Old, wood floors, a spacious room, flowing black robes, and those swords... [[rated T] other main pairings are IchigoRukia, UryuuChad, GanjuHanatarou, so beware that HitsuKarin is not the only focus in this one.]

abandoned or on permanent hiatus, probably won’t ever post a new chapter again

Blizzard Blues, by the milliner's rook. — Future fic. I heard your brother had an eight pack, Captain Hitsugaya! That he was shredded! [rated T]

Catalyst, by Etiena. — With captain-level shinigami in her family, it is no surprise that Kurosaki Karin has potential. But it isn't family which triggers her change. Instead, a chance encounter with a young shinigami captain leads to startling revelations. [rated K+]

Go Against the Grain, by Adobo-chan. — Old law deems that only a son may become the Kurosaki House's next leader. Born from this ancient tradition, a tragic betrayal and her mother's sacrifice, Karin is brought up as Kurosaki Kazuto, the 29th head of the family. [rated T]

oh sinful rose, by the milliner's rook. — AU. Five years after the monarchy is overthrown, a noble finds a forgotten princess in chains. DISCONTINUED. [rated T]

Quandary, by Glowing Blue. — Funnily enough, meeting such a spirited single mother was actually part of his job description. AU. [rated T] (I love this one so much!)

Roommate For Sale, by SavageTrickster. — AU. There are many things in life that she didn't know, but the one thing Kurosaki Karin was certain of is that her overprotective brother is going to blow his top when he meets her new roommate.

#jesus fucking christ this is so long #hitsukarin #karin kurosaki #toshiro hitsugaya #bleach #fic rec #i have literal 0 self love

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neerons · 4 years

Text

Some of the HLITF MC’s best quotes

“Instructor Goto... Always kind and diligent, his instructions easy to understand... I owe him a great deal. Instructor Ishigami... Very Spartan methods. The hardest of them all to make the grade with. Instructor Soma... They say his remarks can cut like a knife from time to time, but his advice is invaluable. Instructor Kaga... ......All that comes to mind is being backed up against a wall. Also, the fact that he has a ton of closet fans among the male trainees. Chief... Always paying for your instructors’ ramen... Wait! That’s not what I’m going for here!” (—MC’s thoughts, in Shinonome’s route)

“Hurrah, scientific mumbo jumbo on parade. I’m following about half of this conversation.” (—MC’s thoughts)

“Shinonome, you magnificent man, you!” (—MC to Shinonome, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“I think they look pretty awesome, personally. Who doesn’t love boobs? (—MC’s thoughts about her breasts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“I mean, Shinonome’s real type is more Sachi than me. So calm and kind... And then there’s the whole, um... boob thing. Man, she has great breasts. So jealous.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“I love everything about Shinonome! Even when he’s being nerdy, even when he’s being mean. Even though he’d make a better girl than I do and his mushroo— I mean, his hair’s so silky...” (—MC to Sachi, in Shinonome’s route)

“Okay, when I go back to visit my folks, I’m a total slob. I don’t help around the house, I just laze around and throw my socks on the floor.” (—MC to Sachi, in Shinonome’s route)

“And anyway, who cares what I eat? I’ve got abs of steel. Wanna touch? Put your hands on these babies and you’ll see...” (—MC to Shinonome, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“(...) All I was trying to say is that I accept you for everything you are, anyway! Bad hair day? Slipped on a banana peel? Wore your shirt inside out? Bring it on! And again, even if your equipment’s not working, I’ll accept that too.” (—MC to Shinonome)

(...) I’m not that much of a pervert! So please, let me sniff you a little longer? I mean, no. Scratch that. Let me HUG you a little longer. (—MC to Shinonome)

“I mean... yes, they DO look very... tasty out there on the field. But oh my god...” (—MC’s thoughts about the instructors)

“The roundness of the mushroom caps reminds me of something... Ah... I’m grilling Shinonome’s head.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“(...) Graduation means the culmination of a long-held agreement between us. Starting with that post-graduation kiss. And I dunno if there’ll be a celebration or what, but what I’m most interested in... MOST interested in... Is that Shinonome and I are finally going to... We’re gonna... YEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSS!!!!” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“Who shows up on an overnight trip with their hot boyfriend in bargain bin undies? Me, apparently.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“Is it me, or am I hitting like, peak fabulous girlfriend here? Hangin’ out in my boyfriend’s kitchen, totally got a handle on things! Kinda deal? YES! Freaking yay!” (MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“(...) I got to see glimpses of your stomach, and... those abs... Your abs are just, yeah, wow... Intriguing stuff, believe me.” (—MC to Shinonome, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“I-I’m broke! I’m waiting on salary day, and I used my winter bonus on a year-long train pass.” (—MC to Shinonome, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“Say what you like about me...But don’t you dare insult my darling Kaga!” (—MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

(...) a friendly and gregarious Kaga wouldn’t really be Kaga.” (MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“I figured Kaga had brought me here for some freaky hanky-panky.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“Demon...” (—MC to Kaga, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“(...) Mean is like his default factory setting.” (—MC talking about Kaga to Chiba, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“Chief thinks he’s so smart... he’s just a pachinko playing slacker!” (—MC’s thoughts, in Namba’s route)

“I discard my fantasy into a mental box marked ‘never gonna happen.’” (—MC’s thoughts)

“With all the love in the world, I give him the finger.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“How about we stay inside all day and bang it out on every surface we can think of?” (—MC to Shinonome)

“I’m nothing if not motivated when it comes to getting down with you.” (—MC to Shinonome)

“They dissed my silver fox! Unforgivable!” (—MC’s thoughts about random boys, as Namba’s girlfriend)

“Kaga looks so cute, obediently opening his mouth for the rice porridge. (...) Yikes... I’d better not say the word ‘cute’, or they’ll never even find my body...” (—MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“Recently Kaga flip-flops between being a snarling beast and a purring kitty.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“I pull off his shirt, taking a moment to appreciate his chiseled body. Usually it’s dark when we... you know. To see him up close in full light... (...) I drag my eyes back up to his face with difficulty.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“Why am I the only one all flustered? Why does he get to be cool?” (—MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“Finally you value me! It’s been such a hard road to get here!” (—MC to Kaga, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“Usually I’d cringe at being in the pretty girl role at work. But this is serious! If batting my eyelashes can help, I’ll bat away!” (—MC’s thoughts)

“I’m becoming a real pervert thanks to Kaga!” (—MC’s thoughts, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“Sorry. I kind of got excited over the thought of you seeing me in my swimsuit. (...) I’d like you to take it off me...” (—MC to Kaga)

“Take me, please.” (—MC to Kaga)

“Oh, actually I haven’t been eating much because I’m so exhausted from the heat. I’ve only been having seconds, not thirds!” (—MC to Kaga, as Kaga’s girlfriend)

“A year has passed already, and yet Kaga still manages to inspire mortal fear in me.” (—MC’s thoughts)

“I personally have had a marker to the head so many times, it barely stings anymore!” (—MC talking about Kaga’s class to Namba)

“I wonder what people are thinking when they walk past us? I bet they’re jealous that I’m out and about with a silver fox. No wait, he’s married...” (—MC’s thoughts about Namba)

“Oh no! Ishigami thinks I’m useless, too! I mean, I know I am, but to have him basically agree...!” (—MC’s thoughts, in a Prologue)

“Why am I wasting precious fantasizing time with that nonsense?!” (—MC’s thoughts)

“Yikes, stop staring! I’m totally perving on his body!” (—MC’s thoughts)

“This is what passes for democracy these days?!” (—MC to the instructors and Namba)

“He’s a fantastic kisser, too. Where did he learn to kiss like that, anyway? Who gave him the right?! I’d genuinely like to know why kisses feel so good. Y’know, for science. What a man, what a man, what a mighty fine man! Mm.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“Man, I am just so good at this improving thing, I even impress myself. (...) If you don’t give yourself a pat on the back from time to time, who will?!” (—MC to Miyayama)

“Hey! I’m a beautiful daisy, not dandelion fluff! Or maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m more like a burr! Not like I’m planning on letting you go anytime soon, anyway. Mwaha!” (—MC to Shinonome, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“Kaga got up close and intimate against a wall with a criminal? Okie dokie.” (—MC’s thoughts)

“I don’t get laid to get paid, fellas!” (—MC’s thoughts)

“I was searching for Captain Tsugaru, expecting a gorilla, and now I’ve run into this total hottie instead. I should be used to hot guys, though. I mean, the instructors... (...) he gives me a charming smile, and I mentally thank his parents for making him.” (—MC’s thoughts)

“My mental image of Kaga scares me into stepping forward.” (—MC’s thoughts)

“Get him a hundred roses! If I could pull a move like that, I’d straight up date myself.” (—MC’s thoughts)

“Did they just say I’m being treated like a pet? In that case someone should definitely call animal welfare on my behalf...” (—MC’s thoughts)

“...You womanizer. Tastebud psychopath. Waste of a handsome face. Emotional chair-flinger.” (—MC insulting Tsugaru)

“I thought it must have been with a special lady if he came to such a fancy place before. Sorry Kaga. You’re not a lady, but you’re definitely special.” (—MC’s thoughts/ Tsugaru’s route)

“Praise the gods for Seiji Goto, the shining beacon of Public Safety!” (—MC’s thoughts/ Tsugaru’s route)

“Wow, what a love fest. Am I intruding here?” (—MC’s thoughts about Tsugaru and Momose)

“I have a second stomach when I’m not the one paying. And besides, isn’t this a date?” (—MC to Tsugaru/ Tsugaru’s route)

“We’ll do it for sure. Like bunnies! Oh yes! As they say... nothing ventured, no one gets laid.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“I guess I just don’t tickle Shinonome’s pickle...” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“That’s him! I’d recognize his cute butt anywhere!” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“He could’ve dragged me into some secluded room and had his wicked way with me! That would’ve been nice! I would’ve flung my undies with abandon if so!” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“Your eyelashes are so long, I was thinking it would be a pain if they stabbed me.” (—MC to Tsugaru)

“(...) He’s seen my abs. In fact, nothing makes him splutter faster than a glimpse of these babies.” (—MC’s thoughts, as Shinonome’s girlfriend)

“His mushroom- I mean, silky hair... His pride and joy has turned into a bird’s nest!” (—MC’s thoughts about Shinonome)

“I’ve come to the conclusion that I suck at everything.” (—MC to Namba)

“Kaga’s niceness is so subtle you can blink and miss it.” (—MC’s thoughts about Kaga)

“He’s a brute! A fiend! He’s not my boyfriend or a detective, he’s the ruler of the underworld!” (—MC’s thoughts about Kaga)

“Sorry! I wasn’t thinking you two are cute or anything!” (—MC talking about Ishigami and Kaga in front of them)

“I do enjoy sleeping in your arms, of course… But I much prefer it when you make love to me.” (—MC to Goto)

#her love in the force #hlitf #voltage inc #otome game #love 365 #voltage otome #voltage #hlitf mc #hyogo kaga #ayumu shinonome #jin namba #seiji goto #hideki ishigami #shusuke soma #hlitf quotes #quotes collection #quotes

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worstloki · 4 years

Text

okay so on the idea that the nine realms is the america of space:

- everyone knows what’s going on there all the time because word gets out on every major event but everyone outside the nine is just a spectator at this point so people be eyeing the crazy stuff going on there but everyone also just moves on with their day

- this results in midgard and asgard being the star attractions where midgard is like the generation of younger activists fighting the system but its also florida with a few people doing crazy things while meanwhile asgard is the governing political mess (re: the other realms are just chilling. maybe they’re michigan or minnesota or every state that just exists and doesn’t get much attention? jotunheim can totally be texas though because its got its own personality but also gets stereotyped.)

- “so one of the weapon rich kids on Terra went through a life changing field trip and now he’s made himself a fully operational suit of armour and claims to be defending the planet” “with their noob tech? really?? they don’t even stand a chance against anything in the rest of their own galaxy--” “no no no he’s defending the planet and establishing peace... only within the populations on Terra” “aww that’s so cute” “i know!”

- space has all the gossip which means they know all the messed up stuff going on within the nine realms and everyone in space is kinda detached and not a part of it so its like a tragic-comedy reality show that people like to keep up with

- “so odin is pretending his new son is actually his firstborn now... and also banned talking about the whole history of being built on colonialism and also no one is ever allowed to mention his executioner daughter’’ “huh, weird”

- “odin totally stashed the tesseract on Terra to keep it safe” “why are you telling me this” “I was just thinking about how funny it’d be if those short-lived humans found it one day” “you’re not going to go find it for yourself? it’d sell for loads of credits...” “nah dude i’m not risking stepping into the pit of despair that is that dark dark section of the universe”

- “there are rumours he stole the jotunheim king's kid and is raising him as an asgardian” “does the kid know?” “the father sure doesn't he thinks the baby was killed” “no wonder laufeys been going a bit off the edge recently” “i’m feeling worse for the poor kid stuck with odin now”

- “hey so that Terra hero Quill was always going on about? he’s been found and recently unfrozen apparently” “dont lie to me - humans don’t live that long” “that’s just what I heard i swear”

- “odin used another realm as a time out dumping ground” “which one now?” “the second one, and midgard this time” “at least midgard isn’t filled with the souls of the dishonorable dead?” “well it was his favourite kid, so, ya know,” “ah yes, blatant nepotism, thou art a villain”

- “odin did--” “oh $#!^ what'd the old man do NOW” “well you know the stolen jotun kid? odin didn’t tell him he was a different species” “oh WOW that’s messed up” “oh yeah definitely. so anyways he tried to kill himsel-” “that place still has systematic racism in place and his other son has been pushing for violence since he was a kid so... what’d the old fart THINK would happen?” “beats me”

- everybody KNOWS what’s going on around there but no one wants to get stuck in that mess so they leave it alone and don't prod the nine realms with a ten foot pole if they can help it hence the negative connotations of midgard especially in gotg and captain marvel

- thanos can be colonial britain or something idk how history works but lets assume he thinks it’s prime time to go to planets and just kill some people and take their stuff for his own cause and also Sanctuary has 0 natural spices other than a pinch of salt okay

- ''i heard odin’s stolen kid, loki i think his name was? yeah I heard he finally got a ticket out of the nine realms'' ''good for him'' ''he landed with thanos though...'' ''well, $#!^”

- “Terra’s got a little band of protectors now” “yes I heard they took down Loki” “which would’ve been such a cool thing to watch honestly I mean a master of magic vs those cute little human beans” “nah he was totally faked it. I heard the guy didn’t even want to attack the place but thanos didn’t give him another out and wanted a native to speak for him.” “so he was playing thanos? oh boy that aint gonna end well” “but he also got the mind stone away from thanos so...” “the icon really just did that?? ayyy I stan 1 prince of asgard”

- “so I heard Terra’s hero band really just broke up because of some signature dispute” “I thought they don’t have a centralised government system yet though?” “there’s some subgoverning system that’s got most of the planet agreeing” “thats wild” “yeah so anyways there are still 2 stones there but now there’s no team to keep them safe” “oh yikes do you think we should try and assist or something in case thanos sends a retrieval party or something?” “I mean we probably should but I’m not doing it” “can’t they send Cap Marvel in? she’s from Terra aint she?” “yeah they should send Danvers in”

- “I heard odin finally kicked the bucket” “about time” “yeah but also his actual firstborn the one he tried to delete is back now...” “oh darn is loki ok?” “yeah he’s been on sakaar for like a week now just chilling” “good for him” “yeah but hela is totally trying to reinstate all the colonial bull loki was getting rid of as king” “where’s thor at in all this” “i think he accused loki of killing odin right after odin tried to guilt trip him into accepting he was a good father” “oh ew”

- “hey so they got rid of hela but asgard blew up-” “D:” “-and loki got to do it” “:D” “yeah i thought you’d like that... so do you think we should offer aid? they’re kinda in the way of thanos’ route to midgard” “they’re asgardians” “yeah but its not their fault they were living in asgard” “i’m not going anywhere near the nine realms thanks” “you’re right they’ll probably be fine anyways”

- “hey so... asgard was not fine” “oh no” “he’s heading to earth now for the other stones” “i’m not stepping foot anywhere near there, plus they’ve got their own protectors and all” “dude they broke up years ago remember the signing issues” “that’s still a thing?” “yeah dude it never ended” “wack”

- “i think thanos really is going to succeed and snap half the universe” “well if asgard needed support they could’ve just asked vanaheim or something” “asgard never admits to needing help we already know this” “maybe we should’ve told the other realms to help midgard jů̸̢̠̳͎̳̾̓̉͜st ̷͚͙̯̺̻̦̦̃̓̒̔͜i̴̺̼̗̞̘͖͉̙̾̆̋͂̀̚̚͠n ̷̜̮͚͖́̅̈̌̐͑͛͝ć̵̭͛͛̎͋̀à̷͚̬̩̾̒̅̿̄͆͋s̷̰̖̳̙̠͈̀͊̀ḙ̷͐͑̀̌̉...” “nah Migdard will be fine” “...” “john?” “...” “john?!” “...” “JOHN NOOO!!!” [five years later] “John! You’re back! Dude!! I missed you so much!!” “I told you we should’ve sent a letter or something” “john i love you but i still wouldn’t have risked sending a letter into the nine realms” “that’s fair”

in conclusion space has all the gossip, and people know stuff is going down there but no one wants to interact with the h*ckhole that the nine realms are, so everyone does their best to just steer clear and keep their hoods on when in the neighborhood.

#anyways loki is a living legend out there in the nine realms #he's totally considered an advocate for change #i bet loki's one of the few people who actually personally travel out of the nine realms so you've got all these stories about him #and then you meet him and he's like ''hi im loki'' and you're like 'hey maaaybe i should bring up that he was stolen? nah not my business''#anyways people are rooting for loki somewhere out there #this explains why no one else showed up to fight thanos off in infinity war despite the guy bringing huge ships across half the universe #some people showed up for endgame though because thanos was finally dead and &^$% no they're not letting ANOTHER thanos come in now #so anyways carol and loki are space famous #in fact most of midagard's heroes and asgard's royals are famous in space #i guess you could compare space to twitter? with the nine realms being america?#yes this entire post is based off the nine realms being the paris of space #or the america of sci fi movies if you will #I also want to apologise for any stereotyping/if the post is offensive in any way because I know nothing about America other than 'its bad'#the extent of my knowledge is literally memes and whatever chaos the whole political state of that place causes every few years #@shadowylemon i hope you're happy now

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marvelyningreen · 3 years

Text

Aftershocks - Night 2

Night 1 | Night 2 | Night 3 | (deleted scene)

[Summary: Peter Maximoff is an unflappable sorta guy. He’d never let anything get to him before, and this recent misadventure will be no different. ...Right?

Warnings: mild language, alcohol use, references to injury & false imprisonment, general trauma-related angst

Notes: Peter Maximoff x reader, of the established relationship variety. A ‘what if Fietro really was Peter?’ scenario. Same continuity/reader character from Linger and Late-bloomer. ]

On the second night, Kurt and Jubilee organize a party. It’s sort of a ‘welcome back’ for Peter, and a ‘welcome in general’ for Wanda and the twins.

It’s awfully sweet of them. And you’re impressed that they’ve managed to order in enough food for everyone on such short notice.

Peter had been busy for most of the day. He’d volunteered to help the professor and continue playing tour guide for Wanda and the kids. You’d offered to help, too, but Peter insisted that you should take it easy. He’s probably right, much as you’d hated to admit it. There’s no way you could’ve kept up with him and two energetic kids.

And that’s how you ended up spending the most of the morning in the lab with Hank.

In true Hank fashion, he had tons of questions, and you did your best to answer them. There are still quite a few things you don’t fully understand yourself.

The revelation that other realities exist is wild to begin with. A world where mutants don’t exist but magic does sounds like a work of fiction. And then there’s the fact that Wanda’s from someplace called ‘Sokovia?’ As far as you and Hank could figure, that country has never existed in your world.

Hank’s scientific curiosity was focused on trying to wrap his head around how Wanda’s powers worked, and how they could’ve caused Captain Rambeau to spontaneously develop powers of her own. You weren’t able to be much help there, but once Hank gets himself hypothesizing, he could talk for hours with no input from anyone else.

Eventually, you brought up your concerns about Peter and his odd lapses in memory. Hank’s brows furrowed pensively as he listened.

“Well, I can tell you there’s nothing physically wrong with Peter,” he said. “I could ask him to let me examine him again, but if the issue isn’t a physical one, that might just make things worse. If you’re really worried about him, my advice is to talk to Charles.”

You sighed. “And he’s busy showing Wanda around.”

Which was exactly where Peter would be, so no chance to talk to the professor without him noticing. Hank stood up, patting your shoulder.

“Listen, I know I’m not great company when I’m focused on work,” he said, “But you’re welcome to stay here while you wait.”

“Thanks,” you said. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”

You’d actually spent a lot of time down in the lab since your reality warping abilities had fully manifested. Hank was fascinated by getting to witness them in person, and the fact that you’d used them to save his life probably had something to do with it.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching out your injured leg a little. It didn’t take Hank long to get so immersed in his work that he started thinking aloud to himself, trying to work out some complicated chemical reaction.

Your thoughts drifted back to Peter. He’d seemed distracted that morning, almost distant. You tried to think what caused it – if something had happened, or even if there was something you’d said…? But you couldn’t think of anything.

Maybe it’d had something to do with his dream. But no, he said he didn’t remember it. Maybe – and you were grasping at straws by this point – he was embarrassed that you’d seen it? That could be. Peter was a pretty open guy, and you hadn’t thought that machismo was one of his faults, but it’s a possibility.

Oh. Oh, damn it all – you’d done it again. You weren’t sure when your eyes had closed, or when you’d leaned your head back against the chair. Hank was still talking to himself-

Only no, he wasn’t. There was a second voice answering him now. Upon lifting your head, you noticed that Hank’s jacket was folded under it as a makeshift pillow. You blinked in the brightness of the lab, looking around to see where the conversation was coming from.

Hank and the professor broke off as they noticed you stirring. Hank smiled apologetically.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he explained. “You looked so tired. I figured you could use the rest.”

“Apparently I did. Sorry about that,” you said, sitting up straight in the chair again. “What time is it?”

“Just after noon,” said the professor. “We decided to break for lunch, so Peter’s showing them the kitchens. Now, Hank tells me that something’s troubling you.”

“It’s Peter, sir,” you said. You went over everything once more – the diminishing memories of Westview, the nightmare. “Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing, but… I don’t know. What if something that witch did is still affecting him?”

The professor had listened carefully while you spoke. You thought that he looked a little concerned, but you might’ve imagined it, because when you finished, he smiled.

“Thank you for coming to me with this,” he said, “But I have a feeling you’re not going to like my answer.”

You grimaced. “You’re going to tell me to wait and see, aren’t you.”

You’re well aware that this was the sort of thing the professor said when he was being evasive. He laughed.

“You’re a quick learner,” he said. “I will tell you that I truly believe Peter will be fine. If anything changes or worsens, don’t hesitate to bring it to my attention. But until that time, I’m leaving him in your care. I know I can rely on you.”

You gaze drifted to the floor, and you frowned slightly. Of course the professor could count on you to look after Peter. But how on earth were you supposed to help if you don’t know what’s going on?

If Peter had been physically hurt, that’s something you could fix. You were out of your depth here. Useless. Just like old times.

“None of that, if you please,” said the professor, in response to your thoughts. “Do you think I’d be leaving this in your hands if I didn’t think you were up to the task? Now, I’ve already told Peter that, as of today, he’s taking some mandatory time off, and the same goes for you. No missions for a while. You’re to get some rest and look after yourself. Understood?”

That surprised you. But before you could attempt to get anything more out of the professor, the door opened to admit Peter and the other Maximoffs. Peter’s face brightened as he caught sight of you.

“I figured you’d be down here,” he said. “And I also figured you probably didn’t eat lunch yet. Was I right? Yeah, I thought so. Which is why I brought lunch to you.”

“You know the rules,” Hank interrupted. “No food in the lab, Peter.”

Peter grinned, rolling his eyes, as he helped you to your feet.

“Alright, alright – we’re going,” he said.

Saying that you looked like you could use some daylight, Peter led you out of the lab to find somewhere to eat your lunch. He seemed cheerful and normal enough, and not, y’know, like he was avoiding you or something. You started to wonder if maybe you really were imagining things.

It was easy enough not to bring up the inconclusive conversation you’d had with the professor. The twins were bursting to tell somebody that there was going to be a party, and that it was gonna be their first party ever.

So far, it seems to be going well. The twins are already making friends among the younger students. Wanda still seems a little reserved – understandably – but the professor sticks close to her to make introductions and keep her company.

You’d like a chance to talk to her yourself, but maybe now isn’t the time. A party can be something of an overwhelming environment, especially now that you’ve been informed that you’re actually one of the guests of honor.

You probably should’ve seen this coming. You’re the one who took on a solo rescue mission, after all. Kurt sheepishly admits that they purposefully hadn’t told you that part because they figured you wouldn’t come if you knew. He is correct.

But Peter’s in his element as the life of the party – and he’s tipsy almost instantly. It’s one of the quirks of his mutant metabolism; alcohol hits him fast. Fortunately, drunk Peter is just an amped-up version of his usual cheerful and chaotic personality. You’re not much of a partier, yourself, so you’re content to enjoy his antics from the sidelines.

Which is what you’re doing when Jubilee sidles up to you.

“Okay, you have to tell me everything,” she says. “I mean, getting to go to another reality? What was it like?”

You laugh. “You’ve gotta be the fifth person to ask me that. Peter was there longer than I was.”

“But Peter doesn’t remember any of it,” she says, “And it’d be rude to ask Wanda a bunch of questions when we’ve only just met, so that leaves you. Now, spill.”

You satisfy Jubilee’s curiosity as best you can, but something she said strikes you as strange. Peter doesn’t remember anything about Westview? That doesn’t seem right.

When Captain Rambeau broke that mind control necklace, Peter didn’t seem confused or anything, just… Well, if you had to describe it, you’d say he looked horrified. And after he made sure that you were okay, the first thing he’d said was that the twins might still be in danger and that you all had to help them.

Then again, he’d let Wanda do all the explaining to the professor and Mr. Lehnsherr. And you’d gotten the rundown from that astrophysicist, Dr. Lewis, after she finished grumbling about being the exposition fairy, whatever that meant.

And Peter lives for being the center of attention. Overlooked and underappreciated for much of his life, a party like this is exactly the sort of validation he craves. If there was a chance for him to tell his story to a rapt audience, he’d jump at it.

So… maybe Peter really doesn’t remember anything. Maybe the whole thing is like a dream for him. The further away from it that he gets, the less clear the memory is.

When the party starts to wind down, the same can’t be said for Peter. Just as you’re trying to work out how on earth you’re going to corral him, Logan catches your eye.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get him,” he says.

You grin. “I thought you said that he’s my problem now.”

“He is. But that knee’s not gonna help you carry his ass upstairs.” Logan drains the last of his drink and calls across the room. “Alright, kid! Time to pack it in!”

Peter waves, takes an unsteady step towards you, and manages to run smack into Logan a split second later. Logan shoots you an exasperated look.

“What’d I tell you?” he says.

Logan manages to keep Peter upright as you head upstairs, but keeping him quiet is another thing entirely. Peter spends the entire walk explaining to Logan – in fumbling but earnest detail – all the ways in which you are the most amazing person he has ever met.

When Logan gets a word in edgewise, it’s to inform you that Peter’s been doing this all evening to anybody who would listen, and even to the people who wouldn’t. You’re honestly not sure if you feel more flattered or mortified.

At long last, you reach Peter’s door, and Logan props him up against the doorframe.

“Alright, he’s officially your problem again,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“G’night, old-timer!” Peter calls, waving off your attempts to shush him. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

He opens the door and nearly tumbles back into the room. He catches himself, clearing his throat as he straightens up.

“I meant to do that,” he says.

You shake your head, trying to bit back a grin. Once the door is closed behind you, you steer Peter towards the bed and sit him down. He takes hold of your hands.

“Listen. Listen. I have to tell you something.” He struggles to turn his bleary expression serious. “I love you, so much. You just… I love you, okay?”

Is it wrong that you find this slurred profession of love incredibly heartwarming? You smile at Peter, leaning down to kiss him.

“I know,” you say softly. “I love you, too. But you gotta get some sleep now, okay?”

Peter nods, frowning slightly for some reason.

“I know, I know,” he says.

He flops back onto the bed, mumbling something that might be lyrics to a song. And by the time you get his shoes off, he’s conked out completely.

After setting Peter’s shoes aside, you sit down on the sofa again. You know he’s fine. Sure, he’s drunk, but he’s not that drunk. But what if he needs something? Or what if he has another nightmare?

You know you shouldn’t dwell on everything, but once you start thinking about it, you find you can’t stop. You wonder what it was like for Peter, being dragged from this reality into another, having his personality forcibly rewritten.

If your experience had been unpleasant, how much worse must it have been for him?

The second you’d stepped into Westview, you were nearly overwhelmed. Some unknown power seemed to be forcing a name – not your own – onto you like a shackle around your neck. A thousand memories of a life you hadn’t lived flooded your mind. More alarming still, Peter was present in many of them. You had no idea if what you were seeing was the past, or the future, or something else entirely.

And underneath it all was a crushing, all-encompassing feeling of utter despair. It threatened to swallow you whole, and it seemed pointless to fight it.

And then – a calm, familiar presence in your mind. You remembered turning back, seeing the professor’s face as he watched you enter the portal. Suddenly, the onslaught lifted, and you were simply yourself again.

Also, you’d apparently collapsed at some point, because you were laying on the pavement with a tall blond stranger leaning over you.

He was the only person who seemed at all concerned that you’d just fainted in the middle of the street. He said his name was Vision. You introduced yourself as Ace. It was close enough to your codename that you’d remember it, and the professor had cautioned you against saying too much about where you’d come from.

But Vision seemed to recognize that there was something different about you, that you’d come from outside Westview. He was worried about his children, and his wife, and the rest of the citizens. You explained that you didn’t know what had happened to the town, and that you’d come looking for a missing friend.

You’d just agreed to try to help each other when reality seemed to bend around you, and suddenly you were sitting in a diner finishing a cup of coffee, and Vision was nowhere in sight.

The next time you saw him, the spell was ending, and he disappeared. You wish you could’ve gotten the chance to get to know him better. He seemed like a good man.

You try to put that from your mind. It’s just gonna make you sad again if you think about it for too long.

Instead, you glance over at Peter. He seems to be sleeping soundly, which is good.

But memories of Westview aren’t done with you yet.

You’ve had nightmares before about people you know acting in ways that were frighteningly unlike them. And even knowing it was all just a dream, you always felt a little uneasy the next time you’d see them. It’s the same way you feel watching Peter now.

That’s not fair; you know it isn’t. And maybe out of context, it’d sound strange to get worked up about it. But to have the person you love – the person who loves you – treat you with indifference, and get cruel enjoyment out of your pain?

That’s the stuff of nightmares.

Enough of that. You give your head a shake, like that’ll clear your thoughts somehow. It wasn’t Peter. It was the witch that was controlling him, forcing him to do all those things. You know this. It’s just lucky he hadn’t been forced to really hurt anyone.

It’s over, and Peter doesn’t remember what it was like, and that’s probably for the best.

Still, as you watch him sleep, you find yourself so badly wanting to hold him that it almost makes your chest ache. Peter hasn’t just been distant emotionally since Westview.

Since you’d started dating, Peter was a source of constant casual physical affection. Whenever you were together, he’d always have his arm around you, or be holding your hand, or sit close enough that his leg was pressed against yours. You hadn’t realized how much you’d gotten used to it – grown to expect it, even – until it’s suddenly absent.

Having be so withdrawn from you now, well… It hurts, if you’re being honest, especially since you don’t know why, and you don’t know how to help.

But there’s nothing you can do about it at this moment. And, since Peter doesn’t look to be having any more nightmares, it’s probably time for you to go. You ease yourself onto your feet, just now noticing how stiff your knee has gotten after standing around all evening at the party.

You limp as quietly as you can towards the door – and proceed to trip over Peter’s shoes.

You yelp in pain as your knee twists and you go crashing to the floor. You grit your teeth, trying not to swear.

And suddenly the lights are on in the room, and Peter’s kneeling beside you.

“What happened?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

That’s right. As fast as Peter gets drunk, he sobers up just as quickly. He looks present and alert at the moment, if a little worried.

“I tripped over the damn shoes,” you answer. “I’m fine, I think. I just-”

You break off, wincing, as you try to straighten out your leg. Damn it. Is it possible to double-sprain something? Because that’s what it feels like.

“Hang on,” says Peter. “Let me help.”

He doesn’t take your hands and help you stand up, like you’re expecting. Instead, he loops your arm around his shoulders and scoops you up bridal-style. The fact that he doesn’t use his superspeed almost disorients you more than if he had.

At a normal pace, he walks back and sets you down not on the sofa, but on his bed. He blurs for just a second, but that’s only to stack up his pillows to give you something to lean against.

As you gingerly straighten out your leg, Peter reaches out – to try to help, you suppose – then lets his hands fall in his lap.

“Thanks,” you say.

Peter frowns worriedly. “Can’t you do the…?”

He makes a gesture like he’s laying on hands or something, which confuses you for a second before you catch his meaning.

“Oh, I can’t do the healing stuff on myself,” you say. “Or at least I don’t know how yet. I gotta heal the old-fashioned way.”

You give him a wry smile. It could be worse, after all. You could’ve actually broken something. Peter doesn’t seem very reassured.

“I should get Hank,” he says.

“No, don’t!” you say as quickly as you can. “It’s not that bad. I’ll go to him in the morning, if I need to.”

No sense in dragging the poor man out of bed if it’s not an emergency. Unconvinced, Peter bites his lip.

“If you’re sure,” he says reluctantly, “But… Don’t move, okay? I’m gonna get you some ice.”

He’s gone. And then he’s back, holding a couple icepacks and a towel. You reach down to take the knee-brace off, but Peter swats your hands away. Why on earth-?

“Would you stop that?” he says, perching on the edge of the bed. “I’m trying to nurse you back to health here.”

You laugh in spite of yourself. “Always the romantic.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you like me.”

He’s not wrong. Peter flashes you a grin, and it’s so cheerful and unguarded and normal that it’s startling. This boy is gonna give you whiplash yet; you’re sure of it.

But then he looks down again to focus on the task at hand. He’s extraordinarily gentle as he undoes the brace and settles the icepacks on and around your knee. You want to turn his face towards you and kiss him, but you don’t. He must have some reason for keeping his distance.

As he’s finishing up, he finally speaks.

“I’m… I’m kinda afraid to ask, honestly, but how did you get hurt? It wasn’t- I mean,” Peter exhales forcefully, and hesitates before asking: “Was it me?”

His big, dark eyes meet yours, and the distress in his face nearly breaks your heart.

“What? No! Of course it wasn’t you,” you say.

Peter seems to relax a little, but still has that troubled look in his eyes. He really doesn’t remember, does he? You did get into a scuffle with him while he was still under mind control, and he had ended up knocking you down, but it hadn’t hurt you any more than tripping on the sidewalk would’ve. Also… this doesn’t seem like the right time to mention that part of the story. You hurry to explain.

“It was that witch – Agnes, or Agatha, or whatever her name is,” you say. “She couldn’t send me back, and she couldn’t get in my head, so she dumped me in the Westview Hospital psych ward.”

Peter’s jaw drops. “She what?”

“I mean, it wasn’t like a horror story hospital or anything,” you clarify. “It was actually a pretty nice place, aside from the fact that they wouldn’t let me leave because they thought I was dissociating and suffering from delusions. Which is exactly what what’s-her-name was counting on.”

Peter nods slowly, evidently more confused and no less concerned. “Okay… that explains where you were, but it doesn’t explain how you got hurt.”

“Oh, right. When I wasn’t able to talk my way out, I had to use my powers to get a window open. Only…” you wince at the memory. “My powers didn’t fully work in Westview, and the window was on the second floor. So when I jumped out of it, gravity did exactly what it’s supposed to do.”

Peter presses a hand to his mouth. Okay, this explanation is clearly making things worse.

“And then – okay, this isn’t funny, but it’s kinda funny. It was suddenly Halloween, so the streets were all covered in people and I had to hide, so I crawled into somebody’s hedges. Problem is, they spotted me and came over to see what was going on. So I told them,” you snort involuntarily just remembering it, “I told them that I was dressed up as a zombie, but it’s okay, I’m hiding in their hedge because I’m a method actor. And somehow, they bought it.”

You end your rambling with an awkward laugh, but it dies almost immediately. The anecdote didn’t mollify Peter even a little bit. Maybe you should’ve mentioned the part where you had to steal clothes off a scarecrow? … No, that probably wouldn’t have helped either.

Brows furrowed, eyes still troubled, he stares down at his hands. “You could’ve gone back. Why didn’t you go back?”

“Peter, I went to Westview to bring you home,” you say. “I wasn’t going to leave you behind.”

Although, now that he mentions it, going back for reinforcements probably would’ve been the smart thing to do. It honestly never occurred to you at the time. You were so focused on rescuing Peter that you couldn’t think of anything else.

For someone who allegedly doesn’t remember anything, Peter looks awfully distressed.

“Peter…?” you say, softly, “Are you alright?”

Before he can answer, you shiver violently, startling yourself as much as Peter, and completely breaking the moment.

“Sorry,” you say. “It’s the icepacks. I should probably get going soon, since I’m already cold.”

Peter blinks, and suddenly the shadow seems to lift from his mood. He’s bright and brisk again, taking the icepacks off of your knee.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “You’re not gonna go limping around in the cold in the middle of the night. You’ll end up getting sick on top of everything. You can stay here. No, don’t get up. I’ll crash on the couch this time.”

He’s really taking this ‘nurse you back to health’ thing seriously, isn’t he? Even if he’s just playing at it, it’s still kinda sweet. You can’t help but smile a little.

“How very Jane Austen of you,” you say.

Peter snorts. “That’s gotta be the nerdiest compliment anyone’s ever given me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

As he finishes setting aside the icepacks, he turns back to face you.

“Now,” he says, “Is there anything else you need?”

Half-smiling, he looks at you with those big dark eyes, and you can’t help yourself. You lean forward, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a crushing embrace. You know it might make you look clingy, but you don’t care.

You’re fully prepared to pull away just as fast, but Peter’s arms fold around you almost instantly. He nestles his cheek against your head, gently stroking your hair.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

When you finally do pull back, Peter smiles down at you, tilting his head slightly.

“I’m not going anywhere, alright?” he says. “I promise.”

He kisses your forehead, and helps you arrange the pillows and settle in for the night. After extracting a promise that you’ll wake him up if you need something, he retreats to the couch.

The familiar scent of Peter’s cologne lingers reassuringly on his pillows. He’s not going anywhere, you tell yourself. The person who took him is in no position to cause him any more harm.

So why does it feel like part of him is still gone?

#peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #peter maximoff fanfiction #x men fanfiction #wandavision fanfic #(I mean... it’s both and neither)#fun fact! i started writing out a whole other flashback sequence #about meeting Monica and helping free Peter #but it went on too dang long so I cut it #maybe I’ll finish it up and post it as a deleted scene

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arcticfox007 · 4 years

Text

The Wych Elm and the Cemetery

Happy Christmas @aibari! I’m you’re secret santa and I hope you enjoy your gift!

Thanks to @destielsecretsanta2020 for putting all of this together :)

Wishlist fulfilled: Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Weird Small Towns (well city in this case), Weird Angel Lore, Hand holding, and Americana (I tried to work in as much as I could) – if you want specific info on all of the Americana I tied in, check out my endnotes on AO3 😊 Also, @aibari I’m happy to list you as the giftee on AO3 if you have a name over there.

The is roughly set during early Season 12, but I’m not married to canon or anything.

***

Dean wasn’t easily impressed these days, but even he had to admit that the tree growing out of the grave was unlike anything he’d come across before. The historic cemetery in the middle of Missouri had its fair share of trees, but they had come here for this one. Cas stood next to him looking like he was attempting to interrogate the tree with his mind. For a moment Dean was distracted by the angel, smiling a bit at the memory of the time Cas had insisted on interrogating a cat. Luckily, Cas had gotten better at blending in, so at least he wasn’t actively asking the tree questions. There was the sound of someone clearing their throat to Dean’s other side and Dean directed his attention back to the cemetery’s caretaker, Mrs. Paige.

“I’m not sure why the FBI would be interested in something like this.” The older woman sniffed and looked at both Cas and Dean suspiciously. Dean turned on the charm and gave her a warm smile.

“Unfortunately, we aren’t at liberty to discuss the details of the case, but we’d appreciate anything you can tell us about this tree Mrs. Paige, or the woman who was killed, Louisa Abbot.”

We’d also like any information you might have on the person who was buried here,” Castiel interrupted. “Most of the marker seems to be missing, perhaps destroyed by the sudden growth of this tree.”

“Well, I can certainly get you the information on who was buried here, this was one of our more famous gravesites. The man buried here died in the early 1800s, he is one of two Revolutionary War veterans laid to rest in the cemetery, his name was William Abbot. I believe he held the rank of Captain. The Boone Historical Society may have more information about him, but he is one of the earliest burials in the cemetery and a lot of those records have been lost over the years.” Mrs. Paige chewed on her lower lip for a moment, staring along with Dean at the tree once again. “The tree will have to be removed to restore Captain Abbot’s grave.”

“Was Captain Abbot an ancestor of the victim?” Cas’ question caught Dean off guard. There was something strangely mesmerizing about the massive twisting trunk rising out of the ground exactly where the remains of Captain Abbot would have been. Dean registered that Cas and the caretaker were continuing to talk, but Dean stepped away to examine the tree more carefully. It’s roots, on the surface at least, didn’t seem to spread out much. Rather they seemed to go straight down into the Earth. Its trunk was thick enough to have been there for hundreds of years despite having only appeared a few days ago. The tree itself was knotted in appearance, with ugly, twisted branches shooting out in all directions. For some reason it occurred to Dean that the tree looked like it was screaming in pain. Dean jumped when he suddenly felt Cas’ hand on his shoulder.

“Dean. Are you listening?” Dean pulled his eyes away from the tree and turned towards Cas who continued to keep his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Ah, no, sorry. This,” Dean waved vaguely at the impressive scene before them, “is kind of distracting.” Cas nodded seriously. Dean noticed that the caretaker had left, but was distracted again by Cas pulling his hand back. They always touched a bit longer than was probably normal, but Dean still regretted the loss of the warmth on his shoulder.

“Mrs. Paige said that the victim may have been a descendant of Captain Abbot, but she wasn’t sure. She suggested the Historical Society again, if we needed further information. She did say that she knew Louisa Abbot when she was a teenager. She was one of several teenagers she used to call the police on for breaking into the cemetery after hours to party. Mrs. Paige said she hadn’t really seen her in more recent years.

“Is there any way to tell if the good Captain is still here?” Dean waved towards the roots of the tree. Cas shook his head. “Ah well, I’d be surprised if they were still here. I guess we better find out what exactly Louisa Abbot was into.” They started walking back towards the car.

“I agree. I’d also like more information on the tree. I know it’s a type of elm, but I’m not sure of the significance, if there is any.”

“Call Sam and get him to work on it.” Cas let out an exasperated huff in response to Dean’s delegation of research to his brother.

“Dean. The entire reason we are here without Sam is so he can rest. He needs to sleep to get over the flu, especially since he refused to let me heal him. I am more than capable of finding the information, perhaps while you visit the historical society.”

“Alright. You want me to drop you off at the library?”

“That would be acceptable.” Cas paused to look out over the cemetery again before opening the passenger side door of the Impala. Dean noticed the angel’s hesitation.

“Everything okay man?” Castiel turned towards Dean upon hearing his words and Dean notices the sadness that ghosts across the angel’s face. “Seriously, Cas, what’s going on with you? You seem more, I dunno, out of it than usual.”

“I – this place is a lot like the cemetery where Mary was originally buried. I don’t like the memory of you leaving to die.” Cas looks away abruptly and climbs into the passenger seat. Dean is at a loss for words, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He drops Cas off at the library with all the things left unsaid hanging between them.

***

It’s off season for the small college town, most of the students having gone home for winter break, so the hunters end up with better than normal accommodations. Dean is more than happy to discover a decent grill-themed restaurant practically in the parking lot of their hotel, and Cas is happy to wait until his companion is content with food before telling him what he’d found during his time in the library. Dean talks ideally about the pie store the server had told him about, wondering if they’ll have time to check it out before they leave. Cas lets Dean talk, he finds himself still grateful that he can have these moments, he truly thought he was going to lose him in the attempt to destroy Amara.

Ever since Castiel’s brief time as a human he’s found that the emotions he’d been slowly acquiring over the years have amplified at a rate that he has had difficulty adjusting to. He’d hoped at the beginning that regaining his grace would have given him back some of the control that had spiraled away from him, but he can’t help but dwell on almost losing Dean.

When they reach their room, Dean opts to take a shower before swapping case notes so Cas tries to take that time to compose himself. When given moments away from Dean, where there is a chance for quiet, the angel forces himself to let the feelings he has for the infuriating man wash over him. He lets himself feel the pain at having to let him go up against Amara alone. He lets himself feel the overwhelming joy at seeing him alive once again. He lets himself feel how much he’s fallen in love with the beautiful human being. He recalls talking to Anna at the beginning of what would become his fall, her telling him it only gets worse. He has no doubt now that she wasn’t just referring to his struggle with doubt. An angel that can feel things akin to a human can easily become overwhelmed. They were not built for these sensations, and so, every time Castiel lets go to indulge in the wash of his emotions he pulls on his grace and works to reign them in one at a time. By the time Dean emerges from the shower Castiel has regained some semblance of stoicism.

“So, this lady at the historical society was great. She apparently teaches genealogy classes for free to the public or something, so she was able to pull up the victim’s ancestry pretty fast. Captain Abbot was her ancestor all right, so at least we have that connection. Couldn’t find much out about the family besides that, so we should talk to Louisa’s next of kin tomorrow. I think the police report said she had a sister locally.” Castiel agrees to the plan and pulls out some information he had printed at the library.

“The tree is called a ‘Wych Elm’ and is a common wood used to build coffins, which may explain it’s presence. It’s possible, if Captain Abbot’s coffin was made from this wood, that whatever spell was cast had the side effect of growing a new tree from the wood.” Dean raises his eyebrows skeptically when Cas shares this information.

“It’s called a witch elm Cas; do you really think it’s there because of the coffin wood?” Castiel rolls his eyes at his companion.

“W-Y-C-H Dean, not witch. It means pliable, it’s named for the characteristic of the wood. But no, to answer your question. I doubt it has anything to do with the coffin wood. It’s not a tree common to this area.” Dean waves his hand to indicate Castiel should continue. “You are not the only one to mistake the name of the tree for something else. More recent lore does associate the tree with actual witches as many of them seem to like these trees as ritualistic sites. The rest of the lore associates them with melancholy and death, especially because the trees are known for unexpectedly dropping branches and injuring the unsuspecting people standing below them.”

“Yeah, okay. Does that mean that Louisa was some sort of witch, and grew the tree there on purpose?” Cas thinks about Dean’s suggestion for a few moments.

“Possibly. The other thing these trees are known for is guarding the entrance to Hades, so it may also be a result of an attempt to raise the dead. I cannot be certain as this seems unlike any other necromantic ritual I’ve heard of. I am also uncertain at to the motivation of raising someone who died over two centuries ago, as the more recent dead are usually preferrable to necromancers.”

“Alright, well there’s not much more we can do tonight.” Castiel nods and watches Dean dig through his bag. Dean hesitates for a moment and Castiel begins to wonder if he forgot something at the bunker. Dean shakes his head and pulls a bundle out of his bag, tossing it to Castiel.

“Here, I forgot I brought this for you.” Dean looks expectantly at the angel as Cas looks at the material in his hands.

“Clothing? Dean, I have no need to change clothes.” Castiel’s confusion is evident on his face. Dean sighs rubs the back of his neck.

“I know man. Just try though, you’re more human-like than before with Heaven losing power. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I noticed that you eat more often, and even sleep sometimes. I think you’ll actually appreciate relaxing in something that isn’t a suit and trench coat.” Cas looks at the clothing in his hands, dismayed that Dean has seen the weakening of his connection to Heaven. He hadn’t wanted Dean to think him less capable but at the same time he’s touched by the thought the man had put into the angel’s situation.

“Thank you, Dean. I will try.” Castiel goes into the bathroom to change and when he emerges, he finds Dean sitting on one of the beds flipping through TV channels. Dean slides over, indicating that Cas should sit down as the TV is only visible from the one bed. Dean complains that the only thing on is a Law & Order marathon because the hotel doesn’t have a streaming service on the TV. Cas doesn’t mind though, sharing the bed to watch television gives him an excuse to watch over Dean as he sleeps without Dean complaining about it. Even nicer is how Dean falls asleep gradually in the middle of an episode and doesn’t seem to notice how he curls into Cas’ side as he does it. Cas smiles and allows his feelings to wash over him again as he thinks about how the softer PJs must be more comfortable for Dean to lay on.

***

The following evening found the hunter and the angel at a place called Warm Springs Ranch. When they called Louisa’s sister, she told them she could talk during her break. The ranch ran some sort of Christmas event and Janice Abbot was one of the people in charge of it. Dean tried to play it cool, but he couldn’t help getting a bit excited over the chance to see the Budweiser Clydesdales. He did remind Cas that interrogating the horses was unnecessary to which he had received one of the angel’s full body eyerolls. Dean would never admit it out loud, but he really enjoyed Cas’ sarcasm. He thought the eyerolling was kind of adorable.

Dean hadn’t meant to spend last night half snuggling with his best friend, but Cas didn’t seem to mind so he wasn’t going to worry about it. Dean figured his secret crush on the guy was his problem, not the angel’s – as long as it didn’t mess up their friendship it wasn’t worth agonizing over.

They had unexpectedly spent the morning at the morgue. There was another strange death last night, something had eaten the victim’s spleen. They’d only received a call about it because the original victim, Louisa, had also been missing her spleen along with several other organs and most of her blood. If it was the same creature it certainly seemed to enjoy the bloodier organs of the body. The only other thing the victims had in common was proximity to the cemetery. The most recent victim had visited the cemetery the previous day according to her wife.

After that trip, they had gotten access to Louisa’s duplex and were now in agreement that she had been a practicing witch dabbling in necromancy. Cas had been on the phone with Rowena during the drive to the ranch giving her a rundown on the information they had in the hopes that she could help then understand more of what was going on. Eventually Cas had given in and called Sam, admitting that the younger Winchester had a much easier time getting Rowena’s cooperation.

When they finally arrived at the front of the line of cars entering the ranch, Dean began to understand why there was a crowd. The lights draped everywhere were impressive and Dean was happy to note that Cas seemed taken in by the display. It always cheered Dean up to see Castiel happy, it felt like those instances were all too rare in their line of work. Dean and Cas showed their badges at the entrance and asked where they could find Janice. They were directed to a side road for staff and Dean noticed the small frown of Cas’ face.

“Hey, want to ask if we can drive through the light display if we have time before we leave? It looks kinda awesome.” Castiel didn’t exactly smile but Dean could tell the suggestion pleased him. Dean wasn’t always sure why, but he was much better at reading Castiel than anyone else. Dean drove around to the back to park his car in what he assumed was the employee parking lot. They made their way through the staff entrance and asked around until they found Louisa’s sister.

“I honestly don’t know what I can tell you guys that I haven’t already told the other cops. I’m sorry she’s dead but Louisa and I were not close. She and I have barely spoken since we were kids. She was friends with some really weird people and did a lot of drugs when we were younger. I’m really not surprised she ended up dead in a cemetery.” Janice was clearly frustrated at her sister’s death and the notoriety it had brought with it. They did manage to find out the names of some of the ‘weird’ friends Louisa hung out with but beyond that she had been more than happy to offer them free access to the Christmas event just to be rid of them.

Dean was fairly certain the interview had been a dead end outside of assuring himself the sister wasn’t also a witch, but he didn’t feel their time had been wasted as he watched Cas roam through the stables. Cas attracted the few colts in residence leading to the kids in attendance following him around so they could see the young horses up close. Dean felt a soft warmth spread out from his chest as he watched his best friend talk with both the children and the colts. The children didn’t think anything of Cas having conversations with horses.

They eventually made their way back to the car and drove through the light display. Maybe they should have talked about the case, but Dean didn’t want to ruin the moment. Cas gazed out at the decorations with a look of quiet contentment on his face and Dean reached for the angel’s hand without thinking about it. Cas threaded his fingers through Dean’s without even turning away from the window.

Later that night, after grabbing burgers at a drive thru, they poured through the case notes together hoping to find something they had been missing. Dean didn’t even remember falling asleep until he woke up to Cas rolling him onto a pillow and laying a blanket on him. He mumbled a drowsy thank you and sunk into a dreamless slumber.

***

Cas thought that maybe it was a mistake, but after last night he didn’t want to be away from Dean. Once he had pulled a blanket over his exhausted friend, Cas changed into the pajamas Dean had given him again and laid down beside him. He stayed above the covers and just watched Dean sleep. He didn’t tell Dean anymore that he’d watch over him as he didn’t enjoy being called creepy. Dean didn’t seem to understand that watching was part of who Castiel was as an angel. While he had rebelled and fallen it didn’t change his need to watch over the man he pulled out of hell. It would be like going to long without air for a human. Cas needed to watch Dean, to protect him, to assure himself that he was safe.

He noticed Dean shivering despite the blanket draped over him and Castiel found himself giving into another impulse that he wasn’t sure Dean would appreciate. He pulled on the smallest amount of his grace to give some substance to his wings and dropped one of them on top of the man he loved. They were broken and battered, but over the years they had healed enough to fill out a bit. Dean quieted as he felt the weight of the wing, and Cas saw a small smile ripple across his face. The angel would just have to pull his wings back from the physical realm before Dean woke up, but it was worth the grace to keep Dean more comfortable as he slept.

***

Dean opened his eyes in the morning to find a sleeping angel next to him. He froze as soon as he saw Cas there, more worried that the angel had fallen asleep than about the fact that Dean was all to happy to wake up to his best friend lying beside him. He reached over to see if he could wake Cas up and ran into – feathers? Dean quickly rubbed his hands over his face and woke up more definitively. Yup, those were feathers. Large, gorgeous, black feathers that shimmered like obsidian in the sunlight. It was as if every color that had ever existed had come together to create the shimmering black of Castiel’s wings. While concerned about why Cas was sleeping and why his wings were manifested when Dean had only ever seen shadows, Dean couldn’t help but be enthralled with the things. His hand reached out to pet the one blanketing him before he actually thought about it. He had just enough time to appreciate how amazingly soft they felt before Castiel awoke with a gasp. The wing pulled back suddenly and Cas was sitting up staring at Dean in shock.

“Sorry, sorry! Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean anything by it, they were just so amazing… I’m so sorry Cas!” Dean held up his hands trying to placate the angel as he also sat up. Cas looked at his wings as if he had just realized they were physically present. Surprise travelled over his features and with a roll of Cas’ shoulders the wings disappeared. Dean tried not to look as disappointed as he felt. Cas turned back to Dean and briefly touched his jaw.

“It’s alright Dean. I was just surprised. They were manifested more than I intended and the sensation of you touching them was unexpected.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, like I said it was just unexpected, not harmful. I apologize, I didn’t mean for them to be out for so long.” Dean was surprised to note that Cas looked embarrassed.

“I – I’m glad I got to see them. They’re fucking awesome Cas, the shadows were badass enough, but wow. If I had known you could manifest them like that, I’d have been begging you to show me for years.” Cas laughed and the tension between them evaporated. Dean got ready in the bathroom and found Cas back in his regular clothing hanging up the phone when he’d finished brushing his teeth.

“Rowena thinks she knows what happened, or at least some of it. She’s not completely sure about the role of the Wych Elm, but she did say that it’s likely we will need to use wood from the tree to kill the creature that was raised.”

“Did she say what it is?” Cas nodded in response to Dean’s question.

“She thinks Louisa was trying to make her own vampire. Ties of blood are necessary for control and the age of the corpse increases the power of the risen dead in a ritual like this. Rowena said that no one tries this type of thing though, because the amount of power and control needed are astronomical. She said she wouldn’t try it herself, that there are easier ways to get a loyal servant. Then she said something about how maybe Louisa didn’t have the ‘assets’ Rowena had?” Dean broke into laughter and Cas tilted his head in puzzlement. Dean always enjoyed Cas’ air quotes.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas. Okay, so Louisa was trying to make her own breed of vampire.”

“It would seem so. Obviously, she wasn’t successful, and not just in regards to her lack of control. Whatever the creature technically is, it’s not just drinking blood.” Dean chewed over Cas’ words as the angel did something on the laptop. All Dean could think is that this thing seemed to be some sort of zombie vampire. It didn’t really make a difference though, as long as they had a way to kill it. Or re-kill it as it were.

“So, Rowena said we can use the Wych Elm wood to kill the thing?” Cas didn’t even look up from the screen to answer Dean’s question.

“Not exactly. She said it had to be the specific tree that grew out of the grave. She also said it wouldn’t be enough by itself. I’m looking at the spell now.” Dean decided to leave Cas to it and work on getting their gear together. It was still a vampire after all, even if it was some sort of mutant version.

“Dean. I think this will work. Dead man’s blood should still help to incapacitate it. We also need the ashes of it’s creator and the blessing of the divine.” Dean widened his eyes at that list, but he supposed it was doable. They could steal Louisa’s body from the morgue if necessary. “We use the spell to seal the ingredients into the wood of the elm. Then we have to stab the creature with the elm wood through its heart.”

“So, we have to stake the vampire? Seriously?” Dean was amused at the idea of staking a vampire actually working.

“Yes, Dean. Afterwards I’d still suggest decapitation and burning whatever is left, just to make sure it stays dead.” Cas closed the laptop and pushed it aside.

“Sure. You have a plan for blessing of the divine?” Cas smiled at Dean.

“That’s easy enough.” Cas didn’t even warn Dean, one moment he’s standing there looking at the angel expectantly, the next he has a faceful of feathers.

“Um, I thought you didn’t want me touching them.” Dean couldn’t see Castiel, but he could hear him snickering. Dean pushed the wing away from his eyes in time to see Cas laughing at him.

“I said it was unexpected, not that I minded you touching. Anyway, this will work.” Dean watches as Cas runs his finger through the feathers and finds one that comes loose. In between one blink and the next the wings are hidden once again. Cas hold a single feather in his hand, the echo of his earlier laughter still present in his smile.

“What about the ashes? Do we need to break into the morgue?”

“We don’t need a specified amount; we can get away with most anything. Maybe just hair or something small, we needn’t steal an entire corpse.” Dean sighs in relief, that’s one less complication.

“Well let’s head out then, I’d like this taken care of before sunset. Wait, how are we going to find the thing anyway? You think it’s prowling around the cemetery?” Cas nods.

“Yes, Dean. Rowena seems to think it’s probably tied to the elm and with the other victim also being close to the area I’m inclined to agree with her. Using the tree for the spell may even be enough to draw it to us. If you want to drop me off at the cemetery, I can start preparing everything while you get the ashes.” Dean agrees and grabs his keys.

***

Cas is somewhat relieved to be dropped off at the cemetery. While Dean hadn’t reacted poorly to being draped in an angel wing this morning, or the fact that Cas was asleep in the same bed, he couldn’t help feeling that he had been pushing things too far. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep while also solidifying his wings. He needed to conserve his grace for more important tasks. While Castiel was truly content to just be a part of Dean’s life it was difficult to remind himself that he could not have more, especially with his poor control over the very human-like emotions he now experienced. What was really tipping him over the edge though, was how Dean kept reacting. Dean did not react with anger or defensiveness when he found himself in situations that hinted of a more intimate relationship with Cas. He acted as if it were normal and even welcome. It surprised Cas, but it also gave him some of the hope that he had never really allowed himself to have. It was distracting, which made it all the better that he would be prepping the spell by himself.

Cas collected a branch from the Wych Elm growing out of Captain Abbot’s grave, mindful of the tree’s reputation for dropping branches on unsuspecting passersby. Then Cas took a few moments to make sure the caretaker knew that he and his partner may be around afterhours because of the attack yesterday and was happy to find out that she had already decided to stay with a friend until she felt safer. Cas made quick work of the elm branch, pleased with how easy it was to shape into a stake. The sun would set soon so Castiel got to work engraving the sigil they would need directly into the tree trunk. Once Dean brought the last ingredient it should only take them a few minutes to complete everything. With any luck the vampire would come to them.

He was so absorbed in creating the sigil that he almost didn’t hear the movement behind him in time.

***

As usual, things had not gone according to plan. Dean had arrived to see Cas holding the mutant-vamp at bay, but clearly struggling to gain an upper hand over the creature they didn’t yet have the means to kill. Dean knew better than to jump into the middle of that fight, it was more important to finish Rowena’s spell. He dumped the ashes in with the rest of the material. Luckily Cas had left a copy of the actual spell out by the bowl with all the ingredients. The incantation was pretty straightforward and Dean quickly scooped up the resulting concoction on two fingers and began filling in the sigil carved into the tree. Dean picked up the branch Cas had sharpened into a stake and touched it to the sigil, running through the incantation one more time. In a brief flash of light, the sigil was absorbed into the stake.

“Cas!” Dean threw the stake towards the angel who managed to catch it neatly without even looking. Ducking down as the creature threw itself towards him, Cas pushed the stake up and underneath the monster’s rib cage with more force than a normal human could have managed. Dean breathed a sigh of relief too early, the vamp surged back up and made another run at the rapidly tiring angel.

“Rowena may have overlooked something.” Cas sounded remarkably composed considering how ragged he looked. Dean looked around them desperately for something they had missed. Then he saw how the tree was shivering and pulsing as if trying to reach out to the vampire. Of course!

“Hey asshole, leave my goddamn angel alone!” Dean knew the shotgun wouldn’t work against the creature but it got his attention, and with the impact to its shoulder and the stake still protruding from its ribcage the monster snarled as it barreled towards Dean. Dean was backed up against the tree as Cas turned on him with a horrified look on his face.

“DEAN!” Cas sounded both angry and devastated as he chased after the vampire, but Dean just yelled out instructions, all too aware what this probably looked like from Cas’ point of view.

“Stake it to the tree!” Cas caught on quick and as Dean threw himself out of the way Cas leapt after the thing that had once been Captain Abbot. Cas reached down to where the stake was sticking out and wrenched until the creature’s back was on the trunk of the Wych Elm. Pushing off from the ground Cas slammed the stake further in, until the vampire was stuck to the tree. It screeched as light pulsed from the stake into the tree. The Wych Elm seemed to come to life as it collapsed in on itself, dragging the mutant-vamp back to wherever the tree had come from. Within moments all that was left was a broken gravestone.

“Huh. Guess we don’t have to worry about burning it,” Dean quipped. Castiel rounded on him, clearly not feeling amused.

“What were you thinking? What if I hadn’t been fast enough?” Dean let Castiel rant at him for a few moments, standing up and dusting off the dirt from the back of his jeans.

“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t want to tip it off.”

“So instead, you made it look like you were drawing it away from me? Getting yourself killed for me!?” Castiel’s eyes flashed dangerously blue.

“Yeah, and it worked. For the record, I’d have done that even if it wasn’t to trick the thing though. Better me than you.” Dean was maybe angrier than he expected. He realized he’d been worried about how long Cas would last against that thing as he noted cuts that weren’t healing and the way the angel was swaying as he tried to hold himself upright. He also noticed that the blue in Cas’ eyes was in no way diminishing as he glowered at Dean.

“You. Are. Absurd. You are worth everything to me.” Then, rather abruptly, Cas fell over. Dean’s heart was pounding in his ears, both from what the angel had said and the sudden alarm he felt at a cosmic being fainting. He pulled Cas up into his arms, and damn, he was heavier than Dean had expected. Not just the muscle that Dean could feel, but he idlily wondered if the wings somehow added weight. Either way, Dean eventually made it back to their hotel room, although his back wouldn’t thank him for it later.

***

Cas woke up in the pajamas Dean had given him with an arm thrown over his chest. Confused, Cas turned slowly and realized that they were back in the hotel and Dean was asleep beside him, curled around the angel’s torso. As small rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains Cas could see his normal clothing folded nearby on a chair. He noticed that the wounds his grace hadn’t healed yet had been cleaned and bandaged, and that the blanket was pulled up around both him and Dean. As Dean let out a contented sigh in his sleep and burrowed closer, Castiel thought that perhaps he too was worth everything to someone. Smiling the angel allowed himself to drift back to sleep, happily thinking about how Dean had told the vampire to stay away from “his” angel.

***

@destielsecretsanta2020, @aibari

#destiel secret santa #destiel december #destiel #casefic #case fic #supernatural #supernatural fic #castiel #castiel with wings #dean winchester #sam winchester #rowena macleod #monster of the week #christmas #spn #arcticfox007writes

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scriptaed · 4 years

Text

bygones of the sun. 06 (m)

genre: angst/fluff/smut || dance captain!hoseok, bad boy!au, uni!au

pairing: reader x hoseok;

length: 6.7k;

synopsis: Jung Hoseok was once the sweetheart of the school, the dance captain whom every girl, including you, can’t help but fall head over heels for. But like the force of the ever-glowing sun, everything that rises must also set. A year of inactivity later and he’s now the school’s resident bad boy. You’re a firm believer of allowing the past be the past, and yet you can’t help but wonder where the risen sun has gone into hiding—because perhaps its shadows have out-shined its own radiance.

“You’re going out on another date with him tonight?!”

Junghwa’s louder than necessary exasperation renders you speechless. You shoot her a death glare, jaw slacking open to mirror her own gaping mouth; while she gapes at you for your recent absence from your weekly movie nights only to reappear with news of the boy you had been bad-mouthing just a few weeks ago, you glare at her in utter shock over her plans to announce your relations with the infamous player, Jung Hoseok, to the entire class―half of whom you don’t even know. In a panic to cover her tendency to spill even more, both you and Hani turn to hush her while the rest of the class remains unusually―albeit not surprisingly, for nearly everyone is on the brink of failing―fixated on your professor.

“How much louder can you yell?” you hiss, ignoring the pout adorning her lips as she reclines into her seat. “Are you trying to get us kicked out of class?”

“No…” she mumbles and crosses her arms. “But I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about all… this. You and Hoseok, I mean.”

The truth in Junghwa’s remark strikes you to your core. She’s right. It’s been two weeks since you had last spent your Friday nights with your two best friends. After Hoseok had barged into your house to nurse you back to health, your cold had quickly dissipated and that only encouraged Hoseok to take you out even more often to share his favorite pastimes, consequently taking time away from your friends. And you should’ve told them about your recent meetups with Hoseok and why you had to skip out on several movie nights with them for the sake of preventing your friend or pretend boyfriend―you aren’t even sure what to call him―from confronting your friends when he intrudes your house without prior warning, but you knew the day those two opposing worlds clash is the day all hell sets loose.

You wouldn’t even know what to do with Hoseok if your friends were to disapprove of him; it’s not that you don’t want to distance yourself from him, but the more you consider the benefits of your bet, the more you try to convince yourself to take this one last chance to move on from your unresolved crush on the ex-dance captain… or at least that’s what you tell yourself, because the more days that pass by, the fonder you become of the current Hoseok. It’s not that you like him—no, it can’t be that, but there’s something about him that pulls you in, that intrigues you, especially now that you suspect him of remembering exactly who you are.

And while you treasure your friendship over whatever your relations with Hoseok are, you loathe the idea of choosing one over the other.

Hani notices the fallen expression of yours as you slump into your chair in deep thought before interjecting herself, “Junghwa… I’m sure Y/N has a reason for not telling us earlier. Plus, we’re still holding our usual movie nights―just on Thursdays. She hasn’t forgotten about us, right Y/N?”

“Huh,” you utter in response, brows raising at Hani’s watchful gaze, “oh, yeah, for sure. I’d never just toss you guys away like that. I just… I need a few more weeks to figure this all out.”

Figure out whether her remembers exactly who you are in the first place.

“Okay, fine. But what exactly are you figuring out?” Junghwa inquires, leaning in with her head propped in her cupped hands. “I just don’t get it. You despise Hoseok, don't you? You were just complaining to us about how much he's changed! So why are you still hanging out with him? Are you guys even dating?”

Your eyes stay glued to your lap where your hands fidget with the hem of your―or rather, his―sweater, her question echoing your very own which stirs you awake at night. “...no.”

“Usually I’d advise you to ignore Junghwa, but she actually makes a good point,” Hani glances between the two of you and tilts her head in confusion. “You don’t actually like him, do you? Or at least... not who he is now?”

“No, I don’t,” you don’t hesitate to say, eyes glued to your fiddling thumbs when you recall how someone so sweet and dedicated could become the cocky player you know now. It irritates you how quickly and profusely Hoseok would shun his previous reputation as the dance captain, but the one thing that irks you even more is how he had suggested the bet so eagerly―as if he was confident you’d twirl right into the palm of his hands like countless girls had done before. “I’m not that naive.”

“Okay, good,” Junghwa huffs, slumping into her chair and mumbling, “I don’t want to beat up any more boys unless I have to.”

You snort, “you don’t have to beat up any boy.”

“No,” she blurts, bolting to sit upright, “I have to if they hurt my best friend.”

“Aw, I guess our Junghwa really can be sweet sometimes,” you sarcastically quip, eliciting a scoff from Junghwa and a giggle from Hani. Hearing your friends’ abundant support always assured you in times when you doubted yourself, and it warms your heart to know if you really did end up broken hearted by this eerily charming bad boy―something which you tell yourself otherwise every night recently―your friends would still be one step behind to catch you when you fall. Amidst your conversation, every student in the class begins shuffling papers and shoving binders into their bags not even a split second after the professor’s dismissal. Following with the crowd, you begin packing with a reassured smile adorning your lips, “alright, thank you then. I’ll try to keep your warning in mind.”

Slinging your backpack over your shoulders, you grab your cup of coffee for the evening and wave the pouting, puppy-eyed Junghwa goodbye, snickering at her overly concerned expression when Hani calls out to you, “be careful! Don’t blindly believe everything he says!”

“Alright, alright,” you laugh at Hani’s remark, slowly backing away from the cinched brows and frowns plastered all over your friends’ faces.

“You really don’t have to do this. There are plenty of boys out there, Y/N! Just call me and I’ll hook you up in no time, mm?” Hani desperately consoles you last minute.

“You sound like I’m heading off to war or something. And I’m not doing this because I’m a desperate woman,” you snort, scoffing until you wrap your head around the true reason why you’re so allured by this bet of yours with Hoseok. Why are you so entitled to winning this bet? Because you believe in yourself? Because you truly believe there’s no possible way for you to fall for the changed boy you had once been smitten, and consequently crestfallen, over? Why are you so enticed by this bet? Seeing how your two friends raise a brow at you, patiently waiting for the second half of your sentence, or at least an explanation as to why you’re doing this in the first place, you part your lips and utter much softer than you expected, “...I’m doing it because I want to tie up loose ends and finally get over him.”

Junghwa and Hani glance at each other, lips down-turned when they silently decipher whatever you had just uttered before the latter looks up to give you a nod and a warm smile, “alright, just don’t confuse your feelings for the past him with the current him.”

You scoff and roll your eyes, “psh, feelings for him? I didn’t even like him that much. I just said he was really cute and sweet… that’s all―”

―you pause when you notice Hani and Junghwa’s deadpanned expressions, brows raised and eyes completely wary of your lies.

“Okay, maybe I did,” you mumble, clutching onto your cup as you avert your head to the empty side of the classroom. “But… I’m over that… or at least almost over that. It’s been a year now. I’m not stupid enough to be all hung up over some guy in my past. He’s changed, and so have I. I just need some closure, that’s it―”

―your phone interjects you with a buzz from the back pocket of your jeans.

Your friends snort at what they claim to be your never ending excuses―something that you have been apparently spewing since they had discovered your crush on the dance captain last year. Biting down on your lips to stop you from defending yourself from such accusations, and thus, furthermore proving their argument, you reach into your pocket to take a quick glimpse at your brightly lit phone screen.

Speak of the devil; just seeing his name on your phone screen renders the skip of your heart.

Hoseok, my beloved [7:35 PM] You haven’t forgotten about our date tonight, have you?

Hoseok, my beloved [7:36 PM] Knowing you, you probably have. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be over in fifteen.

Hoseok, my beloved. Scoffing, you can’t help but roll your eyes at how quickly he had sneakily changed his contact name on your phone the night he had brought you porridge and discovered said atrocity; and despite the twitch in your hands that itched to playfully, albeit purposely, smack him in the arm like you had gotten used to in the past week, anyone would be a fool not to notice the smile creeping its way onto your lips while butterflies fluttered in your stomach. It’s been awhile since you had felt like this―a year, in that very dance studio, to be precise.

“What what what?” Hani blurts out, her worries overflowing as they tumble from her lips. “Who is it? Is it that damn player again?”

“Alright, I have to go,” you chuckle, whirling around to skip towards the classroom door, “I’ll see you later!”

“Hey!” Junghwa yells after you. “Remember, don’t fall for him or you’re losing the bet and you’ll never find out why he quit!”

Laughing to yourself and figuring the main intent behind Junghwa’s remark is linked with her wariness regarding Hoseok, you wave your hands without a glance back over your shoulders.

“I won’t fall for him, don’t worry,” you chortle before muttering to yourself and shaking your head, “...at least not for who he is now.”

Usually, you’d let bygones be bygones, but when you’re dealing with boys like him, boys like Jung Hoseok, you know even the smallest of details can end up in the worst heartbreaks possible. This is the boy whom had supposedly used you for his own advances on his unreciprocated crush on Keiko. This isn’t the boy you had once fallen for. You just have to remind yourself of that every so often, and you won’t have to worry over falling for that deceiving, albeit nearly identical, mask of his bygones.

In fifteen, he said.

Rolling onto your right side, you pull the collar of his hoodie over your lips as you lie in bed and pull out your phone.

8:15 PM―he’s nearly half an hour late; he's the one intruding your private time and inviting himself over to your house more than once, and he dares to make you wait this long? And why does each passing second elicit such an impatient groan from you, each tick of the clock tugging at your heart, when you supposedly don't even want him here? So why are you still wrapped up in your blankets, face buried and body enveloped in his sweater, and consciously waiting for him to march through your front door like he always does?

A buzz comes rippling through the bed, your head pressed against the vibrating mattress, and you nearly fall to the ground when you scramble to your side to grab your phone, expecting a certain someone's name only to be disappointed once again.

Jung Hoseok just posted a photo for the first time in a while.

jung_hoesuck: night vibes.

Your jaw drops when the notification pops onto your screen only to slack open even wider when your thumb instinctively taps the appalling update; and surely, there he is, dressed up in skinny black jeans, belt half done, white muscle top peeking underneath a black bomber, and what appears to be a lighter colored snapback and sneakers underneath the black and white filter. A scoff leaves your lips as your hands grip your phone tighter than ever and your eyes nearly bore into the screen itself for staring at the photo with such intensity.

First, he invites himself over to your house without any reasonable prior notice, and now, he’s taking his time to update his social media when you rushed over here, delayed your night out with the girls, and waited for his more than late arrival. But as much as you’d like to slander Hoseok and his update appearance on his long abandoned social media, you can’t help but find the signature smug look of his half smirk as he bites his bottom lip, glimpsing dimly into his phone screen which captures him in the mirror from head to toe, more than enticing. You mentally slap yourself and begin mumbling words of disatisfaction when you catch yourself checking him out through the post he had leisurely taken at the expense of his delayed arrival and your bated breath.

God, the boy may have mouth-watering looks and fawn worthy charms, but your dedication to remind yourself of the truth remains unwavered. You repeatedly remind yourself: that’s all he has going for him. While the past him was humble, admirable, and charming in his own ways as the sweetheart of the school, the pull of your heartstrings between now and then differs. You don’t feel the least bit attracted to Hoseok, you tell yourself, and even if you do, it’s all based upon lust and a desire to find the boy from within.

Sooner or later, you find yourself scrolling through his page. It wasn’t until tonight’s notification―which you’re more than relieved popped up before Hoseok arrives, if he arrives, that is―that you recall having followed his public account back a year ago when you felt obliged to check in every once or so often to keep your promise to yourself and admire the dance captain from afar, afraid to dive in head first with the mess of your insecurities regarding the all so perfect Keiko.

But ever since then, you’ve forgotten how drastically he’s changed, all which is reflected his scroll of pictures. While most of his current theme retains a sense of mystery, black and dark with descriptions as vague and brief as possible, his past page would be filled with pictures of the dance studio, worn out sneakers, new and sheepish members whom you’re sure was only there for the boy standing in between the two, and lengthy paragraphs to express his thanks for those who supported him in the most recent dance showcase. But now, all of that has changed. You find yourself staring at the end of his page, crestfallen as your stomach drops when you notice he had deleted every single picture since his days in the club―no behind the scenes, no smiles, no gym bag, no nothing. Everything had changed including his atrocious username, and even if you wanted to revisit the old days as an escape from the current troublemaker, you can’t. And the very fact that the boy you’re in search for is completely wiped off seemingly the entire school’s minds and shunned by the own beholder scares you.

Are you the only one who remembers?

And now that you’re on this topic, how are you going to convince him to attend dance camp? Should you ask him about what he had said that one night? Does he still recall who you are from back in the studio at night, a night you thought was special enough to remain unforgotten for the both of you? What about his relations to Keiko now? And then? Are you really just a pawn, a strategy for him to obtain his true desires for Keiko? With all these questions in mind, there really is no doubt you must consistently remind yourself to be wary of such a boy clouded by unknown motives and not wear your heart on your sleeve like you did for the past him―

“Y/N, baby, are you home?”

Your eyes snap wide open when you hear the familiar voice of Hoseok’s singing in the distance. Great, now you’re even hallucinating about him… or so you think. Because when the shuffles of his footsteps thumps closer and closer to your bedroom, a strife of panic strikes you to pull the bed sheets over your head and your unmade hair thrown messily into a bun. It’s not that you’re afraid to show him you in your natural state, rather, it’s the sweater―his sweater―that you’re wearing which you had totally forgotten about; just imagining the smug look on his face when he sees you wrapped up in his clothes in bed is enough to coerce you into locking yourself away from society for the rest of eternity.

The door squeaks open and you can hear him snort. You can’t quite see him, but you can hear him clearly. His soft, yet slightly heavier breathing than most, his siffling clothes as he adjusts his weight from one leg to the other, and his mere presence enough to send your heart racing and your cheeks burning.

“We’re not playing this game again, are we?” he laughs. “Mind telling me why you’re all buried underneath blankets again?”

“Well, mind telling me why you’re nearly an hour late?” you retort, popping your head out just enough to meet his concerned yet baffled grin. Scanning him up and down, you find him decked out in a gray beanie, baggy white tee, and slim fitting gray sweatpants―completely different outfit than what you were just goggling at earlier. “So you even took the time to change out of your outfit before coming here.”

“What?” he quirks a brow before sudden realization flickers through his eyes. “Ohh, you saw my post? You were so worried that you even checked my page? Aw, babe, if you missed me that much, you should’ve just texted me!”

Your jaw slacks open in disbelief as you scoff, “I did not miss you. In fact, I was even hoping you would bail me tonight.”

“Then why’d you check my IG?”

“I didn’t. I got a notification you updated.”

He smirks, one brow raising as he buries his hands into his pockets, “oh, so you follow me?”

A breath gets caught in your knotted throat. Damn, he really is perceptive.

“...fuck off,” you mumble, plopping your head back into the blankets. “I can’t believe you left me waiting here for an hour. It would’ve been better if you just didn’t show up at all.”

“Oh c’mon, babe,” Hoseok coos. “I’m sorry for being late, but I was busy getting something.”

He takes a step forward, and the beat of your heart hammers once against your chest before you roll farther away until you’re wrapped in your blankets like a burrito on the other side of your bed.

Ignoring his soft chuckle, you take a deep breath in a vain attempt to slow down your pulse. “Yeah? What were you busy getting?”

“Wow, do you really not trust me?” he chortles, sighing before rustling what sounds like a plastic bag. “I was out buying you some heat pads, but I didn’t realize how long it would take. Your hands are always cold and you’re always shivering when we go out, so I figured I’d be a good, dutiful boyfriend and care for my ungrateful wifey.”

Damn, he’s a smooth talker too. But can you really trust him? After everything he’s said and done? After knowing there’s a high possibility he had only asked you out for the sake of invoking jealousy upon Keiko’s half?

“...I don’t believe you,” you mumble, heart nearly stopping and lungs failing to expand when you hear Hoseok climbing onto your bed and you feel his knees sinking into the mattress along with you. You’re just barely able to squeak, “...then how’d you take that photo?”

“If it helps, I took that photo weeks ago. You can even check on my phone,” he chortles, continuing when you fail to respond. “I hadn’t updated in awhile. My follower count was falling, and I wasn’t getting as many DMs as usual.”

You scoff in disbelief, “actually, that doesn’t help. I could’ve gone without that last part.”

“Ooh, my girl’s a jealous one. I can delete it if you want,” he suggests, light-heartedly laughing when you roll farther into the bed. “Hey, I’m the one who keeps reaching out to you. You’re the one who rejects my offers.”

“No, I’m not jealous. And I’ve never rejected any of your offers.”

“Really? So can I stay the night?”

“No.”

“See,” he chuckles. “Now, let’s get my baby out of those blankets before she suffocates to death, alright?”

“Just wait in the living room and I’ll be out in a minute,” you clutch a fistful of his sweater, your chest nearly exploding any second now.

“No… I don’t think so. It’s pretty easy to spot liars, Y/N, and quite obviously, you’re hiding something from me,” he sing-songs. Bulls-eye. He practically knows you like the back of his hand. He places a hand on your waist and your eyes widens… in shock? Excitement? Annoyance? You’re not quite sure, but there’s no way of denying the fluttering butterflies in your stomach. “C’mon, what is it? Are you naked under there or something? Did I walk in on a private session?”

“W-What?” you nearly yell at his implications.

“Hm, guess not then,” he hums, and the tension within silence ensues for a few seconds before he quips, “but I am interested in what’s underneath this.”

And without another second to waste, he begins unrolling you from the depths of your blanket. Everything happens in a blur, and the next thing you know you’re staring up at Hoseok with wide, doe-like eyes. And he stares back at you. Hair just barely sweeping his forehead as he peers down at you from above, hands beside either side of your head, sun-kissed skin and tips of his brown hair glowing in the light hanging from the ceiling like an eclipse dawning upon you before your very eyes. The smug smirk adorning his lips only worsens the skip of your heart.

His warm hands wrap around what he had correctly predicted to be your cold hands, pulling you up onto the ground as you stumble forward into his equally snug chest.

“Hm… not exactly what I had hoped, but I guess seeing you in my sweater again isn’t too bad at all,” he lowly observes. With your eyes shut tight and your head on his chest, the thumping of his heart making itself known on your forehead, you push him away before storming out of the room. “What? Is it my scent? Do you really like the sweater? Or do you just really miss me when I’m gone?”

“None!” you exasperate, marching into your kitchen. “I already washed the sweater.”

And you don’t know if it’s just you and your wild imaginations, however, his scent still manages to remain latched onto the sweater akin to how the memories of that night remains etched into the back of your mind… you just chose to leave that part out.

“Then do you want my t-shirt this time?” he cackles, following closely behind.

“No! We’re not going over this again!” you’re baffled by his constant remarks, confused as to whether they’re his attempts at flirting or his desire to tease you. Whirling around, he nearly bumps right into you when you stop in the midst of your tracks. He raises a brow at your sudden change of pace. “So where do you want to go tonight?”

“We’re going out tonight?” he questions.

“I mean, don’t we always? You always drag me out for your wild shenanigans,” you retort, knitting your brows when you see the quizzical look on his face. Glancing yourself up and down, you suddenly feel more self conscious than ever―something you only experience around him lately, not necessarily in the bad way, but in a way which you wish you could impress him when you’re competing against all those girls fawning over the bad boy around school. “What? Do I look like a mess?”

“No,” he quickly denies. “I was only worried about my presentation. You look fine. Great, even.”

“You?” you snort. “Doesn’t matter even if you just got out of bed, girls would still faint in your path.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, looking away to walk past you and grab some pots from your cabinet―knowing your house inside and out after countless visits. “But they aren’t used to seeing me like this. They only like seeing me dressed up and poised like how my reputation goes.”

Frowning, you cross your arms, “...and is that the real you? Which boy are you really? The one standing before me now or the one notorious bad boy in school?”

Hoseok fills the pot halfway before placing it on the stove and turning his head to peer down at you. A good ten seconds of silence passes prior to his calculated response.

“The former.”

The… former? Such a particular yet general term that you even find yourself questioning the clarity of his answer. When he says former, does he mean the former persona you had crushed on or does he mean―

“―who you see right now, that’s who I really am,” he says, examining your state of confusion before turning back to grab two packs of ramen out from his plastic bag. “Do you like who I am right now?”

“Huh?”

“Do you like who I really am?” he questions without looking up at you.

Something tells you to answer carefully, as if this question weighs more than it appears upfront. But your stubbornness to see the old Hoseok, the crush you have yet to let go, overshadows your reluctance when the words slip from your lips, “...no.”

“I shouldn’t have expected anything less,” he says softly, chuckling.

“Hey, Hoseok…” you subconsciously call out for him, his dark eyes lifting to gaze into yours. “Do you remember me from somewhere else?”

He simply quirks a brow. It’s now or never, even if you’re risking your dignity to fulfill your curiosity. You have to know what you mean, or rather, meant to him.

“I mean, a while ago you mentioned something about me looking familiar―”

“―I don’t quite recall that,” he chortles. Without giving you a chance to follow up, he turns and leans against the kitchen counter with his signature smirk, “now, let me cook up some mean, authentic, gourmet ramen for us tonight.”

It’s quite odd how relieved you are when he switches the topic. Do you question his validity of his answer? A part of you tells you there’s something off about him tonight, but you don’t dare question it. You’d rather blindly believe in him than hurt yourself further by indulging in the irreplaceable past akin to the dimming light at the end of the tunnel. Sighing and rolling your eyes, you cross your arms and shrug, “alright, Chef Jung. Do show me how much better you can cook every college student’s basic dish.”

He turns his head and frowns at you before tossing the bags at your head, toppling them to the floor as you stand there bewildered. “I was just joking,” he scoffs. “You think I, Chef Jung, would cook you some lame dish anyone can make? I only bought these because I saw you were running low on food.”

“How’d… you know…?” you barely manage to say.

“I come here every few days, how would I not know?” he chuckles, grabbing some more groceries from his bag. “I’d cook you something healthy every day if I could, but I think you’d start getting annoyed by me. At least eat something when I’m gone, even if it’s junk.”

“You know how to cook…?”

“Yeah,” he briefly answers.

Cocking your head, you decide to investigate further, “how?”

“Back then, I had to cook myself meals for dance practice every day,” he equivocates. You can’t tell if he’s reminiscing out of force or out of bittersweet nostalgia. He glimpses at you through the corner of his eyes, “hey, can you grab me an egg or two? I think I saw a few left in your fridge.”

“Hm? Yeah,” you mumble, turning around to walk towards the fridge.

There most definitely is something off about him tonight. You’ve only really known him for a month, but that’s longer than you’ve ever known the ex dance captain and that’s enough for you to know that something is up. Is tonight the right time to ask? While your remaining questions regarding his relations to Keiko are questions you intend to ask when you’re fully prepared for its repercussions, there really is no time left until boot camp begins next week. As much as you’re irked by the three musketeers and their persistence to bring their dance captain back, you did indeed make a promise.

“Hey, Hoseok…”

“Yeah?”

You take a deep breath and sigh, “are you really not going to attend the boot camp?”

He pauses in the midst of preparing the ingredients sprawled across the tabletop. “Is there a certain reason why you want me to?”

“I just…” you gulp. If you really want to convince him against his own will, then you should at the very least be truthful. “I just want to see you dance again.”

Damn it, Y/N, stop wearing your heart on your sleeve. It’s too dangerous around boys like him.

“Well,” he carefully contemplates, “are you going?”

Looking up and turning your back on the fridge door, you lock eyes with his peering ones―ones void of any signs of emotion other than the motive to amass more information for his advantage, something he does quite well―and shake your head, “no, I can’t dance.”

He snorts, “then how are you going to see me dance? Cause I don’t plan on dancing again after camp.”

“I’ll go if you go.”

“And what do I get from this?” Hoseok bargains with his usual give-and-take virtues.

“Fine, then let’s just end this bet now,” you say out of frustration.

You don’t mean it, but the words slip before you’re able to retrieve them once again. Maybe this is for the better anyways. Based on this conversation and the last few night’s with him alone, only someone dense would deny the fact that you’re teetering between the edge of a cliff and sanity. If you delve in any further, you know you’d fall in too deep. The only reason you started this bet in the first place is to obtain closure and move on from the past, and yet before you knew it, you find yourself already treading in dangerous waters.

But the boy only raises a brow.

“You said we don’t need any time constraints to our bet, right?” you state, breath shaking and lips quivering. He cocks his head and knits his brows in concentration as you continue, “well, if you’re not going to attend the camp, then I’d like to end the bet here.”

“And how is that fair?” he deadpans―no sort of emotion detected in the rasp of his voice.

“Nothing’s fair, Hoseok. Some things just don’t make sense,” you say, recalling the irrational behavior of your panicking pulse and your wrenching chest at this very moment. “I don’t like you right now, so I guess that means I win the bet. So why did you quit―”

“―but you’re not considering my side of the bet. How do you know how I feel for you?” he firmly states.

And your heart nearly stops.

“W-What?” you stammer, eyes widening and blood running cold. “It doesn’t matter, because either way―”

“―yes, either way I have to tell you, but judging by the look on your face right now,” he smirks, “what you said before doesn’t hold the whole truth. So no, we can’t end the bet here unless it’s clear how we feel for each other.”

You scoff, “I do not like you. I’m telling the complete truth.”

Had you ticked him off? Or did he tick you off? The fiery within you grows each second he proves you wrong, because even you can’t deny the validity of his remark. You hate yourself for dancing right into the palm of his hands. But as long as you acknowledge it, you can always alter your course. You won’t fall for him just yet… or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Right, grab me the eggs, will you?” he says before turning around to gather his ingredients once more.

Mumbling to yourself in frustration, you open the fridge and glance through the brightly lit storage. Scanning through the shelves, you find nearly everything empty―just as he had claimed―and your feet begin to freeze as the rush of cold air brushes against your bare legs. Without turning around, you call out to him, “I don’t think I see any eggs―”

―your words halt when a pair of warm hands place themselves on your waist.

Air gets caught in your knotted throat, and you swear your heart nearly leaps out from within, especially when you feel the warmth of his chest radiating against your back.

“You said you couldn’t dance, right?” he whispers, his lips grazing your heated earlobes. “I highly doubt that. You just don’t want to go with Jimin and them. You don’t want to go with anyone but me, do you?”

“That’s stupid…” you’re barely able to say under your breath.

“Alright, prove it to me then,” he then whirls you around until your eyes are met with his own mischievous ones.

Wrapping one arm around your waist, he pulls your hips right against his and closes the distance between the two of you, while the other hand entangles with your right―tight and snug like two missing puzzle pieces. He then sways you side to side, humming to the beat of an old yet romantically classic tune.

Burying your head into his chest, you can feel his heart pacing in syncopation with yours. But it doesn’t resonate of the same panic, the same thrill, the same fear as yours. It’s calm and poetic and indecipherable, like a perfect mix between the old dance captain and the new mysterious boy of this demeanor they call Jung Hoseok.

Your cheeks burn bright red. You can’t feel anything other than your trembling hands he holds tightly onto, your knees go weak and threaten to buckle right underneath, and your eyes can’t see anything other than his white tee, his sweatpants, and the two pairs of feet rocking underneath.

“Can you stop hum―”

―but then he takes a step back, holds your hand high above your head, and twirls you.

Your feet scramble to catch up, your mind spins, your vision blurs, and the whole world turns upside down. Suddenly, you feel the warmth of his arm wrapped firmly on the small of your back until all you can see is his face hovering dangerously over yours.

“See? You can dance,” he says, a corner of his lips lifting into a lopsided grin. Pulling you back upright, you hold his hands for a few more seconds to stabilize yourself to the new center of gravity. You’re just about to scold him for his antics when he interjects, “fine, I’ll lead dance camp, but only under one condition.”

Glancing up from the ground, you find him staring right back at you. “What is it?”

“I’ll go... if you kiss me,” he smirks.

“Are you kidding me?” you gape. “First you nearly drop me when I said I can’t dance, and now you’re telling me to kiss you?”

“Just one,” he offers.

Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook’s pleas echo in the back of your mind as you glare at Hoseok, eyes subconsciously trailing to his smooth, tempting lips before flickering back to the glimmer in his dark chocolate orbs.

“...fine,” you mutter, kissing your two fingers―index and middle―and smacking it onto his own lips.

“Really? Is this how virgins kiss or something?” he states in lack of enthusiasm, removing your fingers from his lips. He then takes a step towards you, thus forcing you to take one back. “Do you really want me to show you how it’s done, Y/N?”

Another step forward, another step back.

Before you know it, your back hits the kitchen counter. Hoseok gently places both hands on either side of you, trapping you between him and the counter and leaving you with nowhere to escape to. He leans in, his mint scented breath tickling your skin as his nose brushes your tip and his lips just barely graze against your own. And through it all, you know he’s watching you through those lidded, intent eyes of his. If you really want him to attend dance camp, then maybe you should give in. Maybe this isn’t too bad anyways. It’s just one kiss. It’s not exactly like you don’t want it after all.

So you close your eyes.

And the second the boy before your eyes turns from the sun, the moon, and the mystical eclipse, and all you can see is black, the warmth on every inch of your body dissipates into the thin air.

“You see, Y/N, there really are only two tips I can give you in regards to kissing,” Hoseok says, his voice more distant than expected. Peeping one eye open, your heart drops when you find him standing back upright instead of towering over you. What is this feeling of disappointment? Shouldn’t you be glad? “One, you have to have consent. A kiss isn’t fun if it’s forced.”

“And…?” you utter, heart pounding so fast you think you might faint any minute now.

“And I can check that off my list,” he remarks, a smug smile tugging on one corner of his lips as he takes one step back and turns his back on you.

Was he talking about how you closed your eyes?

Your hands grip on the counter behind you when your knees nearly collapse onto the floor. Your cheeks blaze a flush of bright red, sheer embarrassment plastered on your face. Knitting your brows, you―or rather, your body―decides you need more. No, you want more.

“And second…?”

“Second,” he pauses, each tick of the clock agonizingly slow, “is the element of surprise.”

Then he turns on his heels. His hand cups your left cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and his other rests on the nape of your neck. His lips hover an inch over yours, waiting for your eyes to flutter close―which they do―before smirking once again and crashing his lips into yours.

He’s warm, plush, and most certainly an experienced kisser. He pushes with just the right pressure, he tells you he wants more and yet he’s willing to play hard for it through gestures absent of words, and his caressing hands and the stroke of his thumb across your cheek signify his gentle and caring way to handle his girl. No, he doesn’t need to stick his tongue down your throat or groan like man in desperate need to tame his hormones. No, all he needs is the simple touch of his tender lips and soft hands to melt you into a puddle of emotions.

Placing his hands on your hips, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter until your back and head presses up against the wall and the both of you are so out of breath that you’re coerced into parting from his tempting lips.

The both of you struggle to breathe, chests heaving and lungs gasping for air when he removes his beanie and puts it snugly over your head―something you would’ve rebelled against if it weren’t for how dazed and breath taken you were by what had just taken place before you. Running a hand through his freed, bronze hair, he peers down and grins at you from above.

“Now that’s what I call a kiss,” Hoseok chuckles. “Alright, deal. I’ll go.”

Shit, what was the deal again?

304 notes · View notes

suviratrashblog · 4 years

Note

What do you think Su would do if she found out Kuvira was dating a girl who looks remarkably like Suyin, maybe even acts like her too. Do you think Suyin would put two and two together or remain oblivious.

This actually turned into a fic lol:

She glowers as she looks across the practice yard at Kuvira and that girl. She can’t really put her finger on it, but something about Li Na that really rubs her the wrong way. She’s new to Zaofu, and recently joined the dance troupe. She’s a very skilled metalbender, and Su was initially happy to have her be part of the group. But then...then Kuvira got involved. It started out innocently enough with Kuvira inviting Li Na to dinner sometimes. She said it was to help the other girl feel more comfortable in the city. Then they started hanging out more and more and more, and then Su had caught them making out in the locker room.

“Are you all right, honey?” Baatar is sitting next to her, working on a sketch. He’s watching her with concern.

“What do you think of Li Na?” She tries to sound casual.

“I don’t really know her. She seems nice enough. Reminds me of you, to be honest,” he says thoughtfully.

Su looks at him sharply. “What?”

“Don’t tell me you can’t see it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was your long lost sister.” He raises a brow. “Actually, knowing your mother, that’s not so far-fetched.” He chuckles, but Su’s brows furrow even deeper, creating a harsh line across her face.

“You think she looks like me?”

“Acts like you, too, sometimes.” He sees her expression and touches her hand. “Look, this is the first girl Kuvira’s dated. It’s not so strange she would pick someone who seems...familiar.”

“But someone like me?” Su has wondered before if Kuvira might have a crush on her. Their relationship is so...complicated. Kuvira has always kept her out, kept her at arm’s length, never really letting herself be taken into the fold. And Su has tried to respect that. She has never known what Kuvira needs to feel included and accepted, but she has known since the beginning that Kuvira will never accept her as a parent. She made that very clear when she moved in with them.

Now Su wonders if there’s more to it than just a girl who’s been hurt so badly that she won’t let anyone else in.

“She looks up to you,” Baatar says, bringing Su back to the present. “Remember when she was fourteen and she followed you around for an entire week, insisting she wanted to sit in on every meeting, no matter how boring.” Kuvira is eighteen now, and she comes to those meetings still.

“That’s because she wants to be a captain,” Su says. It’s all Kuvira has talked about since she was old enough to know what a captain in the Zaofu Security Force does.

“She wants to spend time with you.”

“Baatar, she moved out. She got her own place that she insists on paying for herself.” Su shakes her head. “She couldn’t get away from us fast enough.”

“If that was true, she would have quit training and moved to Omashu or something. She comes here every day, even on her days off, and spends time with you.”

“When she’s not with Li Na.” She doesn’t mean to sound so bitter when talking about Kuvira’s girlfriend. But things were easier before Li Na came into the picture.

“Are you jealous,” he teases, and Su tries her best not to blush.

“No. I just worked so hard to try and give Kuvira what she needed to be happy. It just never worked. And this girl makes it look so easy.” Kuvira is currently laughing at something Li Na has said, her bright smile softening her usually sharp features, and Su feels a pang in her chest that she can’t make Kuvira smile like that.

“We’ve given her everything we can.” He leans over and kisses her cheek. “She loves you. In her own way. She’s just not good at showing it, which is understandable.”

“I just want her to be happy.”

“I think she is.” Baatar nods his head in Kuvira’s direction. She’s looking over at them and waves, her lips still quirked in a grin. Baatar waves back, and Su reluctantly does the same. Kuvira flashes them her teeth in a real smile before returning her attention to Li Na. “See?”

“I guess.”

“Oh, Su. Don’t pout. I’m sure you’re still her favorite.”

“Do you think...do you think Kuvira has a crush on me?”

“Oh, without a doubt.” He says it so casually, that Su wonders if she’s the only one who has any question about it.

“Really?”

“Oh yes. She follows you around like a love-sick polarbear-dog pup.” When he sees her scowl, he sighs. “I’m sure she’ll grow out of it. I can’t say I can fault her taste, though.”

“This is serious, Baatar.”

“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal, Su, really. You’re her teacher, her mentor. It’s not that uncommon.”

“We practically raised her.”

“I don’t think she considers us family.”

“Apparently not.”

“Su, don’t overthink it. Besides, the fact that she’s dating now probably means she’s getting over it.”

“If you say so.” But her chest is still tight, and she can’t really say why she’s so upset by this. “I still don’t like Li Na.”

“Just try to be supportive, okay?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll try.” She pushes herself up out of the chair. “I have to go get ready for rehearsal.” She leans down and kisses him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” His attention is already back on his sketch, and Su shakes her head fondly.

And when rehearsal starts, she does her very best to ignore the way Kuvira’s eyes track her. That is a problem for another day.

#asks #suvira #suyin beifong #kuvira #my writing #Anonymous

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yoondoze · 4 years

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make a wish | jjk

jeongguk doesn’t know it, but his wish came true.

pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

word count: 3.5k

genre: angst, best friend!au

warnings: mentions of sex, language

a/n: uhh been in a jeongguk mood recently, so i’m riding it out through writing angsty drabbles :’) this is lowkey unedited so shh

You’re sick of sharing birthdays with Jeon Jeongguk.

Yeah, your perfectly timed entrance into this world on the same date was the basis of your friendship, but every year? It made sense when you were kids and had to invite the entire class to your parties since everyone had the same friends. But now you’re sixteen, and things are different.

While the two of you have always been close friends, what with growing up around the block together and spending the dog days of summer crossing between the sandbox and the pool with one another, you also have put together your own separate friend groups at school. And now that all of them are here together, it’s an awkward intermingling of teenagers that don’t have much in common, other than that they all suddenly forget who they’re here for when they see an attractive person their same age.

The only good thing about it is that Jeongguk invited his cute guy friends. Not here for you, per se, but the attention is all the same. Especially when it’s coming from Park Jimin. The way he wished you a happy birthday earlier was the most charming thing you’ve ever seen to date.

Jeongguk, bowl cut and all, is having the time of his life. The fact that its his 16th birthday doesn’t matter as much as the fact that it’s his birthday. He doesn’t feel much different like he thought he might. Maybe it is because every cool YA protagonist he ever idolized was saving the world at 16. By now, he’s decided that all the romanticized versions of teenage lives he’s been sold on up to this very moment is a scam. Nonetheless, he’s a simple boy. He’s just enjoying the time bowling with his friends.

...Until the moment he lays eyes on you.

The alley is dark, and though it obscures your features, he knows you well enough to see you’re upset. Your friends are barely hanging out with you, seeming to have left you behind for his friends, who coincidentally left him behind for yours. He also knows you compromised for this party. You wanted painting, envisaging a lovely evening with your companions, seated behind easels and letting your creativity flow onto a canvas. You were eight hours older and therefore the one in charge of making the decisions - it was a no-brainer, in your eyes.

But Jeongguk, never one to give in, insisted on bowling. Your parents were forcing a shared party again this year, and with how you eventually accepted that Jeongguk would throw a fit if he had to paint on his birthday, you reluctantly agreed under the obligatory condition that he invited his friend Jimin.

Who he was starting to hate, by the way. You gave more attention to the kid you were crushing on from history instead of the best friend you’d grown up with your entire life. Every time he saw you stare longingly at some stupid boy that was as mature as a cucumber, he wanted to scream that the real pickle was standing right in front of you!

Give him a break. It’s the only analogy his sixteen year old mind can think of.

The caring boy he is, he walks over to where you sit solemnly by yourself. All you’ve been doing for the past five minutes is tapping your feet to the overplayed pop music flooding the joint and continuously picking at your fingers - an unquestionably fantastic time. He shoves out his hand for you to take, which you willingly do in hopes for a cure for your boredom, and he drags you over to his lane. The way you roll your eyes at his enthusiasm only makes him like you more. That’s because it’s always accompanied by a fond smile, and he loves to see your dimples.

He’d never tell you, though. He’d definitely never tell his mom, because he knows she’d get too eager and tell your mom, and then she’d tell you. His mom has been rooting for the two of you since day one. She always was saying things like, “I’m not letting you date anyone unless it’s Y/N,” or, “I can’t wait until you and Y/N go to prom!”

At one point he wondered if he actually liked you or if it was the result of his mom’s wishes manifesting into real life after such diligence. He has since then accepted his feelings as his own, but won’t deny how the ideas sometimes made his cheeks flush.

In the time since the party has started, your “friends” have disappeared to the bathroom twice. His friends are over getting snacks without him, but it doesn’t upset him anymore. He didn’t really want their company anyway. It’s just the two of you, how it’s always been, and how he wanted it from the start.

“Watch, watch, okay?” He says, excitement dripping off every syllable. He figures he can maybe lift your mood if his is high enough to share some with you.

“Okay, I’m watching!” you exclaim. Jeongguk swells as he watches your cheeks bounce.

He seats you behind the machine and hurries to pick up a fourteen-pound ball swirled with blue and purple.

Now that he actually has to do it, Jeongguk’s heart races just a little bit. He just doesn’t want to embarrass himself, that’s all. His skills have improved from practice and the bowling team at school and it would suck if he screwed up. Especially considering that the reason he was so certain about a bowling party was so he’d have the chance to show off to you. But then he thinks it might make you laugh if he embarrasses himself, so his reassurance is that it’ll be a win either way.

He takes a deep breath. He draws back skillfully and with four purposeful steps, his right foot slips behind him and his arm swings fluidly toward his target. The ball hits the waxed floor rolling. The tension in his body is stiff as it heads right toward the pins, and boom! All ten fall in a domino effect, the rough clattering echoing in the alley. A perfect strike.

His fists pump into the air as his chest fills with pride. He spins on his heels, eyes sparkling as he hopes to find a smile on your face when he gets there -

But you’re not even paying attention. His ecstatic expression falls as quickly as his spirit does. Your head is turned from him, and when he follows your gaze, it lands on none other than fucking Park Jimin. There’s a subtle smile resting on your lips as you focus on his mindless laughter as opposed to Jeongguk’s imposing strike. Jimin is standing at the controls of a claw machine, working the joystick as his friends direct him to grab some stupid inflatable basketball the size of his palm. If it were Jeongguk, he’d go for the plush bear in the machine over and get it for you in one try.

“C’mon guys!” Your mom yells, breaking you from your infatuated stare. “Cake!”

The boys give up on their escapade and the girls magically apparate back from their fifteen minute long bathroom break. Thrilled jeers and whoops sound from everyone now filtering into the party room, somehow more excited about it than the birthday boy and girl themselves.

As you get up from your seat, you meet Jeongguk’s eyes with a quick raise of your brows, oblivious to the fact you just obliterated his heart without saying a single word. Then he’s trailing behind you, brushing his hair from his face with a sigh while everyone gathers around the table and lets you take your place at the head.

Amidst the singing and the cheers from your peers, Jeongguk can’t stop himself from glancing over to you. Right away, he knows the smiles you’re tossing out to your friends are forced. He regrets having this party in the first place. He hates seeing you disappointed and upset. He’ll choose painting any day if it means you won’t be like this.

You, on the other hand, are trying to get a peek of Jimin at every second possible. You can make out his voice among the others while singing. It’s just happy birthday, but his voice is actually really pretty, so you jot it down to reference in your next day dream.

“Make a wish!”

He thinks hard, imagining everything he could want at this point in his life. The spot for team captain, to ace his next Chemistry test, for a new bike. But wishing for something like that seems silly when he already knows what he really wants.

A big breath of air - “special for your 16th!” - and the two of you are blowing out the candles. One is all it takes for each of the waving flames to flicker out.

Jeongguk wishes that you’ll like him back.

You wish that Jimin will like you back.

☆☆☆

In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to shift your relationship with Jeongguk into something more than platonic friends. At this point, he’d call it friends with benefits. You’d call it getting your heart ripped out every time he dialed your number. Even worse, it was undeniably voluntary.

It was an awkward start. Both of you got drunk one night in his apartment, sitting on the cold tile of the kitchen floor, started asking heavy, slurred questions, and maybe admitted, “yeah, I’d fuck you,” on a whim. And then maybe you did just that.

It was supposed to be a one-time event. A weird moment in your timeline of friendship that you’d agree on forgetting. Something that you both would pretend never happened so things wouldn’t change.

However, Jeongguk’s life had been a roller coaster recently. He moved to the city with the intention of freedom only for things to get more complicated. His career was struggling, his girlfriend broke up with him, his friends barely spoke to him anymore.

So it was just you and him again, like it had always been. You were the only one who still visited, who still called, who still cared. That’s what friends are for. Help when times are rough and be there when needed. That’s your part of the deal.

Sex isn’t always included in said deal, but it is this time around.

It’s not much different. You come over for a regular movie night like you used to, but sometimes it ends up in his bedroom, that’s all. To him, anyway. You’re not sure how he hasn’t caught on yet. He’s so preoccupied that he probably chalks your racing pulse up to being horny, or interprets the emotion in your kisses as neediness. The way you hold onto him or say his name as pleasure.

It’s that endless love you have for him taking its many forms. It’s dropping off extra meals to stick in the fridge and checking in to make sure he isn’t beating himself up to the point where he can’t get out of bed. It’s also letting him fuck you when he needs to feel something.

He’s just in a rut. He just needs some time to get his life together and figure shit out. And from there it’ll be peaches and cream. When his life is on the upturn, he’ll realize you’re the one who’s always been there and who always will be, and then he’ll fall in love with you too. You’re not scared, you’re just helping your best friend through a tough time. But then he’s panting, rolling off you to take a shower right after.

It stings every time. Even when you think it will be different.

At the end of the day, if it makes him feel better, you’ll endure it a thousand times over. On a bright side that’s not all that bright, for the moments you spend intertwined, you can at least pretend he’s yours. You can imagine it’s just another hot night shared in your apartment as you live out your dreamy domestic couple’s life. It sometimes seems that way with how much you take care of him, but he’d never see it as anything more than platonic.

Jeongguk knows you love him, of course, but he doesn’t know the extent it reaches. He doesn't know that your heart shatters every time he gives you a kiss on the cheek and says he loves you. He doesn’t know that when you say it back, you don’t mean just as friends. He doesn’t know you’d drop everything and run if he asked you to. You didn’t even know it for a while. Because falling in love with Jeongguk is slow and comes day by day without realizing, until suddenly you’re stuck neck deep without an inkling in your mind of trying to escape. It’s a gentle, spellbinding bloom you wouldn’t trade for the world.

From this view on his bed, you can see a glimpse of his figure behind the foggy glass of his upright shower. You tug your t-shirt back on for some modesty as if it still matters, swallowing down the tightening in your throat. If he feels your eyes lingering on him, he doesn’t show it. For whatever reason, watching him wash his face in small circles makes your stomach sink inexplicably.

Jeongguk at the fresh age of twenty-one is a lot different than Jeongguk at sixteen. Gone is the bowl cut, in comes long wavy hair that hangs in front of his face, always seeming to fall perfectly to frame his features. His shoulders broadened along with his horizons. His personality hasn’t changed, but it’s easy to think it has with the dark cloud that seems to follow him wherever he walks nowadays. You never realized how cute his dimples were until they started showing less and less.

You toy with the idea of maybe just confessing tonight. Get it off your chest once and for all. It would save you a lot of heartbreak, but you can already picture yourself sputtering it out for tense silence to fill the air, and for you to walk out and never come back. You can’t decide if it’s really worth risking when he’s the only thing you’ve got. There are a myriad of directions your life could take, but you wouldn’t want a single one without him in it, even if it crushes you.

A deep sigh escapes you. It’s your birthday today - shouldn’t you be enjoying it instead of being so morally torn?

How is it that you had him so close for so many years yet still missed your chance?

The memory of wishing for Jimin’s returned affection as a teenager resurfaces and makes you wince. While he did end up liking you back, it was a mess of a relationship that left you moping back to Jeongguk after just a few months. It should have been obvious back then that it was him all along.

He was always right in front of you, doting on you, leaving his everlasting mark on your life without even meaning to. Charming and humble and telling jokes to make you laugh rather than to make you think he was funny, being kind out of the purity of his character rather than to be rewarded. Apologizing to ants when he had to kill them and then sulking the rest of the night, learning to braid your hair while watching movies, listening to your every rant and ramble with the utmost attention as if it was the only thing that mattered to him.

Then it hits you that it’s not just about you and never was. It’s Jeongguk’s birthday today, too. You wished it to each other when you walked through the door, but that’s not a celebration, and neither is sex. You’re reminded that your job is to be a friend regardless of how you feel because you know he’d do the same, and good friends wouldn’t spend your special day wallowing in their own self-pity.

With renewed vigor, you’re pushing yourself off the bed and padding out to his sorry excuse for a kitchen. There’s barely enough space to move around comfortably and you can’t imagine how he does it on a daily basis. The view beyond the counter-top and out the balcony connected to the living room is beautiful, though. It’s miles upon miles of shining lights and skyscrapers that embrace the velvet dusk of the sky. That’s broke city living, you suppose. You flick on the light, dim but just enough to see.

His cabinets are an absolute mess. There’s no organization to it at all, no method to the madness. It’s blatant even from the unsteady view on your tippy toes. You catch sight of some peanut butter, bags of chips, packets of ramen, a box of cinnamon frosted pop tarts…

You almost lose your balance as you shift everything around, but the feeling of joy when you see that signature box is indescribable. It’s exactly what you need.

The blue and white packaging of the Hostess CupCakes has been opened, and considering it was sitting at the back of the top shelf, probably forgotten about. However, you’re sure it’ll be enough for him.

You find the lighter fairly easily, pulling open all the drawers out and rummaging through them. As expected, there’s no organization either. Measuring cups and pens in one, scissors and a single oven mitt in another. It’s the third and final drawer you tug open to find something to possibly substitute what you’re looking for.

Not that you expected him to have birthday candles lying around, but you didn’t think you’d be using an old red crayon in ones place. It’ll make do. It has to, considering that the noise of Jeongguk shutting off the shower is already reverberating off the walls. It won’t be much of a surprise if he walks out here and asks what you’re doing before you can even finish.

With delicate fingers, you press the end of the crayon into the cake just enough for it to stay upright. The lighter takes a couple tries, as does getting the wax to melt down enough to reach the paper, but eventually a small glowing flame takes shape. Flickering orange and everything you need it to be. You can’t put your finger on why your eyes start to tear up when you look at it, but then Jeongguk is calling your name.

“One sec! Just sit down,” you say loudly, ready to shout at him to stay back if you hear a creaky foot step coming your way.

“...Why?”

“Just do it!”

“Alright, alright.” He surrenders, the weariness coating his tongue one that you hope you can wash away within the next few seconds. “I am sitting.”

Hands as stable as an anchor, you slide the cupcake into your palms and walk carefully so as to not put out the dwarfed blaze. You turn your back to push open the door with and glide into the room with an atypical but much appreciated vivacity.

His eyes widen and an open mouthed smile tweaks at his lips as he perches at the edge of the bed. The flame is already halfway down the paper, but he seems impressed with your extempore candle. It’s the only source of light in the room, and his face underneath the gentle glimmer is a sight that you know you’ll lock away forever to look back on with adoration.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you...” you begin to sing, not bothered with the worry of embarrassment. Your lawless, flimsy tone elicits a bubbly laugh from Jeongguk. Suddenly, the bright Gguk you grew up beside returns, the one you love more than ever.

“Happy birthday dear Jeongguk-”

His voice harmonizes with yours, but he sings your name instead of his. He doesn’t even have to try for it to rattle you to your core. Your name off his tongue is by far the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

“Happy birthday to you.”

You extend your arms out so he can take in the makeshift festivity for all it is. His damp side-swept bangs reflect the pale gleam like black gossamer, and his eyes swimming with sentimentality.

“Make a wish,” you say, suppressing the wild flutter of your heart.

Jeongguk cups his hands under yours, pushing them back until the cupcake is equidistant to the both of you.

He says it firmly, not to be argued with. “No, together.”

You pretend to wipe the sweat from your forehead, thinking of what you might want this year. A job opportunity, to win the lottery, an easier semester at school. You don’t have to ponder for long. How could you, when what you really want has been sitting patiently at the forefront of your mind for almost a year?

Jeongguk sighs. If he could have anything in the world right now, what would it be?

In unison, you suck in a deep breath and close your eyes. You blow with all your might, extinguishing the flame together in one as the room falls dark again.

You wish that Jeongguk will like you back.

Jeongguk just wishes that life will get easier.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #btsguild #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #jungkook oneshot #jungkook scenario #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts imagine #bts x reader #yoondoze

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felidaefighter · 3 years

Text

Our Metaphorical Get-Along Sweater

In which Wilbur thinks of Ranboo as an arch-nemesis while Ranboo is just There Vibing and also, Phil has adopted Ranboo, making for two very different siblings and a very interesting relationship

[Fluff, comedy, fix-it fic, some light angst that is immediately softened, work in progress; every chapter will swap POV]

Chapter Two: A Second Chance From The Second Son

For Ranboo, coming home empty-handed was always the worst part about his trips, second only to not seeing Michael for a while. So, before even stopping at home to unload, the moment he got back to familiar lands he headed to Snowchester, spending the entire afternoon with his son and only heading back to his own house as the sun was beginning to set. In truth, he had been grateful for the accidental timing regarding his trip. It allowed him time to think. Although he and Phil had discussed Wilbur before, he hadn’t been alive during that, and Ranboo honestly felt a prick of guilt at how he knew that might’ve changed things-- he highly doubted Phil would’ve adopted him had Wilbur still been alive, after all.

It definitely didn’t help, either, the way Tommy had spoken about Wilbur-- though Ranboo had known Ghostbur, and knew that in some ways they were likely similar, they weren’t the same-- it made him wary of Wilbur; not just for himself, but for Tommy and Tubbo’s sake as well. Still, he believed in second chances, and a second chance at life was something pretty rare. He wanted to be optimistic. And although Phil was going to be biased, because Wilbur was his son-- his son that he had raised from birth, especially-- Ranboo trusted Phil’s judgement on people more than nearly anyone else save for his husband. He wanted to get to know the man. Not the man he used to be, not the man he was, but the man he is now.

After putting away the small amount of trinkets and excess materials Ranboo had picked up on his adventure, he checked his memory book to see if it had anything to offer in terms of what his next step was. Oh, right! He’d wanted to give Wilbur a proper tour of what had changed; Tommy had succeeded in showing him around, after all, but if Ranboo knew Tommy (and he did, very well), there was no way Tommy had actually given a good explanation of the events behind the changes to the man. Now he just had to offer. He just… had to do it. Yeah. Noting that the sun had only just set, it was reasonable to assume that Wilbur and Phil were still awake. Very very awkwardly for someone who had every right to be there given his adoption, Ranboo knocked on the door to Phil’s house.

Phil let him in with an easy smile. “Ranboo, mate, you don’t have to knock y’know.” It kind of felt strange not to though? Considering the recent change in situation. “Yeah, but with Wilbur here, I don’t wanna interrupt anything, y’know?” He asked Phil with an awkward laugh. “You’re just as much part of the family as he is,” Phil assured, and Ranboo felt himself untense a little. “Welcome back from your adventure, by the way! Were you successful?” Phil asked, realizing he hadn’t yet. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” Ranboo moaned miserably, and Phil laughed. “Not well then! Got it.” Ranboo shook his head. “Everything else I can find no problem! Like, come on, man, this one isn’t even for me.” The two stood in a pleasant moment together.

Right. The reason he was here. He had to get it over with one way or the other. “Hey Phil, I was wondering actually, is Wilbur around…?” He asked before he could convince himself not to. Phil looked at him quizzically. “Yeah, he’s upstairs. Wil!” Phil called, and Wilbur immediately stuck his torso out the ladder hole, looking like he very much would rather be elsewheres. “Ranboo wanted to speak to you,” Phil explained, and Wilbur disappeared for a moment before climbing down the ladder properly. “Okay, I’m here, I see you. What’s up?” Wilbur asked, and although he looked like he’d been interrupted genuine curiosity colored his words. Admittedly, it was a little intimidating to have Wilbur’s attention. Ranboo had just… heard so much about him.

“Oh, well uh… you got a tour of what had changed from Tommy, right?” He started. Wilbur tilted his head. “Yeah, you could call it that.” Ranboo nodded; he’d expected something like that. “Well, I was wondering-- if you’re free tomorrow, would you like a proper tour? I know Tommy is horrible at being straightforward and explaining things like that, so it might be nice to have an actual explanation right?” Ranboo asked. There it was, the big, awkward sibling bonding question. Huoagh. Ranboo turned to Phil. “No offense, Phil, but you and Techno don’t really…” Ranboo trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish his sentence. Phil shook his head. “None taken, you’re right. Aw that sounds nice eh Wil? It’d be good to get you all caught up.” Wilbur looked a bit taken aback, but not unpleasantly so. That was good! That seemed like a good thing.

“You know what? Sure, Ranboo. I’m down to try that.” Ranboo grinned in excitement. “Awesome! Okay, tomorrow, I’ll give you the grand tour.” Wilbur nodded, continuing. “I’ll admit Tommy left some holes in his stories-- almost as big as the one I apparently left in L’Manberg,” Wilbur added with dark chuckle. Ooohhh okay that didn’t seem like the greatest sign but dark humor wasn’t necessarily indicative of anything bad-- though it did, admittedly, make Ranboo feel a little wary. Caution would probably be best when handling everything. But that was okay! Ranboo was a cautious guy. He felt confident in his ability to, well, be cautious. “Yeahhh that’ll happen with Tommy,” Phil said to Wilbur in agreement, and Ranboo nodded in turn. The three chatted idly for a short bit, and then Ranboo left for the night, ready to sleep in his own bed after a week of travel, with the plans for tomorrow secured.

------

Ranboo woke up and did his morning routine, bracing himself for the plans he’d made for the day. In truth, he wasn’t really sure what to make of Wilbur still. He’d had an entire week to think about it, but it just seemed so complicated. He’d heard good things from Phil and terrible things from Tommy, about the man who had created a nation and also was now his older brother. It would be good to get to know him, though, Ranboo reasoned-- so the tour was a good idea. Ranboo found Wilbur tinkering with some things in Phil’s house, having very clearly been awake for quite some time. “You’ve been up a while,” Ranboo said, and Wilbur looked about to scowl at the intrusion before settling himself into a more neutral expression and nodding. “The sunrise; It’s beautiful,” he explained-- and suddenly Ranboo felt as if Wilbur might be okay after all. They headed off in relative silence aside from a passing remark from Wilbur about the magma cubes that consistently jumped to their deaths; the only thing of note about the nether was the vaguely safer renovation of the community portal.

“The community house looks different,” Wilbur commented, and Ranboo grimaced. “Oohhh yeah. It got blown up. Dream--” At least, as far as anyone knew it was Dream-- “Blew it up and framed Tommy for it while he was in exile. He used it as an excuse to blow up L’Manberg. With uh, Phil and Techno’s help actually, but y’know.” An unreadable expression crossed over Wilbur’s face, and he nodded. “Dream’s a tricky bastard, that doesn’t surprise me. I do remember Tommy’s exile, now, by the way, it--” Rage flashed across Wilbur’s face, almost too quickly for Ranboo to take note, but not quite quick enough-- before he took a breath and looked calm again. “It was rough,” He surmised instead. Ranboo nodded. That had been a horrible time. He’d tried writing letters, but, well. Ranboo decided to focus on the tour before the queasy feeling in his gut grew too big.

“Over therrrre is Kinoko Kingdom or whatever it’s called-- Sapnap and Karl live there I think? Also George maybe but that guy is always asleep so honestly who knows,” Ranboo said, gesturing to their right/the East. Wilbur looked like he was calculating something. “So there are new nations here after all?” Ranboo shrugged. “I mean I wouldn’t really call it a nation-- I don’t think there’s a government so much as a lot of buildings that nobody even lives in honestly.” Wilbur just frowned at that, despite it being true. Ranboo was beginning to think that maybe it’d be a lot harder to get on his good side than he’d initially hoped.

Ranboo walked out the other side of the community house and Wilbur trailed behind idly, long-legged stride making up for his casual pace. His dark eyes flitted about, searching for things the passage of time had and hadn’t touched. “The prime path is pretty much the same,” Ranboo said, desperately hoping the shift away from nation-talk would lighten Wilbur’s mood. “Oh! On the right there is Captain Puffy’s therapy office. I’ve heard about it from--” Actually, that was none of Wilbur’s business, no offense to him. “--From somewhere. That’s why it says ‘therapuffy’ on the sign.” Personally, Ranboo was very pleased with that pun. Puffy had done a good job with it. And Wilbur-- Wilbur actually quirked an eyebrow. “She’s started a therapy office, has she?” He mused, and Ranboo hummed in affirmation. “I s’ppose that’s useful. I’m sure a lot of people around here need it.”

“Apparently there’s a discreet box you can drop a note into to make an appointment,” Ranboo said, which was about as close as he was going to get to saying his real thoughts which were more along the lines of oh my god PLEASE get therapy you of all people need it especially considering you made your dad help you kill yourself and have been dead and gone for years in what you essentially described as hell. “That’s cool,” Wilbur said, and Ranboo nearly wilted a little, but he did take a small victory in the lingering glance that he noticed Wilbur left it towards it. Ranboo allowed himself to hope just a teensy bit that maybe Wilbur would visit again after the tour with nobody else around.

“On the left here is Niki and Puffy’s flowershop and bakery, and Fundy and I’s icecream shop we made to compete with them. Ours is just a little bit taller,” Ranboo added smugly. “They’re both kind of abandoned though, because--” Oh, that was not a good look on Wilbur’s face. It passed almost immediately, which was almost even more concerning. “Go on, Ranboo, what were you saying?” Wilbur prompted softly, and Ranboo hesitated but it was clear he wasn’t going to get anything out of that look. It was also, frankly, not something he was willing to unpack with the older man. “They’re both kind of abandoned, because I haven’t seen Fundy in a long while and I think Niki and Puffy kind of drifted apart? They were dating at one point I think,” He rambled, and relaxed a bit as Wilbur smirked, easily caught up in gossip and drama.

They passed by Church Prime-- Wilbur declining to go in for personal reasons-- Punz’s house, the karaoke stage, and the weird, pale-checked building, which had all been there since long before Ranboo’s time and thus didn’t earn anything more than a passing, melodramatic comment from Wilbur about familiarity and stagnation and how sometimes even the land couldn’t change. Ranboo didn’t really think that was a fair assessment, though. Basalt columns supported chunks of Punz’s house that bore visible fire damage. Nearly every time he’d passed by the checked building the inside had been renovated. He was pretty sure even the karaoke stage had been patched up a few times. But to be honest, being around Wilbur was awkward. Even the idea that he knew things that Wilbur didn’t didn’t seem quite right, since Wilbur had been there first-- with both L’Manberg and being Phil’s son-- even if he’d missed some time. So for now, Ranboo would just stick to the facts.

“That’s a Christmas building,” Wilbur said, aghast, pulling Ranboo out of his thoughts. “Hm? Oh! Yeah, that’s-- I think somebody lives there but I’m not sure actually. It’s definitely--” Ranboo made a noise, and Wilbur nodded his head at the noise. “Yeah. See, that’s something you and I can agree upon, Ranboo.” Wilbur then swivelled his head around and did a double-take. “Is that gay Target? ...Didn’t that used to be a walmart?” They passed the Targay, beginning the steep climb up the mountain, and Ranboo nodded, bemused. “It’s Targay, I think. Puffy renovated the walmart. It’s kinda been ‘opening soon’ since before I even got here though so I think it’s effectively abandoned. Tommy and I were talking about that the other day, actually.”

Speaking of, they reached the top of the mountain and Tommy’s plot of land-- “Tommy’s shit-fucking-shack is the same,” Wilbur said dryly, fake disgust in his voice betrayed by the fondness on his face. And there it was-- proof. Not for anybody other than Ranboo himself, of course, but it was there. Wilbur did care about something. Or someone, at least. Someone that Ranboo cared about, too. That was enough to get Ranboo’s confidence in his plan back up a bit. Good, actually. He liked being optimistic. Preferred it without a doubt to anxiety spirals and the idea that everything was doomed. “Pretty much,” Ranboo admitted, “But there’s a bunch of flowers and stuff around that were planted when-- when he was gone for a bit. He took down everything else. I guess he likes it looking like a hole in the hill.” Wilbur rolled his eyes.

“Do you want to see the hotel and the prison and Snowchester next, or would you like to visit L’Manberg?” Ranboo asked, hoping Wilbur wouldn’t realize the near-slip-up had been alluding to Tommy’s death. The mischievous, conniving look in Wilbur’s eyes clouded, and the man looked thoughtful. Ranboo waited anxiously, fiddling with his hands. “Let’s go visit L’Manberg,” He said, taking the lead, and Ranboo followed behind. The man’s strides were purposeful, and though Ranboo did think that Wilbur could change, something about the way he was moving hinted at… lingering ideologies about the former nation. Also, Ranboo was internally pouting a bit about Wilbur taking charge now. It was meant to be his tour.

“I haven’t seen L’Manberg since I blew it all to kingdom come,” Wilbur remarked, Ranboo trailing nervously behind him. Confusion temporarily overrode his nerves, and Ranoo tilted his head. “Are you su-- really? I thought you said you remembered stuff that happened when you were-- Ghostbur?” Wilbur downright scowled at the mention of Ghostbur, and waved off the mention like he was shooing away a pesky fly. “I don’t see what Ghostbur has to do with that,” Wilbur huffed, and Ranboo was silent for a moment. Maybe-- hm, that would be interesting wouldn’t it? Because Ghostbur couldn’t remember the bad things, and the only example Wilbur had given of remembering Ghostbur’s memories was how awful exile had been for Tommy.

Ranboo was so focused on theorizing and figuring out how he might propose said theory to Wilbur that he nearly careened right into the man, who had stopped dead right at the end of the prime path. Luckily, he saved himself the dignity and Wilbur his dramatic moment right at the last second. If Wilbur noticed, he didn’t comment on it. He was staring out over the massive crater. “Wow,” Wilbur breathed mournfully, “I really did do a number on this place, huh.” He stepped off the prime path, minding the pockets where fire and explosives had scarred the earth. Ranboo watched him walk across the glass-- eerily, like a ghost taking long-forgotten trails, the transparent glass helping the illusion. Except, no, Wilbur was alive, and more importantly--

“You didn’t, actually,” Ranboo said bluntly, and Wilbur snapped out of whatever daze he had been in, the illusion shattered as the contradictory statement made him virulent and very much alive. “What?” Ranboo admittedly reeled a little at the tone, but come on. He didn’t. “You didn’t,” Ranboo reiterated; “Techno, Phil, and Dream were the ones to blow it to bedrock. Your explosion didn’t get anywhere close. And the reason I know that is because it flooded afterwards, but it didn’t even flood that deep. It’s why L’Manberg-- the one I knew at least-- was rebuilt on stilts,” Ranboo explained, carefully watching the expression on Wilbur’s face. The disdain on Wilbur’s face was slowly blotted out by confusion.

“What do you mean rebuilt on stilts?” Wilbur asked, and it was definitely visible on Ranboo’s face when it clicked for him that his theory had been correct. Wilbur didn’t actually remember Ghostbur’s memories-- not all of them, at least. He only thought he did because he, well, couldn’t remember the rest. Ranboo knew the feeling. “And what does that look mean?” Wilbur scoffed. “Well, you--” Ranboo felt his face get hot, the center of attention and eyes being on him never really the best for his enderman instincts. Ranboo opted instead to glance down at the bedrock, visible through the glass. “After-- after you died. L’Manberg was rebuilt. Tubbo said the land was still good, so when it started flooding they built it up on stilts and platforms. It was mainly Ghostbur that did the rebuilding, actually!” With the last fact, Ranboo glanced back up at Wilbur, who was just staring, trying to process what he’d just heard.

“So, you’re saying… I didn’t have a big impact on this place.” Wilbur prompted. Ranboo just sighed. “Well, you did. It just wasn’t all one thing, y’know? I know Tubbo-- I know Tubbo liked having L’Manberg around and so did Tommy. They were devastated when, well--” Ranboo gestured to the visible bedrock deep, deep below them-- “That happened. And Ghostbur rebuilt it, he made it beautiful, with the lanterns.” Ranboo paused. “Phil told me a bit about the lanterns, actually.” Something indiscernible crossed over Wilbur’s face. Then he looked almost bitter-- then-- Wilbur sighed. “See, Ranboo, I appreciate your trying to ‘tell me I’m not a bad guy’ or whatever,” Wilbur said, emphasizing the quotations with a false, mocking tone, and gesturing dramatically, “But it doesn’t really matter. This is my legacy! This crater. Everyone knows I’m a bad person. That’s just fact.”

“...I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Ranboo said quietly, wincing at how unconvincing that must sound even as genuine as he meant it. Wilbur scowled. “Why? Because Phil said?” Ranboo immediately countered, offended that Wilbur thought he couldn’t have his own opinions. “...No, not because Phil said. Because I don’t know you at all. We haven’t gotten a chance to meet. And I think that maybe you were a bad person, if you blew up L’Manberg, but I also think that you were going through some things that affected you and I think that people can change. Even if it’s only been a few years for us, it’s been thirteen years for you. You aren’t going to be the same person as before. And you deserve a second chance. Everyone does.”

Wilbur was the one to turn away this time, and Ranboo politely pretended not to notice the way his eyes had become more reflective and puffy. He seemed like he had something he wanted to say, and Ranboo would’ve let him, really-- but instead he looked out over the glass at the bedrock and rubble and dead vines that hadn’t yet been reclaimed by nature. Wilbur took a deep breath, and Ranboo waited in nervous anticipation. “What do you mean it’s ‘only been a few years for you’, Ranboo?” Wilbur asked. Oh. That had not been-- but he did have a good point. That was probably some important information that Tommy had apparently also left out.

“Tommy… didn’t tell you that either. Figures,” Ranboo muttered. “Okay so, when Tommy came back and said he’d been gone for months, it had only been two days, so…” Ranboo began, and Wilbur held up a hand, signalling him to pause for a moment. “Thank you for the tour, Ranboo,” Wilbur said, “But this has been a lot. Let’s walk and talk on this one, eh?” He sniffed, not in a cry-y way, in his usual talking way, (even if one would think it’d be in a cry-y way-- Ranboo tried to not let his thoughts wander too far, though), and said softly, “I’d like to go home.” It did catch Ranboo a little off-guard. There was still more to the tour! But… well, it did make sense, L’Manberg being what it was. Yeah. That seemed reasonable. “Alright, yeah,” Ranboo said, and the two found their way back to the prime path. “So since Tommy had been gone for two days but lived-- or unlived I guess?-- for months-- we figured time moves differently in the afterlife or whatever it is, right?” Ranboo explained the time differential to Wilbur as they walked, and the man was surprisingly free of snarky commentary the rest of the way home.

-----

They had trudged through the snow in complete silence, leaving Ranboo to his swirling thoughts about how he felt about Wilbur being his brother. He was trying hard to not think about it actually. The mix of the family thoughts and the snow on the ground did remind him that they never went to Snowchester for the tour. Honestly? Ranboo was okay with that. He hated to admit it, but he did not trust Wilbur around Michael. Okay, in all fairness, he didn’t really trust anyone other than Tubbo around Michael. Call it paranoia, or maybe “an awareness of what the rest of the people in the realm were like”. It was hard enough dealing with having a sibling when he’d only just gained a parent-- Ranboo really didn’t need to deal with whatever thoughts might come with Wilbur technically being Michael’s uncle. He shuddered to himself, and Wilbur glanced over questioningly, but Ranboo muttered about the cold and the man seemed to buy it.

Phil was waiting for them when they got home, and opened the door warmly to both of them. He shot Ranboo a questioning look when he didn’t immediately come inside, but Ranboo subtly shook his head-- Phil giving an almost unnoticeable tilt upwards of his head in acknowledgement. Talk later. “Sooo how’d it go?” Phil asked conversationally from the doorway, and Wilbur was startled out of his own thoughts. Luckily he didn’t catch the exchange they’d had. “Huh? Oh.” Wilbur turned to Ranboo thoughtfully. “The tour was lovely, thank you. You definitely did a better job than Tommy, at least. And cleared some things up for me.” Something about Wilbur, Ranboo had noticed, was always guarded. He guessed that’d be the paranoia. Or maybe old habits from being sneaky-- Phil had told some stories of when Wilbur was younger.

“I’m glad,” Ranboo said sheepishly though, “I’m glad I could do that and, clear some things up for you, yeah. And it was nice getting to hear your stories about the things that had been there for a while, too,” Ranboo offered, an open invitation for reconciliation, even if he still wasn’t sure what he’d done that made him and Wilbur get off on such a strange foot. Wherever Wilbur’s thoughts had been drifting to, they quickly snapped back at Ranboo’s softer tone. “Yes,” Wilbur said curtly, “Thank you for the tour, see you around.” And he promptly slipped past Phil, who was muttering baffled protests, into his room upstairs.

“What?” Phil squawked out as the door shut, and then turned to Ranboo. “I don’t-- what-- I’m sorry Ranboo I genuinely don’t know what that was about.” And Ranboo laughed, relieved to have someone else sharing in his confusion, feeling at home with Phil for the first time in a while since it was just the two of them. “I don’t either!” He admitted, sharing in Phil’s trait for giggling in confusion. “But I think I said something that maybe he thought was nice and he doesn’t like the fact that he thought it was nice…?” Phil sighed, and then laughed. “Yeah, yep, that’d do it. Wil’s-- He’ll come around. He’ll come around. He just needs some time to adjust to the situation properly.” Phil narrowed his eyes at Ranboo. Uh-Oh. It was his dad mode.

“And so do you. You can’t let him bully you around just ‘cuz he’s older or you think he gets more rights as my son due to seniority.” Ranboo flushed, feeling very caught-in-the-act. “Okay well hey wait a minute you didn’t have to call me out that hard,” he fake-complained nervously, and the two of them laughed. “I did though! It’s true!” Phil protested. “You’re as much family as he is,” Phil continued softly, and Ranboo desperately tried to not let his eyes water.

Phil, either due to his allergies for prolonged contact with softer emotions, or sensing the need for a mood change out of worry for Ranboo’s allergies to water, decided to change the subject back to Wilbur’s style of siblinghood. “--And Wilbur will bully you around ‘cuz he’s older. And you can’t let him get away with it or he’s gonna get away with it forever,” Phil scolded, “Ranboo, you have to grow a backbone.” Well that just hurt. “I have one, that’s not fair!” Phil, however, put his hands on his hips and looked sternly at Ranboo, who was thoroughly pouting. Then he sighed and laughed softly. “Fair enough, fair enough. That’s a start.”

They stood on the porch together for a moment, enjoying one another’s company. Phil sighed again. “How did the tour actually go? How was Wil?” He asked finally. Right! Now this was something Ranboo was prepared for. He straightened up, much to Phil’s dismay (because Phil was much shorter than Ranboo as it was). Ranboo laughed a little internally at that, but he was rather proud of his observation skills in this matter, so he was all business on the outside (not that this was business). “He was kinda melodramatic, honestly,” Ranboo explained, and Phil nodded; it did make sense that that wasn’t out of the ordinary. “I did point out to him where therapy was,” He added, Phil bursting out laughing in response to that with a sort of ‘bwahahaha’ sound. “Good,” Phil said, before letting Ranboo continue.

“He did… he did get a bit weird when it came to L’Manberg,” Ranboo admitted, and Phil sobered some at that. “He took over the tour and started talking about how it was his fault. Phil, I don’t--” Ranboo leaned down in a conspiratorial whisper, Phil drawing him closer to the door and away from any windows or line of sight. “--I don’t think he actually remembers Ghostbur’s memories. He just thinks he does. He only remembers the bad things from Ghostbur’s memories.” Phil paused. “Ghostbur had bad memories?” His eyes widened. “Oh.”

Ranboo nodded. “Yeah. I did clear up some stuff-- like how the bedrock leveling was you and Techno and Dream and not him, and he’d only been gone for a few years as opposed to thirteen like on his end.” Phil nodded some more, thoughtfully. “Ah, yeah. Thank you for clearing that up, Ranboo, I honestly-- time for me is, well, y’know.” He made a so-so gesture with his hand and Ranboo understood. “I do feel kinda bad about that, but uh-- I still stand by it. It had to be done. That government was corrupt.” Ranboo nodded. He had complicated feelings about that-- he supposed most of his feelings were complicated, actually-- but ultimately he respected Phil’s decision, and liked where he’d ended up because of it.

“And I take it you didn’t show him Snowchester.” Ranboo grimaced. “Yeahhh I didn’t really want to have that conversation. Plus it was in the opposite direction of L’Manberg, so…” Phil nodded once again. “Good thinking. We can chat some more later, yeah? When you’re comfortable doing so in a place that isn’t the freezing cold.” Ranboo nodded, grateful that Phil understood his hesitations even if he didn’t agree with them. Phil patted Ranboo’s arm softly as Ranboo headed off and he went back inside, and Ranboo was grateful for the time alone to think. Because a lot had happened, but he did want to think through that particular scenario, since it was important. Even if the family aspect was strange. Even with Ranboo being particularly protective. And especially with his relationship to Tubbo being what it was. So the question was this: How did Ranboo want to go about introducing Wilbur to his nephew, Michael?

[Until I publish this to AO3, anyone is welcome to ask to be tagged when the fic updates!] @enternalempires

#ranboo #wilbur soot #philza #dreamsmp #mcyt fanfic #they write #oh gosh please don't open this readmore on mobile. new tab is better #it's almost 5000 words #HERE IT IS CHAPTER TWO #oh gosh i'm so sorry it's been so long #my appointment for my finger injury ain't until october but. slow and steady writing should be alright

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saviorsbookcafe · 4 years

Text

The Savior’s Book Café in Another World: Chapter 5

INDEX || PREVIOUS || NEXT

Chapter 5: Shrinking Distance

Translated by: sydney Proofread by: Necro

The day after I gave Ill the drink with restoration magic on it, he came back at the usual time looking considerably better, and the bags under his eyes had faded a little.

It seems like he hasn't noticed the spell himself, but if he's feeling even a little better, then I'm glad, I tell myself, relieved.

On his order, I casted a slightly weaker version of the spell than yesterday, and brought it to his table.

“Here you are.”

“Oh, thanks. Tsukina, did you know this book has a sequel?”

“Oh really? I looked, but I didn't find anything.”

The book in his hand is one I had just stocked the other day.

It ended at a very intriguing part, but even when I heard that was the end, I couldn't stop wondering.

“I only learned about it recently, but apparently this author publishes under another name too, and they have a sort of spinoff story under that name. Only I haven't been able to find the actual book. I was interested in reading it, so I looked around, but I thought maybe you'd be able to find it.”

“I'll try. Thanks for telling me. If there's a sequel, I want to read it too.”

It's at these times that I realize how nice it is that we have the same taste in books.

He likes the books I like, and vice versa.

Even if I can search for and summon books with this pendant, I can't summon something I can't find.

In the end, this pendant is only for summoning things, so I can't use it to search for things.

If I don't have a keyword to search something by, I can't summon it.

If the author had the same name, I would be able to summon the book easily, but if I didn't know that they published under a different name like this, then I wouldn't be able to summon it.

It really is nice to have someone to talk to about books.

My friends in my old world weren't the type to obsess over books, and my family....

“......”

I shake my head lightly, and tell Ill to take his time before I return to the counter.

I'm interested in the book Ill told me about, but I can't summon it now.

I decide to wait a few days before telling him I found it, and open the book in front of me for now.

As time passed, Ill and I sometimes spoke while continuing to read our books, and it eventually came to the time when I watched Ill get ready to leave.

“Tsukina.”

“What is it? If it's about the book you told me about, I'm going to look for it?”

“No...thank you,” Ill smiles, a book in his hand.

He walked over to the bookshelf just a bit ago, so he must have picked it up then.

I thought surely he'd ask me to hold onto it like usual, but then I saw the cover and smiled wryly.

“Sorry, I wasn't sure if it would be too much. You just seemed tired.”

The book in his hand was the textbook I pored through two days ago, where I found the restoration spell.

Typically, once I've finished reading a book, I put it on the shelves in the café, so I put this one out as well.

Ill hadn't picked up a magic textbook until now, so I didn't think he would notice today.

“Since I woke up today, my body felt light, and my mood has been better. Usually my stomach is in knots until I get here, but I felt so good today that even my friend was surprised. It was thanks to you, wasn't it?”

He thanked me with another smile, and my heart skipped a beat as I looked at his face.

“Um, I'm glad it made you happy. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before.”

“No, let me thank you. Usually things with this kind of enchantment cost a lot, so had I known I would have given you more. Everything here is already cheap, so I can pay you more.”

“This isn't something I'm doing for the café, I just did it because you seemed tired and I wanted you to feel better. I have plenty of magic, so I can continue enchanting your food for you if you don't mind.”

“That's.... I'm really grateful, but are you sure?”

“After all, if you're tired don't you get sleepy? If you're tired then no matter how interesting a book you're reading, you don't really take it in, and you get to the end of a page only to realize you're falling asleep with the book open. It feels like such a waste, right? I hate wanting to focus and read but being so tired I have to stop.”

“I understand that well. When you're reading a sequel and there are parts you don't remember it's frustrating. It's fun to reread a book, but it's nice to remember the important parts. That way, rereading the book is much more enjoyable.”

“Right? You might as well know everything that's going to happen so you can see all of the foreshadowing when you read it again...or not. I'm also the type who likes to focus on a book, and I thought maybe you were too. That's one kind of magic that's easy to use for me, and if it helps you too then I'm glad.”

“Tsukina.... Thank you. Can I ask you to do that then?”

“Yes, did it taste okay?”

“It was delicious, as always.”

“I'm glad. As the Knight Captain, you must have a lot of work, and there must be a lot of difficult things, but I hope you can at least rest while you're here.”

“...yeah, thank you.”

I've lost count of how many times he's said that, but a smile appeared on his face as if he were thinking of something else.

Some time after that day, I think Ill started to hold back even less.

I've touched my friends before, but somehow this feels different.

He came to the café today as well, but a short while after we each started reading our respective books, I realized that the sound of pages turning had stopped and looked up.

With his chin resting in his hand, his elbow braced on the table and the book he was reading in his lap, Ill's eyes were closed.

At first I thought he had finished reading and was just immersed in his book's world, but I was surprised to find he actually seemed to be sleeping.

Regardless of the fact that there were no other customers present, Ill didn't seem like the type of person to doze off in a place like a café.

But no matter how long I looked at him, he didn't show any sign of waking up.

“...he seems to still be just as tired as before.”

No matter how relaxing this café might be for him, or how much he can enjoy his hobbies and destress, there hasn't been any change in whatever's happening during the day that makes him so tired.

I quietly leave the counter and put the scarf I've been using on his shoulders.

He still doesn't wake up, and I look at him, worry over his tiredness and happiness over the fact that he trusts me enough to let down his guard both bubbling up in me.

It's him after all, if another customer were to come in, he would probably wake up, but he seems to trust me so much that even when I get close enough to touch his shoulder he doesn't wake up.

Recently, perhaps due to the effects of the magic, he's been looking better, and the bags under his eyes are fading.

The only inhabitant of this world who I've come into contact with, and it's someone who shares such similar taste in hobbies as me that we can talk about them together, something that never even happened in my old world.

Every day I get to be immersed in my hobbies, and thanks to this pendant, I don't have to worry about the future.

That said, it's not like I don't care about the fact that I was forced to come here and leave everything I had known behind.

When I think about my life, it's always the one from the world where I lived for more than thirty years that comes to mind.

When I wonder how my friends, who I'd promised to go out with this next break, are doing, there's only one answer.

My existence was erased from that world.

They don't know me anymore, they're living like normal in a world where only I don't exist.

My life here is fun, but it can get lonely too.

This is my only friend I've made in a world I don't know.

Since I met Ill, I've begun thinking about the days we've spent together more and more.

I don't feel as lonely, and I'm incredibly grateful to him for that.

Even though I don't have connections with anyone outside of Ill.

“Sorry I don't go outside.”

I have a feeling that even if I were to go out, at this age, except for people at the same workplace or learning the same things as me, it would be hard to make friends.

In a way, meeting Ill and becoming friends was something of a miracle.

From my first customer, to a regular, and from a reading companion to an amiable friend, and...

“From just a friend, to closer friends, or something like that.”

I gently place a bookmark in the book still open on Ill's lap.

This way, even if it happens to close, it'll be fine.

I gave him an enchanted alarm, so even if he has somewhere to be, he'll probably wake up in time, so I'll let him sleep for now.

Oh, but maybe I should wake him up if I see a good time to.

The book sitting on his lap is one I bought for myself to read.

It's a book I planned to read and put into the café when I was done, but I had intended to leave it in the private room for a short while to enjoy.

If Ill hadn't told me he was looking for this book, I probably wouldn't have put it in the café for at least a month.

When I put it out, only Ill was coming to the café, so I could read as much as I wanted, but the books I put into the café have been enchanted with various spells, so there is a difference between them and my personal books.

I've casted spells to prevent spills or damage not on the books but on the entire café itself, so that the books within all receive the effect and I don't have to enchant each one of them individually.

The spells I cast on the books in the café are to prevent anyone from taking them, so if they're outside the café for long enough, they'll automatically return here.

That's why I had planned to leave this book in the private room to enjoy, as I hadn't cast any spells on it yet, but when Ill said he was looking for it, I brought it out here.

Apparently this was a book Ill had always wanted to read, so he was enjoying reading it, but it seems the exhaustion won.

If he's able to sleep to some extent, he'll probably feel more refreshed, and he'll want to keep reading too, so I decide to wake him up after a short while, and quietly return to the counter.

I considered reading a bit more, but if I focus too much on reading, I might forget to wake up Ill, so I decided to do some other work in the meantime.

I pull the basket in the corner towards myself and take out the contents.

Inside it were handmade cloth book covers.

They'll look nice on the books, and I can use them when I want to change the mood.

Since I have plenty of time, I thought I'd try to make them myself.

I made them occasionally in my old world as well, so I already know how.

I can't take out needles and thread in the café, so I've already finished the sewing part.

All that's left is to put them on the decorative books that have nothing written in them and decorate them.

I could summon the finished products with my pendant, but I enjoy making them by hand, and having nothing to do all day is boring.

That's why I'm trying to do this myself.

Inside the basket are about twenty book covers, separated by size.

I tried different ones on the books, putting them on and removing them as I wondered which ones to use.

I may have my ideal café, but being able to change smaller things like this is very fun.

It might also be thanks to Ill, who notices when I change things and tells me his thoughts.

Finally, I put the finished books with their various covers in the café where I'd planned, and thought it would be a good time to wake up Ill.

“Ill, are you going to wake up soon?”

“...mn.”

I watch him slowly open his almond-shaped eyes, and think, He really is good-looking.

He's composed and handsome, and he has a good personality and has a high status.

More importantly, we have the same hobbies and both love books as much as each other, to the point that he's probably a better friend than I deserve.

That friend looked at me with a confused expression, probably from having just woken up.

My heart leapt in my chest at his expression that almost seemed to read my thoughts.

I looked at him, thinking Beautiful people are intimidating, huh, and after a moment, I panicked and looked around myself quickly, flustered.

“Sorry for waking you. I thought maybe you'd want to read more.”

“...was I asleep?”

“Completely. If you're still sleepy, there is a private room with a bed.”

“No, no I'm fine. Thanks for waking me up.”

His expression still dazed, Ill notices my scarf on his shoulders and hands it back to me with a thanks.

It seems his falling asleep surprised him too.

He does seem really tired, I wish there was something else I could do for him.

I get the feeling it's been awhile since I last wanted to do something for someone else.

And now it's for someone from a different world who has no relation to the world I was born in.

When God told me I was going to be a Savior, I thought, Why should I throw away everything I have and act for the sake of a world and a people I don't know and have no connection to?

It's not like I don't feel guilty, but even though my very existence in my old world was erased, I simply cannot imagine wanting to sacrifice myself for the people of this world.

I absolutely do not want to introduce myself as a Savior, and I don't want that fact to be found out.

But...not as a Savior, but as a friend, I want to help him.

I moved away from Ill, who had fully woken up and begun reading again, back to the counter as I thought.

“Sorry about today, asking to borrow your personal books and not even reading them.”

“I don't mind lending my books to a friend. Either way, there aren't any other customers coming, and I'm glad you were able to rest.”

“I really didn't think I'd fall asleep here.”

I smile at Ill, who has a slightly embarrassed expression on his face.

“I'm glad this café has become a place where you can relax, so don't worry about it. You're in the middle of this book, right? Do you want to borrow it?”

“Is that okay?”

“This is one of my books, not the café's, so it's no problem. I've finished reading it already.”

“Thanks, I'll read it during my break at work. I'm not doing any subjugation work tomorrow, only office work, so it won't get dirty.”

“I can't imagine you would damage a book. Oh, right.”

I pull several book covers from the basket I left next to the register, and cast a spell on them to prevent damage.

Now, any book it's on won't get damaged or dirty.

“If you'd like, you can have this. I made it myself, so it's not all that well-made, but it's enchanted. If you put this cover on the book, it'll be like the books in the café, and won't get soiled or damaged.”

“...using advanced magic, as always.”

“O-oh, well, I've always been good with this kind of magic.”

Startled by Ill, who's smiling wryly, I make the excuse that I've always been good with magic.

As long as I don't use Great Magic, the Savior's Mark won't glow, so he shouldn't find out that I'm a Savior, but maybe in the café, or rather, in front of Ill, I shouldn't use such advanced magic so often.

In regards to Ill, it's too late to hide it, so I decide not to worry too much about it.

He doesn't seem like the type to talk about others all that much, so I should be fine.

I watch with an amused expression as Ill takes the book cover and puts it delicately into his bag.

“I'm good at offensive magic, but I'm terrible with this sort of day-to-day magic. With this book cover, I won't have to worry about taking my books out with me. Thank you.”

“I'm glad it'll be useful. Even you have magic you're not good at, huh. Offensive magic's the one I can't use at all.”

“Your will affects how well your magic works. If I tried to attack a normal person in town who has no ability to fight back, my magic won't work. You might also feel like you're not good in a fight.”

That must be it. I finally get it.

I have no will to fight, so I can't cast anything but powerless spells that make even me want to cry.

Just knowing that I'm not the only one who can't use offensive magic is relieving.

“I know you have to fight as part of your job, but try not to overwork yourself. I've gotten used to you coming here, so it'd be lonely if you stopped coming. Oh, but you don't have to force yourself to come, just make sure to rest up first and foremost.”

“To me right now, coming to this café is the most restful thing. Before I found this café, I was barely eating, and had no appetite.”

“Wait, what about now? You eat at the café, but are you eating during the day or on days you don't come?”

“Yeah, since that first day I came and ate here, my appetite came back too. Although I eat the most here. Your cooking is just to my taste, it's delicious.”

He smiles at me so warmly, and I feel my face heat up with happiness and embarrassment.

Hearing my cooking be called delicious is pure happiness.

“Well, sometimes I get so caught up in reading that I forget a meal.”

“Ahh, I'd say to be careful, but I know I do that too.”

“Here, since I can eat while reading, it's easy to eat meals. Thanks to this book cover, it looks like I'll be able to do the same in my room.”

Ill lightly taps his bag happily, and I smile at him.

The fact that even our bad habits from loving books so much are the same is funny.

“I'll come again tomorrow. Thanks for everything today. I'll take good care of the book cover.”

“Don't worry about it, thank you for today.”

After I watch Ill leave the café, I clean up inside and hang a “Closed” sign on the door.

Just knowing I'll be able to see Ill tomorrow somehow makes me very happy.

The day after Tsukina gave me the book cover at her café, it was something of a special day for those at the castle.

In the bustling castle hall, a group of vendors had opened shops, and various overflowing products were lined up.

As of now, it was only opened to the castle's inhabitants, and the royal family and knights were looking around pleasantly.

Like this, not only were the royal family and knights able to shop without worrying about their status, but it was a nice sight, fitting for this peaceful country.

With the young Savior girl nowhere to be seen, it felt like returning to the peaceful times of before, but it was a little lonely with the Second Prince missing from the royal family's cheerful conversation.

Before, he would have happily gifted the Queen and Princess presents here.

It's strange that the Prince, who used to always think about his family, is now doing anything and everything for that Savior girl, but we can't do anything about it.

“Ahh, today sure is peaceful. The Savior's got her own time with the Prince reserved for shopping after, right?”

“Yeah, the King was considerate, saying that way everyone else can take their time looking around.”

“The fact that the Savior has her own time reserved in the first place makes me angry, but shopping at the same time as her would be even more irritating, so we have to be grateful for the King's sympathy.”

“Even if it is a reserved time, it's only about an hour. After that, it opens to the castle town, so they have to be gone by then.”

“I see. Well an hour should be enough for that Savior. She seems to get bored easily, so she'll probably be satisfied with a short time. In any case," Beork looked around excitedly before looking at the Princess and smiling, "I'm gonna buy her something. It's been awhile since I've had the opportunity to.”

“Yeah, I'm sure she'll be happy.”

“It'd be nice if you had someone to give gifts to too. It's pretty fun to pick things out for someone. One of the drawbacks of being our age is that almost everyone already has a partner, but if you find a single woman, it'd probably work to approach her,” Beork told me with a teasing smirk.

“I'd like to tell that line to the you of a little while ago,” I replied, and he was silent.

“Back when you wouldn't refuse what came to you and wouldn't go after the things that left you, failing to approach the Princess and instead single-mindedly worrying about her.”

“I'm forever indebted to you for that....”

Laughing off Beork, who has his head hanging dejectedly, I tap him on the back lightly and urge him to go towards the Princess.

It was about one year ago when he was worried about things like the age or status difference, and I pushed him.

Even though the things Beork was worried about weren't things the royal family had any concerns with.

This is really a peaceful and nice country.

It'd be nice to return to how things were before the Savior girl came, soon.

Watching Beork make his way to the Princess, I look around again.

The busy shops are likely the ones with food from other countries.

The members of the Knights eat like horses.

The King and Queen are cheerfully looking at decorations, and in front of a different decoration shop were Beork and the Princess.

With a happy blush on her face, the Princess pulled on Beork's arm.

Watching Beork's eyes crinkle as he looks at the Princess lovingly, I feel something indescribable, but assume it's happiness for my friend.

I walked around, looking at and peeking into the shops every so often.

Normally, I would go straight for the old bookshop or go with my subordinates to look at the food.

Now, not only can I read most of the books I want to read at Tsukina's café, but I can try different types of food that are just to my taste.

I look around the shops briefly before deciding to look at weapons maintenance equipment.

After I've looked around a little more, I hear the Princess happily saying, “Thank you,” and turn to look.

The Princess was smiling brightly, looking at a necklace Beork must have given her.

Getting a gift really does make you happy.

I remember the book cover Tsukina gave me and a smile appears on my face.

It has magic to prevent the book from being soiled, but thanks to the subdued design, it's made my reading time that much more enjoyable.

She casually gave me something with an advanced spell that she casted easily, but if I were to buy something like this at the market, it would be a very high-class item.

Come to think of it, the recovery magic she puts on my food and drinks for me is advanced magic too, and she doesn't take any money for the horse feed she gives my horse either.

“A gift, huh.”

I remember Tsukina's face from when she saw me off yesterday.

A book collection filled with books I've been interested in but could never find, the delicious and gently-flavored dishes, the comfortable chairs and the calm atmosphere, and her always considerate smile.

I'm there almost every day, but I want to spend even more time at that café.

“If it's as a thank-you for everything, maybe she'd take it.”

I look at the shops around me and think.

I wonder if she'd be happy to receive something from me, or if it'd make her smile.

She probably wouldn't take money, but it should be fine if I buy something for her.

This is the first time I've thought about wanting to give a gift to anyone, let alone a woman my own age.

I smile wryly as I look around the shops.

But because I've never given someone a gift like this before, I immediately hit a wall.

“...I have no idea what to buy.”

Even just whispering it to myself is pathetic.

Far from being able to choose a gift, I can't even think of what might be good.

I know that giving her a book would be strange.

No, for Tsukina, that might make her happy instead.

As I drove the probably correct predictions to the edges of my brain, I desperately looked over the decorations in the shops.

I thought about asking Beork, but I shook my head, an uncomfortable feeling washing over me.

I trust Beork and think of him as one of my best friends, but I don't like the idea of giving something he chose to her.

At any rate, I want to give her something I chose.

Not another man, but me.

“...hm?”

It felt like my thoughts were heading in a strange direction, but while it felt off, I couldn't figure out why.

I thought about it for a moment, but I couldn't figure out what was weird, so I decided to just put it aside for now.

Right now, my priority is to find a gift for her.

I narrow the items in the shop down to the ones with simple designs and compare them.

She doesn't seem like she likes anything too flashy, and I should probably avoid anything like rings or bracelets that would get in the way of cooking.

She's often carrying books too, so a corsage or a broach would probably get in the way.

A necklace, or maybe earrings?

My wandering gaze eventually lands on a hair-tie with a white flower attached to it sitting in the corner.

The flower was somewhat big, but the design was subdued.

Tsukina always ties her hair to the side or behind, but it's always with a normal hair-tie, without any decoration.

This shop sells one-of-a-kind items, so it's unlikely that she would already have one of these.

Once I thought that, there was no other option that came to mind.

When I think about if she'll be disappointed at a less expensive item, I look at the price tag and see that the number marked is just enough.

I decide to buy it, and call over to the shop owner.

“Excuse me, could I get this wrapped?”

“Yes. Thank you very-- S-Soeil-sama!”

Turning around to take out the item, the store owner was extremely surprised at me calling out to her.

Realizing that she was staring at me strangely, she frantically smiled at me again and began to wrap up the hair-tie.

I don't know why, but I'm glad the wrapping design also looks like something Tsukina will like.

I hand her the money and take the wrapped gift and smile.

It certainly is fun to pick out a gift for someone.

I think she'll like it, I think, and once I finish shopping, I have the afternoon off.

I decide to go to her café a little early today.

Thinking it strange that my lively surroundings had gone quiet, I turned to leave.

Translation Notes:

“hair-tie”: I tried to look up what this would be called but I couldn't find it, but it's one of those strings used to tie your hair (not really a ribbon, but like a cord) with a decorative flower on it; if anyone want to tell me what this is called, please do :")

#savior's book cafe #savior's book cafe translation #bookcafenovel #chapter 5 #shrinking distance #translation notes

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