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imaginedanvrs · 10 months

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my demon gave me everything

part 2 l masterlist

summary: dark!natasha romanoff x reader. Natasha Romanoff saves the world. Morals, lifestyle and past aside, the fact is that she puts her life on the line for everyone else. And for this, she believes she’s owed something. She saves billions of lives on the regular, so why not take the occasional one for herself?

word count: 7.1k

warnings: kidnapping, obsessive behaviour, domestic abuse, murder threats, graphic descriptions, noncon turned dubcon, fingering, degrading, knife play

I’m in a field, not sure what kind. There are no flowers or crops. The grass is long enough that it whips at my face every few steps but I’m not bothered by it. In fact, I think I enjoy the feeling. The lush green blades are like hands reaching out to caress my skin as though encouraging me to keep running.

Running? I don’t know why I’m doing that. It’s a beautiful summer’s day, maybe around lunchtime. And yet, instead of a soft blue, the sky is glowing a hazy orange that shimmers off the blades of grass and is gradually becoming a deep red. I’m not concerned, there’s no need to be. Though I do sense that something is following me, and has been for a while. I wonder if I know them. Perhaps they’re trying to give me a message. I laugh, they’ll have to catch up with me.

The field goes all the way to the horizon. I’m not sure how far I’ve come but I’m not tired and have no desire to stop. That is until I’m made to. One of the blades tangles itself around my ankle and I fly through the air and land with a thud. The lushious grass stands above me now, leaning over as to hide me from the world. Another blade wraps itself around my ankle. It was no accident. They pull at me and pull and keep going. They have the strength of ten men. They’re dragging me into the dirt and I now see this place is not a safe haven.

I am being sentenced to an early burial, no one around to say my eulogy. I’m waist deep now and more blades are pulling me down. They cut me out of spite. I try to scream but I cannot form a syllable. There is no noise from anything in this world, even as I scrape the ground on the surface.

My face is submerged into the darkness now and all that is left of me is two arms scrambling for something to anchor onto and save me. Until, finally, two calloused hands grab my arms and pull back.

You woke up with a start, too fast for your body to react that you’re immediately hauled back into bed. You paused to give yourself a chance to adjust to the transition between sleep and wake. More importantly, you let the blurred lines between dreaming and reality become clear enough for you to know that your nightmare was just that and assure yourself that you were safe.

Once that clarity set in, you allowed yourself to open your eyes again and immediately felt all lucidity disperse. You had no idea where the fuck you were. The room was one you didn’t recall ever being in, especially not the night before. You racked your brain for some kind of explanation as to how you could’ve ended up in a stranger’s bed but found the only plausible answers to be pretty unlikely.

You weren’t the kind of person to hook up with strangers, even if you sometimes wished you were. There was no one else in the spacious bedroom and with a quick scan, you couldn’t see any photos of the owner. Another answer was that a friend had invited you over the night before, you’d gotten drunk and they insisted you stayed the night. But you had no recollection of any such events nor did you have friends close enough in the States to offer that kind of invitation in the first place. Whatsmore, you didn’t know anyone who lived in New York, as indicated to you by the floor to ceiling windows covering the entirety of two sides of the room that overlooked the city.

Tentatively, you pulled the covers back and slipped out of bed, presenting the baggy vintage shirt with a print you weren't familiar with to yourself. You thought of grabbing some shorts to put on too but weren't sure of the social etiquette of putting on the clothes of a stranger whose bed you just woke up in and didn't remember. The shirt covered half of your thighs anyway.

You steadily made your way around the bed, taking in your surroundings as you went. There was nothing personalised in the room. The bed had no unique blankets or pillows, there were no ornaments or shelving of any kind or even any photos. But in all fairness, anyone who stepped into that room would immediately be drawn to the windows that you drifted towards yourself.

It was only upon closer inspection that you realised several of the windows were sliding glass doors leading out onto a personal balcony. Along it was a lone table and chair. You imagined that if you had a balcony like that, you’d have a multitude of different flower pots scattered along it. You tried to open the balcony door for a better look but it didn’t budge.

Judging by the wisps of yellow peaking over the horizon, it looked as though it was the evening, alarming you to question how long you had been asleep in a stranger's home. Though you couldn’t hear the city below, you could see the frantic life buzzing below as the general gleam of traffic moved as one disorganised swarm. You had only visited New York a handful of times, but you guessed you were in the centre based off of the multitude of skyscrapers around that you seemed to be almost level with.

With a shaky breath, you turned away from the illuminated city and cautiously made your way across the cold floor towards the door, only considering finding some shoes or socks for a split second before turning the handle to present the rest of the apartment.

“Holy shit,” you muttered under your breath as you took in the space in front of you. From a mere glance, you could only assume the penthouse was the rough size of your workplace. The practically empty, vast space before you certainly screamed New York, not to mention wealth. It had the same dark minimalistic design as the bedroom as though the owner had bought the showroom along with it.

The wall to my left and opposite me had the same, slightly overkill, windows to observe the whole city as far as the eye could see. Except they must have been at least forty feet taller to accommodate the second floor that seemed to cover about two thirds of floor space. There was a wide, single level staircase leading up to the landing and as you made your way along the perimeter of the penthouse you could see that not only was there a solid wall along the edges, but there was also a locking door at the top of the stairs with a keypad next to it, similar to the ones at work.

Just next to the stairs was a large kitchen area and island with several chairs around it, all of the same design style. It looked hardly used, by the owner or any guests. Even in the main space, there was a large corner sofa that could easily seat about ten people but seemed to have never been touched. You wondered if the television in the centre had ever been turned on either, or if the coffee table had ever had bowls piled up on top of it.

Beep. Click.

You spun around to face the door at the top of the stairs, awaiting the reaction of whoever came through them. A face you certainly didn’t expect to see was that of Natasha Romanoff, sauntering down the stairs in sweatpants and a tank top. Her hair was hanging loosely over her face as her head was dropped to the stairs. You couldn’t find the voice to call her attention, too stunned to even move. It was only once she reached the final step that she glanced your way with a casual smile.

“You’re up,” she commented. “I was just about to make dinner.”

You opened and closed your mouth like a goldfish as you watched, dumbfounded, as the Avenger wandered over to the kitchen and started filling pans with water and prepping equipment. You observed her for a single minute until you were finally able to find your voice. “Natasha?”

“Yeah?” She called back over her shoulder. You didn’t respond after a beat, not sure what to even say.

“What am I doing here?” You said, only knowing how to be blatant. “Where even are we?”

“We’re home, of course,” Natasha said matter of factly. You frowned.

“Your home?” You tried.

“It’s yours too now detka, you know this.” The redhead chuckled and turned back around to you.

“I don’t…know what…what do you mean?” You stammered as the hero started strolling towards you leisurely.

“A few days ago, you told me you wanted to go home. Well here you are,” Natasha stated simply, an easy smile still across her rose lips.

Beat.

“Is this a joke?” You asked plainly, squinting slightly as you looked Natasha in the eye for any signs of...anything. “Natasha, I don’t remember getting here,” you continued, trying to show the redhead your worry.

“That’s too formal for this, call me Nat. And I’m not surprised you don’t remember anything, you were asleep the whole way.” You could feel your eyes widen as your brain screamed more questions at you. “Don’t worry, detka, Strange said it doesn’t affect your sleep schedule because it keeps you tired enough to fall back asleep whenever you want to,” Natasha continued. You didn’t feel particularly tired at that moment.

“What is this? And what is it? What the fuck’s going on?” You demanded, feeling suddenly very trapped in the vast space. Your eyes scanned the room around you for any kind of clarity or answer, anything that could give you more than Natasha was. When you eventually looked back at the older woman a chill raked its way down your back.

“Watch your mouth,” the ex assassin warned, eyes boring into your own. You were just then aware of how little space, and apparently air, there was between you. You released a shuddered breath as Natasha’s intense gaze didn’t waver, as though she was daring you to even think of getting more wound up. But you just couldn’t ignore the fight or flight instincts screaming at you to get away from the unpredictable redhead.

“I just want to go home,” you said carefully. Natasha huffed and rolled her eyes.

“You are home. Don’t make me repeat myself again.” Her frustration was rising as rapidly as your anxiety.

“But I mean…my job,” you tried. Natasha’s gaze eased marginally.

“You don’t need to worry about that. You were only going to be there a couple more weeks anyway,” she pointed out.

“But-”

“Your job is me now.” You could feel a lump the size of a walnut growing in your throat as your mind raced with possible explanations of what that could mean. Natasha took a confident step towards you and you took one back.

“Where’s my phone? And my clothes?” You asked, only just able to stop your voice from breaking. You took a couple more steps away for good measure but felt the chilled window bite into your back. You didn’t miss the corner of Natasha’s lips flicker at the dull impact.

“You don’t need them,” the older woman stated and strolled towards you. “You just need me,” she explained once she was right in front of you, close enough for you to see the shadows across her eyes that watched you with a kind of fascination. She lifted her hand and you flinched. She didn’t seem to care. Natasha placed her somewhat rough hand against your cheek and watched for a reaction.

You couldn’t quite give one. You hadn’t felt a woman’s hand on you like that before. Ever. It was…nice. Your skin heated up under her touch as though it ignited tiny bolts of electricity to shoot across from her to you. This made Natasha’s interest grow and she began stroking her thumb just under your eye, almost making them shutter close. But before you could enjoy the sensation any more, the redhead drew her hand away and brought it back too swiftly for you to comprehend.

Your head whipped to the side and your cheek suddenly heated up again but in a way greatly differing from a few seconds prior. It was burning red. “What the fuck?” You yelled, in too much shock to think of what you were saying. You tried to bring your hand up to your sore skin but Natsaha was on you before it even left your side.

In an instant, the ex assassin had your front pressed firmly into the glass with your arms trapped painfully between your back and the redhead. She lodged her thigh between yours, pushing herself into you as much as possible and only requiring one hand to hold you while the other grabbed your jaw. You struggled against her but even with the aid of the most adrenaline you had ever experienced, Natasha held you easily.

“I told you to watch your fucking mouth,” she hissed, nails digging into your flesh. “I hope you’re not so dumb that you forgot already, or you’re not going to last very long here, malysh.”

“But you’re an Avenger,” you choked out as tears began rolling down your cheeks and onto Natasha’s hand. “You’re meant to be one of the good guys,” you cried as your hope started to shatter.

“Oh I am,” Natasha cooed, condescension dripping from her husky voice. “So I think the people I save should give something back to me.” With that, Natasha withdrew herself from you and sauntered back towards the kitchen like nothing happened, leaving you slumped against the window a whimpering mess.

“Go sit at the table,” she ordered. You figured it best to obey and gradually made your way over with your eyes trained on the assassin every step of the way.

You sat at the table in silence for a while. You weren’t sure for how long because there wasn’t a clock on any of the white or aegean walls. The only indicator of passing time you had was the spread of the orange wisps in the sky that were almost upon you and the bright glow of the sun, just peeking over the horizon.

Natasha was busying herself in the kitchen making a dish you didn’t recognise the smell of. You wondered if it was Russian. You hadn’t had Russian food before. At the few moments you risked a glance towards her, she drifted seamlessly between counters as though in a routine she had practised for years and could conduct without any conscious effort.

You mostly sat in shock, trying to wrap your head around what exactly it was that you were doing there. Natasha’s answers were far too vague for you to understand though you didn’t feel like enquiring anymore into it. Instead, you just wanted to get out and it seemed the only way to get there was through the locked door at the top of the stairs. You didn’t fancy your chances of trying to get through with Natasha so close by and when you played it in your head it ended with you on the ground again.

At some point you began pondering if there was any chance in hell you could think up a plan smart enough to escape. Escape. It was an insane concept. Escaping from an Avenger. On the off chance you even managed it, what would you do once you got out? Tell people you had been abducted by the Black Widow? Who would believe you? Perhaps you could just keep running until you hit the border and crossed over to Canada, surely Natasha didn’t have as much power there. Who were you kidding? Natasha wasn’t just going to let you get far enough to find out. She was the Black Widow.

The redhead placed some cutlery and a plate down in front of you before retrieving her own, giving you a chance to assess the meal. It looked to be a kind of stew or soup with beef and beetroot as the sole ingredients in making it a bold red. On top of the dish was a spoonful of cream and some herbs you couldn’t name on the top of your head. You couldn’t deny, to yourself at least, that it smelled enticing and you were curious to try.

You waited for Natasha to be seated before you picked up your spoon and watched for her to do the same, only taking a small mouthful after she did, an act she was pleasantly surprised she didn’t have to teach you. The older woman observed you as your tastebuds gave an approving cry for more and you were immediately aware of how hungry you were. Despite feeling sick with anxiety just a few moments prior, you had to stop yourself shovelling mouthfuls of the moorish dish into your mouth at once. It was amazing.

As you ate, you tried to take little notice of Natasha. While you were still on edge, your body insisted that the food was your priority at that moment, allowing the redhead to survey your every movement. You liked her cooking, that much was clear. She liked that. If there was one thing Natasha despised in a guest was when they didn’t appreciate what she gave them.

“Borscht,” Natasha said, continuing with her own plate while you polished yours clean. “That was the dish.”

“It was good,” Was all I managed to say, your throbbing cheek reminding you to at least try and appease her for the time being. It was enough for the spy, for now.

You glanced around the penthouse awkwardly as Natasha finished her meal, avoiding her awaiting stare. When she stood up with her plate and strolled towards you you stared down at your plate until she took it from its place and lingered next to you.

“Thank you,” you muttered. The redhead praised you internally and hummed.

“Would you like anything else, detka?” There were several things you wanted, none of which would be accepted.

“Some water…please?” Natasha smiled approvingly and turned away. It was only once she did that the thought came to mind and before you could even think rationally, you leapt out of the chair and towards the spy.

You made it perhaps half a step. Natasha whipped around immediately and a blur of white came hurtling straight towards your face, knocking you down upon imminent impact. The smash only registered in your ears once you were on the floor and the pain along the opposite side of your face than before set in once the spy was standing above you with an amused expression.

You groaned, blinking twice, as Natasha set the intact plate back down on the table and placed her combat boot on your wrist and pressed down. Hard. You cried out and grabbed at her ankle with your free hand as you felt the textures from her shoe ingrave themselves into your bones. “Stop!” You screamed, hitting at her ankle with no effect while the redhead watched you struggle in a pained panic. Again.

“I knew you had more fight in you,” she chuckled and squatted down, her uneven footing proving no challenge to her balance, even as your hits grew more desperate. “You wanna play, puppy?” She continued to taunt, wrapping her hand around your throat and constricting without any hesitation.

Your free hand immediately set about grabbing and clawing at hers as she watched you choke with a look of intrigue. Your eyes darted between the spy and her boot as the pressure built to the point of snapping. You wouldn’t put it past the sadistic hero to break your wrist, but you also weren't sure what it would take to get her to let up on your throat.

“What’s it gonna be, pup?” Natasha teased, highly amused by the conflict across your face. “Three…” she started and your eyes widened, darting back to your wrist for the final time before you focused all your energy at scratching your attacker's hand and wrist. “Two…” You gave a gargled cry of protest as your vision began to blur, depriving you of seeing the drops of blood you managed to draw from the spy. “One…” Your eyes rolled back just as Natasha let go.

The Avenger stepped back as you rolled onto your front and gasped to regain control of your lungs between strained coughs. You felt at your throat and cradled your bruised wrist while attempting to draw as much air from the room as you could, though it still felt in short supply.

“Smart choice,” she chuckled as you curled up around the broken shards. “Now clean this shit up.” You just about heard her walk back towards the stairs over the sound of your heart pumping in your ears.

You took a hold of a large shard next to you and pressed it into my palm, contemplating the two choices you had with it. Use it on yourself or use it on Natasha. You didn’t have guts for either, so instead, you hauled yourself up from the floor and collected all the broken pieces. Luckily, the plate hadn’t actually shattered and there were only a handful of pieces to put in the bin under the sink.

You went back to the table for the remaining plate and washed it up along with the cutlery, leaving them to dry on the draining rack, going through the motions on autopilot while trying to process the enjoyment Natasha had gotten out of the scene. You wondered how many more like it you would undergo.

Having completed Natasha’s request and not knowing what else she expected of you, you took the chance to start looking through her cupboards and drawers to explore the penthouse more. After all, you had no idea how long you would be there.

Her food cupboards were filled with organic and wholly natural ingredients, mostly labelled with brands you had never heard of. Pastas, rice, cereals, all looking different to what was sold in supermarkets and no doubt double the price. She had no savoury snacks and guilty pleasure foods except for a lone jar of peanut butter on the top shelf. The one sweet thing she owned you were possibly allergic to, having never been properly tested but had a suspicion of when you last tried.

There was a cupboard filled with spices that you didn’t get a good look at because you were overwhelmed with the strong smells as soon as you opened the door. Another cupboard was packed with a sizable collection of different alcohols, none of which you recognised the labels of. There was nothing else that stood out to you as you looked through the remaining drawers until your eyes landed on a vegetable knife.

Twice you had attacked Natasha and twice you had failed. It wasn’t surprising. She was an Avenger and perhaps the most lethal spy in the world. But it allowed you to learn. She was quick, so there was no way you could make a move fast enough to catch her out. She was also undeniably stronger than you so relying on brute strength would get you nowhere and you concluded that stealth wouldn’t be your best option either.

However, with a weapon? Things could be different. If you waited and bought your time, perhaps an opportunity would arise where the knife could make all the difference. You didn’t want to kill Natasha, just do something to help get you out. Perhaps she would let you go if she knew you could actually hurt her back.

You glanced back over your shoulder to ensure she hadn’t reappeared without your knowing but Natasha was nowhere in sight. You slipped the knife, blade down into the waistband of your underwear and grimaced at the feeling of the blade pressing gently into your hip. All the more reason to be careful.

The knife was a bold choice. An exciting one too, for Natasha, not you. For you it would be anything but when the redhead got her hands on the flimsy weapon and used it the way she had been itching to. The moment she saw your eyes land on that knife she knew it would be promising, she was looking forward to seeing how you would fail and the fear she would practically be able to taste when it would be used against you.

She wanted her sheets stained red by the end of the night.

An eye for an eye, she mused to herself as she examined the scratches along her hand. Cat scratches. Kitten scratches. Like any good owner, she’d train that out of you soon enough. They didn’t sting, of course. Infact, Natasha quite admired them. To her, they were a medal of how easily she could overpower you and the fear she could bring out.

The redhead continued to monitor the screen for a while, watching as you made your way aimlessly around the apartment again and eventually perched on the sofa as you bounced your leg, appearing deep in thought. It didn’t seem to cross your mind at any point that Natasha had cameras covering every square inch of the apartment and that the S.H.I.E.L.D issued technology allowed her to zoom in enough to count the hairs on your head. She could see you from every angle, any time, anywhere.

Eventually, Natasha switched off the monitor and made her way out of the office and to the main door, entering her four digit, fingerprint sensitive code into the keypad to open the heavy barrier and see your head shoot around to face the spy. She didn’t miss the way you pressed your sweaty palms against the hem of the baggy shirt, subtly checking the security of the knife as you stood slowly.

“It’s late,” Natasha stated. “Go brush your teeth,” she nodded in the direction of the bathroom that you had looked in when you were alone. You didn’t object and instead made your way cautiously across the living area. Natasha had to stop herself from laughing at the sight, knowing that if she hadn’t seen you grab the knife, seeing the way you walked then would have given it away enough.

Amateur.

When you left the bathroom and Natasha slinked in after you, you stood awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for further instructions. “What are you doing?” Natasha asked plainly.

“I don’t…know,” you said, knowing you probably sounded like a lost child but not knowing that Natasha soaked up the view.

So needy.

“It’s bedtime. Go to bed,” she stated, nodding towards the other door that connected the two rooms. You glanced around and fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “You know where it is.”

“Yeah but…” you trailed off. Was she going to sleep next to you? Had she the night before? Natasha raised an eyebrow in question as she began brushing her teeth. Right. Don’t object.

You lingered just past the doorway, wondering which side you were meant to lay in. You had never lain in the same bed as someone before. At least not someone you weren't friends of five years with. You weren’t sure of the etiquette. Luckily, Natasha was willing to show you when she placed an unexpected hand on your lower back and gave you an encouraging push. You hadn’t heard her come back in.

She led you to the foot of the bed and pushed you to continue round to the other side while she pulled her top and trousers off. You quickly averted your eyes as she threw on a loose shirt too and slipped into bed. On any other occasion you would be starfishing naked in the king sized bed, but you stayed as close to the edge as you could without falling off.

Just as you made yourself as comfortable as possible on your side, you felt Natasha’s arm sling across your stomach, narrowly missing the knife, and hook onto your waist to pull you against her. You kept your eyes trained on the window despite feeling Natasha’s breath on your neck that put your hairs on end. The redhead made small circles on your waist, shaking up your mixed bottle of emotions and hoping she wouldn’t take the cap off, and started venturing further up your side and away from the knife. She rested on your neck a while, tracing the area her hand had been before as though she could remember it better by doing so. You could too and your neck heated up under her touch, making Natasha feel as you gulped.

She liked that and inched further until her lips grazed your sore neck, softly at first, as though testing that your skin wasn’t hot enough to burn, before kissing the spot her thumb had been. You shuddered at the sensation and willed your eyes to stay open and to not enjoy how it felt to have Natasha’s mouth on you. But it proved harder the firmer she became, hand glued to the back of your neck as she kissed as much of the area as she could and finally started sucking.

When you had to bite back a moan, you knew you couldn’t let her continue and frantically reached for the knife only to find it wasn’t there. Instead, it was against your neck, gleaming slightly with spit. “Uh oh,” Natasha grinned, pressing into your back just as she had done the first time.

“You like making trouble for yourself, pup?” The spy husked and took your lobe between her teeth. “You haven’t even been here a full day yet and this is your third attempt at hurting me? I thought the last time scared you enough to at least hold off for a couple days,” she teased further and you began squirming in her hold. Natasha only pressed you tighter against her and pushed the blade closer. “You looked so cute getting choked like that.” At that, you tried to elbow Natasha but she caught you with ease and twisted your arm behind your back, grabbing the other while keeping the blade against all your major blood vessels.

“Stupid little thing,” she smiled against you as she began sucking small patches of your neck again. “It’s gonna do you no good to keep acting like this, you know? And it’d be such a shame to have to carve up this pretty body just to show you that,” she pouted as your guts churned and you found myself freezing in place.

“Then again…” Natasha continued, “this is the third time so maybe you’re not worth the hassle of keeping.” Stupidly, you felt your spirits rise at the hopeful words Natasha muttered, thinking your plan had worked and that the spy didn’t want to deal with the continuing defiance. “I suppose the only question left is how best to kill you.” Your heart stopped.

“Sure, I could slit this pretty throat and let you drain out on my bed then dump you somewhere, but that sounds like a hassle and a very uncreative one.” She pondered as the room’s temperature suddenly dropped to below zero. “Perhaps I could cut into those small wrists and then drive you home, make everyone think you were just too weak to handle your big adventure.” Natasha pretended not to hear the small whimper that left your lips. “Or maybe, as you’ve wasted so much of my time and energy, I take my time with it to make this all worth it. Start out with small little cuts and rub salt in them; make larger ones and burn them shut; rip your guts out and make you watch. So many possibilities. Any of those sound good to you, detka?” She asked with a small kiss to your cheek.

“Please,” you sobbed, tears soaking Natasha’s sheet while you felt like a lamb being prepped for slaughter. “I’m sorry…please don’t kill me,” you begged as you suddenly recalled all the adventures and accomplishments you wanted to use the rest of your life to achieve. You wanted to laugh more with friends, you wanted to cry with them, you wanted to have stories to tell people. You hadn’t even felt a woman’s touch yet.

“So precious when you beg for your life,” Natasha mused as she pressed the small blade further into your skin until you felt a sharp sting.

“I won’t try anything again, I swear!” you pleaded, fighting against every instinct in your body screaming at you to fight back. You knew doing so would only play into the spy’s hands.

“I just don’t believe you, lapachka. There’s so much fight in you,” she pondered.

“I’ll do anything,” you cried.

“Yeah?” Natasha’s lips turned up against you. “I think you might have to let me fuck the fight out of you, meelaya.”

“I…” Words escaped you. You racked your brain for any kind of legible response but your mind was blank, only filled with images of what the redhead could possibly be planning.

“Has anyone ever touched you before, pup?” Natasha queeried as she watched a drop of blood drip down your neck and let her free hand roam down.

“No, you whispered and felt Natasha smirk against your sensitive neck again, not knowing how excited the truth made her.

“Then I’ll make sure to ruin you for anyone else.” She husked, as she groped at your breasts and squeezed your nipples between her fingers. You gasped at the foreign feeling that you …didn’t hate. That was until Natasha’s knife dragged across your neck and left a scarlet line in its path.

“Fuck!” You grabbed at your neck and the spy let you as she trailed the knife down to your breasts and circled it around your hardened nipples, making the occasional scratch as she went that made you whine every time.

Natasha’s free hand didn’t take long to find itself at the hem of your underwear, pulling the band back and snapping it against you as she mouthed at your neck, growing more desperate once she got a taste of your blood you had smeared across yourself in panic. It was as though the metallicity was making her hunter drive go wild as her scratches turned to cuts and littered them across your torso. The more she did, the more you grew accustomed to the sudden sparks of pain and started to ride the high your brain forced you to perceive them as and had to bite back your moans. This was until Natasha dragged her nails down your inner thighs and you couldn’t help the breathy moan that escaped your lips.

“Oh?” The redhead chuckled and repeated the action, giving her the same response with the addition of you arching into her against your better wishes. “If I didn’t know better I’d be willing to bet those underwear of yours have become a little wet, hm?” She queried as her hands went up to investigate. You didn’t answer, far too embarrassed by the fact you were fairly sure she was right. The deep sigh you heard from Natasha once her fingers danced across your covered slit was confirmation enough.

“You’re a twisted little thing, malysh. Did you get wet once I started cutting you or was it when you thought I might kill you?” She continued, genuinely curious. She knew you liked it when she kissed your neck and knew you enjoyed the pain of her nails, but she hadn’t expected to find you that wet between the two. You had clearly been working yourself up for a while.

“Answer me,” she demanded with a sharp slap to your cheek.

“I don’t know,” you whined honestly. Luckily, Natasha seemed to believe you.

“And there I was thinking I was going to have to make you get my fingers wet for me,” she paused. “Though I suppose there’s no reason to sacrifice one good thing for another.” You didn’t resist when she pushed her fingers against your lips and began sucking on them the moment you could, missing the shaky exhale from Natasha. “Good puppy,” she mused as she fucked your mouth with her fingers, your brain far too foggy to object.

Once she deemed them coated enough with your saliva, Natasha wasted no time in slipping them past your underwear and across your slit, sighing deeply when she could finally feel your wetness against her skin. “You’re soaked, puppy,” she groaned as she teased your clit with her fingers. You could only whine a response and buck your hips into her. “God, you’re a little slut too, aren’t you meelaya?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, enthralled by the fact you were finally feeling someone touch you in such a way.

When Nataha’s fingers pushed inside you, your head fell back against the redhead’s shoulder and you gave a breathy moan that made the spy start fingering you without any ease. You winced at the sudden pain, expecting her to at least start off slow but that seemed to be the last thing on Natasha’s mind as her fingers reached your depths and curled, making you reach back to try and grip onto her for support. Out of the generosity of her heart, she let you.

The room is quickly filled with the sinful sounds of Natasha’s fingers pumping into you and you actually enjoying it. You never would have guessed that your first time would be under such dubious circumstances and that you didn’t even care. Perhaps there was a part of you that loved the immorality, to put it lightly, of it all. But that part would have to be investigated another time because at that moment, all you could think of was how good Natasha's fingers made you feel better than you thought possible. The redhead was thrusting her digits in fast succession that still managed to swipe all of your nerve endings in a perfect harmony. It made your head spin so wildly that you were left disorientated, only being able to anchor yourself to Natasha and allowing her to take whatever she wanted from you while you gave her your most vulnerable state.

The spy dug her knife into your burning skin again and the coolness of it was gladly welcomed. She cut and you knew that one was deeper than the rest but you were far too overwhelmed by the additional finger Natasha added to care. Your walls protested to the stretch that your body wasn’t prepared for though it proved no issue for Natasha as she murmured orders to “take it” into your ear and straight to your cunt, instead making you appreciate how full you were. Fuller than you had ever been from the limited times you had ventured there with your own fingers, too afraid to pass the limits Natasha had no care of.

Once her knife was soaked in red up to the handle, the ex assassin held the top of the gripped part and brought the end down onto your throbbing clit. You rolled your hips into the weapon smeared with your blood immediately with a desperate whine at the intense pressure of it all. “Getting off on the knife that’s dripping with your blood? You deprived whore,” Natasha husked, voice low as she circled your clit with the edge of the handle. This only worked you up to your peak and soon enough, you were gripping onto Natasha like a lifeline as tears sprung to your eyes from how close you were. Of course, the redhead knew the signs and pressed on your clit harder to match the firmness of her strokes inside you, coaxing you to your orgasm.

You were drowning when you came, held down by a pressure you couldn’t see but could feel with every fibre of your being. Your whole body was pulsing red hot and you couldn’t breath under the intensity of it all. Thankfully, Natasha was there to bring you out to the other side and slowly pumped her fingers into you as you squeezed them tight. She tossed the knife to the side as the haze in your mind began to clear and your whole body finally relaxed. You didn’t even notice the spy pulling you onto your back, your body too focused on the newly awoken nerves in your cunt that started to ache. It was incredible. She was incredible.

She…

You hoped my eyes to the sight of Natasha kissing the streaks of red that were littered across your chest. You felt your rib cage constrict at the view as the reality of what had happened came crashing down on you and threatened to pull you back under the waves. The spy had been carving up your body while she fucked you and it made you cum harder than you ever had in your life. She smirked up at you, as though she was peering into your mind and could hear your conflict over the things she had made you feel.

That look was almost enough to distract you from the fact that she was pulling your underwear down and settling herself between your spread legs, even though your breathing hadn’t yet evened out. “I can’t,” you started, reaching down to push her away but Natasha just slapped your hands back.

“You can and you will,” was all she said before her mouth was on you again, tasting the pleasure she had given you. You whined and tried to crawl away but Natasha wrapped her hands around your thighs to keep you where you were with your legs either side of her head.

She took her time with her tongue, making sure to let it venture to every inch of your overstimulated cunt while you lay there and took it all. Feeling her hands so firmly on your thighs, her moans vibrating through your body, her hot mouth on such a sensitive area. It was all too much and it didn’t take long before you were falling over the edge again, except this time you kept plummeting and didn’t hit the ground.

Natasha was lying besides you when you came back around, her watchful eyes lifting as you did. “I lost you there for a second, detka,” she chuckled, running a hand across your hair that covered your face and pushed it back behind your ear. You were too tired to even flinch. Nor did you object when she pulled your head into her chest and kept her hands there. Instead, you listened to her heartbeat and let yourself drift off to the rhythm.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #dark!marvel #dark!fic #dark!natasha x reader #natasha romanoff smut

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gubbin-galoshes · 9 months

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Yesterday I arrived at a Christmas fundraiser event as a volunteer. There were parents and kids, carols and laughter, families dancing and talking in bright voices.

My back was to it all. I guarded the entry table, took money, explained the festivities, and watched them move on. Other volunteers came to talk with me, sat at the table two and three at a time, offered me cocoa and cookies and engaged me in bright conversation while the room reverberated with noise and more families came in and waited expectantly at my table.

Four hours later, I felt like I was going to pass out, but I had two more hours to go. By the time I got home after dark, I was shaking. I felt like my brain had been sucked out with a straw, leaving a rattling ringing in my ears.

This morning, after running tech for the UU service, everyone got up and started talking at once but I couldn't understand them because there was a crashing ocean noise in my skull that rumbled painfully in my ears every time someone made a sound. I had to get out. I picked up my bag, said goodbye, and ran.

For the past few years-- since joining this community and since becoming a manager at work, since I've started running meetings and supervising people and being asked to give every moment of my time to solving other people's personal problems or to noisy, bright, confusing events --I've forced myself to try and be normal.

Normal is taking everything I have, so I keep my abnormalities to myself: my fanfiction, my kids' shows, my fantasy novels, my podcasts, the tent I sleep in every night because it's the only thing that makes me feel safe. These things are secret because they're mine and mine alone. I can't let normal take them, too.

One of those secret things is Hilda.

I adore this show so incredibly much. I feel like it was written just for me: the folklore, the woods, the low-stakes adventures, the knowledge that everything will be okay in the end. This is the world I always wanted. It's the story that I always wanted to write. Even now, its gentle lessons on how to be a good person and how to be a good friend are morals I needed to hear. And I tried applying those lessons: be adventurous, invite others to explore with you, say what's on your mind, ask questions, knock on doors, help where help is needed, engage fully in every conversation, spend all your time with other people, leap first and look later, be loud, and contribute to the noise and color and light. Do all these things and everyone will love you. Keep doing it, even if it hurts. You'll adjust. You'll become resilient. And you'll be happy and you'll make everyone else happy.

But then. Now. There's Louise.

This is me. I'm so quiet that no one sees me, no one knows my name, and when I make a sound people jump. In my overwhelmed and frustrated state, after trying so hard to be like everyone else, this three-second scene made me cry with relief.

I'd been so focused on turning myself into the person that everyone else needed that I'd forgotten who I am. Louise reminded me. As the episode went on, I remembered how I used to quietly and calmly observe. How I would absorb and analyze and only speak when I'd built up something to say.

But most importantly-- the thing that reached into my soul and ripped it out --was the fact that Louise is comfortable in who she is. By the end of the show, her quiet observation is her strength. She's strong and confident, not timid and shy. She can be accepted warmly as a good friend even if she isn't as loud as everyone else. Her character arc is not to overcome her quietness. Being quiet is a part of her personality, and she's loved and accepted for who she is.

And that? I don't remember seeing that.

Ever.

Only a couple weeks ago I sat in a roomful of people and told them I was grateful to them for teaching me how to be more outgoing while, at the same time, the raging ocean waves of protest crashed in my ears. Just push through it, I'd thought. The more you force yourself to be extroverted, the easier it will become. But what if it was okay to be myself?

I haven't watched past this introductory episode, but this kids' show is washing away my existential crisis and I love it so, so much.

#journal #hilda netflix #introvert

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that-ari-blogger · 10 months

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The Magnus Archives And The Mary Sue

Jonathan Sims is not a Mary Sue.

I have been listening to The Magnus Archives over the past few months and, despite my Hemophobia (fear of blood), I have reached the end of the first season. And something interesting stuck out to me.

Jonathan Sims is not a Mary Sue.

This may seem like an oddly specific statement, and it is. Because this is a character who fits the bill for the archetype to a tea, but itsn't. And I'd like to examine why.

Specifically, I'd like to take a look at how he contrasts with another pop culture detective. That being Sherlock from the BBC show of the same name.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD

So, I'm going to prefix this with the fact that I have not listened to the entire podcast. A phobia of blood has kept me away from specific episodes, but more importantly, I am simply not finished or up to date with the podcast, so I do not know much of the surrounding mystery. At the time of writing this, I have just finished The New Door, which is for somehow the creepiest so far.

The point is, if the characterisation of Mr Sims changes over the series, this is the benchmark for how it has been going so far.

First up, let me define a few terms. A Mary Sue is not a character, but a story. A Mary Sue is a story in which a designated character is the only character in the story, and all others are noticeably lacking in development or agency that doesn't centre around this character. For example, Rey from the Star Wars sequel trilogy is not a Mary Sue in The Force Awakens but slowly transitions through The Last Jedi until sitting firmly in that box for The Rise Of Skywalker.

Second up, I do not believe in "bad stories", and I refuse to decry any story as "awful" or "terrible", and instead as "not for me". Literature and media are subjective, and there is nothing wrong with you liking a character designated as a Mary Sue, that is half of all fanfiction. So, please don't feel the need to defend yourself for liking Sherlock or Rey, this isn't an attack on you. This is an analysis of why I personally didn't like Sherlock, where I did like Jonathan Sims.

That is the parameters I am using for this discussion. If you have an issue with this, disagree with this, not my analysis.

So, Sherlock. In this series, after the first episode (In which Sherlock is not a Sue yet, just a jerk), every other character pales in comparison to Sherlock. Watson is limited to a love interest who routinely gets kidnapped. Moriarty is obsessed with Sherlock. The police can't act without Sherlock's help. You get what I mean.

Jonathan Sims, on the other hand, is a jerk. Firmly and simply, when we meet him, he is derogatory about his colleagues and borders on rudeness towards those giving statements. He is a jerk.

This is, in my opinion, fantastic characterisation, because it isn't entirely accurate. Don't get me wrong, this isn't a mask he puts on. But there are several situations in which Sims' companions, or the general public are put in danger, and he offers help without batting an eye. This is a kind man who just happens to suffer from a bad case of "living in London".

For example, it is routinely stated that people come to the Magnus Archive when they have nowhere else to go, and Sims takes them in, and listens patiently. He stays with the woman who is scared to be alone, and despite alack of belief, is willing to investigate every statement given, no matter how unlikely, out of kindness to the client.

Another example is the cliffhanger at the end of Infestation. Jonathan is in danger, and his immediate reaction, without hesitation or debate, is to try and get Sasha out of there. Before even trying to save himself. He does this with Martin when he needs a place to stay. He complains about this coworker repeatedly, and yet is instantly willing to offer him a safe place to stay.

Again, prickly and most definitely not "nice", but fundamentally benevolent.

This doesn't stop Mr Sims from becoming a Mary Sue, though. So what is it that does? The supporting cast.

Everyone else, from Sasha, to Martin, to Nurse Annie. Everyone is rich with characterisation that doesn't revolve around Mr Sims. Martin, so far, is a coward who is getting over himself and proving to be more useful than those around him expect, Michael is terrifying in a way I was not prepared for at all (it messes with perception instead of being a physical threat, and that's unsettling on several different levels), and Sasha is... well I think she's the villain, but that is a theory I have no proof on yet.

The point is, the story doesn't happen to him because he is the protagonist, and the secondary cast doesn't stick around him because "he is the protagonist." The story happens to him because he's in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the cast sticks around because they like him and trust him, mostly.

Jonathan Sims and Sherlock are the same character, with one minour difference, that being one of them is kind-hearted beneath all of the nonsense. But what sets them apart, in my opinion, is the story they are in. Everything in Sherlock revolves around Sherlock. The plot of The Magnus Archive seems to revolve around Jonathan Sims, but that's only out of sheer force of bad luck.

Also, he speaks with my exact accent and mannerisms (although I like to think I'm a little less abrasive), so he does have that going for him.

#rants #literary analysis #literature analysis #character analysis #what's so special about...?#the magnus archives #the magnus pod #the magnus institute #bbc sherlock #sherlockbbc #sherlock holmes #meta #meta analysis

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crystalcanis · 3 months

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hi hi hi !!

i am here to talk about your ocs

Loona 21 Leo 24 Billy 25 Nori 38 + 39 Ash 2 Bobby 14

Hi hi hi Claire, hi!!! I will answer three here and three more in a different post!

[Noriel] [38] What do they usually do or where do they go when they need to feel comfortable and safe?

Noriel is not aware of half the things that make her comfortable. She's fuck it we ball-ing it. The only one she knows makes her feel calm and safe are secluded areas and specially nature. So she will cling to nature for dear life, and isolate herself if people become too much.

There are more! We will learn about them alongside her. But one obvious one will be Kana, because it helps someone feel safer knowing that there is a person that understands your struggles and what to do when you reach your limit but arent in the mental state to make sound decisions. If things become a little odd and fuzzy, they will eventually start going to Kana. Aaaaafter trust is built, definitely not right now on Fade Away. But yes in Wings! Their bond is over the roof over there already. Perfect for me to grab a hammer and cr

[Noriel] [39] What is their sleeping habits and favorite sleeping position, either alone and with someone?

Noriel's sleeping habits are shit garbage! It will be explored in the comic, she just doesn't do it. And she's tired. all the time. She either doesn't realize she has to or because there isn't time for it, but more importantly if there is people around. Even if she sees you as a friend, she still wont even if she wants to because its a sort of learnt safety mechanism.

Her sleeping position by herself is the family guy death pose because if she's sleeping then she probably reached her limit and passed out lol. When she does sleep with someone, she's particular about what she's comfortable with. Its trauma related, can't get into it without spoiling comic stuff. Certain actions will freak her out and she has no control over it.

[Leo] [24] How hard it is for them to not allow their emotions to cloud their judgement?

VERY. LOL. Leo is a very smart guy! He likes facts and information. And he wants to be someone who makes decisions by logic alone. But he's not haha! He's a very emotional guy, and most of his decisions are based on how he feels at the time. You can try to convince him or convince himself with logic and he will be like "yeah yeah totally. Of course!" but once it comes down to it, his heart will win in the end, for better and for worse!

I think he covers up his decisions by saying they are logical and perfect when he's actually just being emotional about it :']

#canischat #Noriel Mentomori #Leo Finch #fade away #wings ioa #I love you Leo you stupid idiot #asks

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maranull · 1 year

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Thought dump —I guess rant— prompted by the last rb. If it doesn't make sense it's because I don't give a shit about how easy this reads, actually.

Some folks, queer and not, see trans people as trans first and people second, if they even view us as people at all.

Every piece of media, of social voices, of queer history, of everything screams that a trans woman wants and has to fight. Has to be out and proud in a country that wouldn't think twice to attack or kill us. Has to be strong, has to be a rock for other queers, has to be the idea of the legends that were Sylvia Rivera and Martha P. Jonson and all the others. We also have to be pretty. We have to want to fuck every single person. We have to be loud and we have to be funny and we have to be this idea of a trans woman that internet people have.

I personally can't be that ideal of transness the internet has. I'm constantly scared as hell. I'm both on hrt and also stealthing like my life depends on it, which tbf, it does in one way or another. I now have to bind and I hate it, yet I do it and a binder is on its way to continue to do it better. I look like shit and that's not self-deprecating bullshit, rather a fact that I accept more than I accept your expectations of me. Would I prefer to be out? Yes. Can I do that without placing my livelihood and potentially life at risk? No.

And again and again, both media and other queer people try and tell me if my country, my culture, and my social circles are safe or not. As if they know better than me. "It's hard but it's manageable," says the rich trans woman on the TV. "It's fine, really," says the one with a supportive job and social circle. "You're overeating," says the asshole from a progressive culture.

None of them have seen the disgust and the hate in people's eyes. One has a car, the other is with company and the third is miles and miles away. They haven't seen a whole train wagon quiet down the moment a trans woman enters, they haven't seen how they looked at her. How her shoulders and head were fallen and how tight her jaw was. They haven't seen how ready to fight she was and more importantly, had to be, just taking the train for two stops.

Only one trans woman, a random one in a random article, said it how it is in Greece: Every step as a visible trans woman is a risk. Every walk through an empty road, every interaction at a store, every conversation with a stranger, every appearance in a public space and every time you let someone learn where you live is a potentially life threatening risk. It's a coin flip each time. Do I return home unharmed or not? Heads or tails? Will I be safe in my own house? Heads? Or tails?

And some are brave, some have support, some are rich and some pass perfectly and some do make it unharmed. Others get assaulted, forced into sex work, killed in their own homes, go "missing", get buried with their dead-names by families that hated them. I'm not able nor willing to take that on, until I reach the point were I'll have to. I'm not the internet's idea of a trans woman. I am a trans woman, like an actual fucking person, in a highly hostile environment with absolutely no one having my back.

And I come here, and the progressive internet in general, and I occasionally see cunts from progressive states and countries that act like that being conforming is the most vile thing you can do as a trans person. Passing? Wanting to live without turbulence? Wanting to not have molotovs thrown at your window? Fake tranny. Acting as if transness is a specific nonconforming ideal that all "real" trans people must achieve. And as if we all have to want to be queer ambassadors. As if we all have the freedom to be. (Since this is the zero reading comprehension website, I'll add that I'm not saying that being non-conforming is somehow bad or that everyone that has that as their gender or appearance goal is an inconsiderable asshole.)

I don't have a point to make, I don't think. But I do have a gigantic FUCK YOU to anyone that sees trans people as their idea of transness and not as individual people in varying cultures, situations and mindsets. Guess that's my point. We are people, not ideas. And stop enforcing your ideas on our individualities.

#personal #trans #rant i guess #i've been thinking about this lately #and that last rb kinda kicked me into gear #g'night to folks that treat people as people

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philanthropicfeline · 11 months

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I choose empathy

My thoughts and feelings on current life changing events.

So it's hard to not talk about the war happening in Gaza. Even calling it a war may not even be appropriate.

The following things I write are in no means meant to be disrespectful in any way, shape or form towards any person. I feel for the people, all people. That's where my heart has always been and will always remain.

I had a conversation with a family member about the war. He is very opinionated (and i mean that in the nicest way possible) and he stated where he stands and that he strongly felt one way was the right way. There is only one right side. Then he starts stating "facts" about history. Now one thing about me, I love history. I read what I can, with an open mind and I try to understand where things went wrong; but most importantly, I try to learn from history and accept it. Of course, there's the matter of narrative so I also take that into consideration. So back to the conversation, all I did was mention that there is more to everything in this "conflict" and I acknowledge the history and pain on both "sides". As I was making my "argument" he gets agitated and says "what's your point? why does that even matter? So your saying you don't care about the people truly suffering? wow that's selfish of you, but then again you are pretty much like that..."

I am not very eloquent or articulate. Arguments and confrontations are not my thing. I usually back down and accept the narrative that is put upon me. That's also something I could work on, my communication and gathering of thoughts. My response to everything was that I acknowledge the pain for everyone. But I guess that was interpreted as being an apologist. That was the end of that. But there was definitely more to it. There always is!

So instead of sounding stupid and ignorant to people, I want to write down the exact position my heart is in and where its coming from. I never want to hurt another human being. Humans are complex and humanity wants to thrive. The future generations deserve a chance at life and experiencing the complicated beauty that is life. People are grieving. People have the right to grieve and it's truly a privilege to grieve in peace, with peace. I also know how it feels to have your grief and loss invalidated. During high school, my godfather passed away tragically and painfully. I took it harder than I thought and more than I'll ever admit to. But as I grieved, bullies questioned my grief and even denied my godfather's existence. I was young, so I never felt anguish and pain like that before. That's a pain far different than anything I had ever experienced. As much as I had wanted to hate those who snuffed out the memories of a remarkable man, I wrote notes to God and promised to never be as cruel as that. I vowed to never inflict pain like that on anyone. What I'm trying to say is that, just because I acknowledge the pain and struggles of all people, it does not mean I automatically "choose a side". I was taught to embrace all people, to love and bless them. I'm not perfect by any means and nor is my moral standing better than the next, I just hope that my actions speak far louder than my words ever will.

Will writing all of this change anything happening out there? No. But again, I wish people could understand that my silence doesn't equal ignorance. Physically, i do what I can to help those vulnerable and in need.

I acknowledge that the fact that I am able to write all of this and even state my opinions without worrying about losing my life, is a privilege within itself. My heart is grieving, but I know that it doesn't compare to those living this hellish nightmare of war and even the fear of extermination. My grief will never compare. The yearning to grieve doesn't mean condoning the wrongdoings of governments. Is it wrong to want to stand for life? It's not a black and white situation. I had a dear friend (who has since passed) and she taught me to reach out for the ones who fall through the cracks. She taught me to look and listen to the ones who feel invisible and voiceless. I will take her words with me beyond this lifetime. I learned that you don't need a label or title or even a reason to help others. You go out there and do it! I went out there and I listened to the voices of those around me. There are so many who feel helpless and invisible in my city. I do what I can to give hope, no matter how small that light may be, the least i can do is acknowledge the person's life, presence and struggles. That's where I stand. I stand for the chance at life and I will truly try my best to fight for a peaceful one at that, as naive as that may sound. It's just a bit disheartening to know that my views on what's happening in the world, will be interpreted as heartless and selfish.

While the frustration inside me bubbles and the constant need to prove myself festers... I had a talk with my best friend. I see her as my sister. She is more directly connected to the conflict in the middle east with some family and friends who live there. She reminded me that there are bigger things at play and that we do the best we can with what we are given. She is one of the voices of reason that I hold so dear.

(*Side note* UGHHHH I LOVE HER SO MUCH <3)

In this situation, how I feel doesn't matter. Everyday lives are lost unnecessarily, I just want to be able to help humanity in any way I can. I choose life and empathy. That's where my heart lies.

The following link is to an article that I can relate to and perhaps explains my feelings in a more articulate and educated way.

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ruelknudson · 5 months

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An excerpt from upcoming book "Underway: One Family's Guide to Surviving Boot Camp"

The following is a partial excerpt from my new book. The chapter containing the text below deals largely with the challenges and concerns families face once a loved one has graduated from boot camp. I try to be very open about my hopes, and more importantly, the fears that I think most parents will face during this time. I believe it is important to be honest with the reader, especially when the largest audience for this book will be parents. And for those parents who share these fears, I hope it will help knowing they are not alone.

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

It was wonderful to witness their accomplishments and celebrate their successes. I was proud to see them become independent and capable members of our military. I consider it a great honor to proudly proclaim to anyone who will listen that my son is an airman and my daughter is a sailor. Both of my adult children serve in the United States Armed Forces, and I am proud of this fact.

At the same time, I quietly contend with significant fears. I worry about their mental health, physical well-being, and emotional state. Are they feeling alone, sad, or depressed? I wonder if they might need me but are too embarrassed, shy, or afraid to reach out and call. Do they feel pressured to live up to unrealistic expectations, or strive too hard for goals that may be beyond their abilities? Will the challenges they face lead to poor decisions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, or even self-harm?

Then there are the life problems that may arise. They could be harmed through no fault of their own. What if they fall in love with the wrong person, get married, have a child, and things don't work out, resulting in a divorce and the responsibility of caring for another human being? What if they decide to experiment with drinking or drugs and end up in an accident?

And there are the small choices, both good and bad, that can jeopardize their careers. Life is filled with pitfalls, both hidden and obvious, that can suddenly and irreversibly turn into tragedy. If those things were to happen, all the challenges they overcame to reach this point in their lives would have been endured for nothing.

In moments when they need us the most, they could be far away in another state, a different country, or floating in the middle of the ocean in a different hemisphere. If we were to become aware of a problem, we would be powerless to do anything. Suddenly, we would find ourselves waiting helplessly as our children face the world without our presence. Or we may hear about it after the fact, when their bad choices and someone else's terrible advice have already changed everything and there’s nothing we can do.

These are the same fears any parent might have when their child grows up and leaves home. Whether their kids go off to college, start a new career, or seek a fresh start, all parents will face these uncertainties. But my kids joined the military, adding an entire new set of concerns to the list. My children are part of an institution whose purpose is to prevent, engage in, and win wars.

I lose sleep worrying about things beyond our control. We live in a world with despots who possess indiscriminate weapons. There are countless madmen with violent followers who may target a military base, ship, or other facility where my sailor or airman may be stationed or passing through. I am terrified that someday my children may become my sacrifice.

And if the day comes, I don't want to be a heroic parent who gave one of my greatest gifts to our nation. I don't want to bury my son or daughter in a flag-draped coffin. I don't want a twenty-one-gun salute, full military honors, and a thinly proclaimed sentiment alluding to some great debt our nation cannot pay. That's not what I signed up for when my children enlisted.

Was it?

#my writing #writeblr #writers #writers on tumblr #original work #boot camp #navy

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vipgirlsnz123 · 2 years

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Online Sex Work Allowed me to be a Better Mum

I’m standing at the check-out line at Costco with my teenage son. Our cart is overflowing with household supplies for an entire family. I am watching the total go up until it reaches the final number: $437. I quickly scan the contents of my wallet, and then, without thinking, I pull out five $100 bills. My son looks momentarily surprised. “Mum,” he says, “Where did you get all that cash?”

I tell him the first thing that comes to mind, the first thing I think of that seems plausible: “I sold something.” Sometimes, we lie to protect our children. Sometimes, our children also pretend to believe our lies to protect us. He doesn’t ask any more questions.

In reality, the cash is whore money, a sum equal to one hour with one client. This fact silently fills the space between us. We both pretend not to feel it.

I Hope Sex Work Is Normalized in Future Generations

My older kids—including the one with me at Costco—know that I’m a sex worker. I told them years ago when my public persona as a writer on a sex work beat grew too big to hide. My husband and I took them out to dinner, where we explained that I write about the online sex work that I do (camming, independent porn production, phone sex). They asked a few questions but didn’t react strongly; they were expecting me to tell them I was pregnant again, and news about what I did to pay for the dinner they were enjoying was less exciting.

That night, when I “came out” to my kids, I told them the truth about my work. A few years later, I transitioned to seeing clients in person, but I didn’t mention my switch to criminalized labour. To an extent, the nature of my contact and relationship with clients is not their business. But more importantly, I didn’t want to burden them with information that would scare them or would make them feel like they had to carry my secrets.

While I have raised my kids in an accepting environment where they have had exposure to all kinds of people, including those in the sex trades, I cannot create an entire world for them. Despite my best efforts, they still exist in a culture where “your mother is a whore” is one of the most biting insults. The idealist in me works hard to normalize sex work to such an extent that my children’s children won’t be able to understand why this is an insult. Perhaps this is a bit optimistic, but maybe their children’s children or their children’s children’s children? The realist in me recognizes that right now, my occupation puts the very thing that I care most about—my kids—at risk for shaming, harassment or worse.

Online Sex Work Allowed Me to Be a Better Mother

Anyone who has spent much time around sex workers recognizes that we are a diverse group of people who come from all walks of life. Despite the cultural insistence that no one would enter the industry for reasons other than force or desperation—a narrative shaped by second-wave feminists’ anti-sex work rhetoric—the reasons for entering sex work are as varied as the people who occupy the profession.

What is also clear to anyone familiar with the industry is that it is overrepresented by people who suffer from other forms of marginalization: those who are disabled, neurodivergent, trans, queer, working class, poor, non-white, mothers or other forms of caretakers, etc. While this fact is often interpreted to mean that only those with few options would do sex work, this interpretation fails to recognize that the sex industry serves as a safety net for those who are excluded from conventional forms of employment. It offers flexible work with a low barrier to entry to folks who have been failed by the state, suffered systemic discrimination and/or have responsibilities or disabilities that preclude them from working full-time.

I came into sex work in my mid-30s, after leaving my first marriage and the career I spent my entire adulthood up until that point trying to build. My world had turned upside down, and I was in a financial crisis that was only amplified by the fact that one of my children started to have serious mental health issues—so serious, in fact, that taking care of her became a full-time job. At the time, I had a boss who tried to be supportive but who couldn’t count on me to follow through with the tasks he assigned. I would spend hours at work on the phone with doctors, social workers and the school district, trying to stitch together enough resources to keep her safe. I also missed days of work after sleepless nights in the emergency department of the psychiatric hospital, and I often left early to pick her up when she was having psychotic episodes at school. Keeping her alive was my priority, and when my boss let me go, I understood why.

Online sex work, the form of sex work I turned to first, became a way for me to make money on my own terms. I didn’t have a boss; no one complained if I took a day off; and I could work between crises. I would sit in the waiting room or on the phone with doctors while posting advertisements for my services on Twitter, sexting for pay with my clients or updating my OnlyFans account. In other words, I could keep my family afloat when my time was limited and most of my emotional resources went to parenting. What’s more, hourly rates were higher than in any other job I’d had (despite having two graduate degrees), allowing me to work fewer hours and be home when I needed to be.

The Threat of Violence and State Intervention Looms Over Me

My career in sex work has been complicated, but it’s absolutely intertwined with motherhood. I did what I needed to do so that I could be the mom I needed to be. I don’t regret it. I was able to hold my daughter’s hand when she needed it, and years later, I was able to be home for her younger brother who has special needs when school after school told us that, due to the COVID-19 pandemic, they didn’t have the resources to help him.

I’m not the only mother with this story, but I can only speak for myself. While I know I made the right choice for myself and my family, I also know that the world, by and large, doesn’t agree. The United States, where I live, is in the midst of an intense moral panic that conflates all sex work with sex trafficking and is actively working to criminalize all aspects of the sex trades under the guise of an anti-trafficking agenda. We also still live under the cultural weight of Christianity’s Madonna/whore complex, which sees motherhood and sexuality as diametrically opposed. I know that should someone want to use sex work against me, they could attack my fitness to be a mother: What respectable mother engages in prostitution? And they would probably be supported in doing so.

State intervention and violence vis-a-vis my kids loom large over my head, despite the fact that motherhood is my most important role. I live under the threat of losing my kids should the wrong person find out what I do to pay for their needs. Perhaps only other sex working mothers would understand the sheer panic that came over me when I found a sign that one of my teenagers had made as a joke that read, “Nudes for sale.” That night, I woke my kid up in a panic to stress that if anyone saw the sign, my husband and I could be under suspicion for trafficking, and given my profession, we’d likely be jailed.

Perhaps only sex working parents would also understand why having our son’s preschool complain about his shoes, clothes and lunch—nitpicky things that all schools send home notes about—feels extra weighty when you know that any investigation into how you live your life could, given a particular judge’s biases, be used as evidence that you are unfit to parent. While it is generally believed that adults can both work and have sex without it negatively impacting their children, sex working mothers are not offered the same benefit of the doubt, which is ironic because sex workers are experts in maintaining healthy sexual boundaries (if job descriptions for sex workers existed, it would be near the top).

I Hope All Sex Working Mothers Will Feel Safe One Day

The criminalization and stigmatization of sex work makes it less safe for everyone who trades sex for money or resources. It makes us loath to call the police when we have been mistreated or assaulted by a client, driving our advertising further and further underground and making it harder to screen clients and offer each other resources that keep us safe. It also isolates us from society when we could use resources and support.

All of this is amplified for mothers, who fear that their work may jeopardize their ability to care for their kids, which is ironic given that many of us, myself included, became sex workers in large part because it afforded us the resources to take care of our kids in a world that offers little support to working mothers, particularly working mothers with kids who have disabilities, special needs or health issues.

I don’t hide the full truth of my work because I am not ashamed of the work that I have done. In fact, I have found a lot of meaning in it. When my kids are old enough to understand the choices I made, I will share the full extent of my work history with them, should they want to know. But until we move into a world in which all mothers, especially sex working mothers, are trusted to make the best decisions that they can for themselves and their children, most of us will continue to keep it hidden for fear of unthinkable consequences.

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kageyuji · 4 years

Text

his teammate has a crush on his s/o

⤷ suna, iwaizumi, bokuto, tendou ; [gn!reader] — part 1

TAGS: jealousy, fluff(?), swearing, the teammates were written a little ooc for the plot

NOTES: if you reblog I’ll give you my first born child in return, please and thank you <3

━━ SUNA

although surprisingly good at acting fine and saying that he was perfectly calm, he wasn’t immune to jealousy in the slightest

but he wasn’t a complete dumbass either

and he didn’t know why atsumu seemed to think that he was

of course, atsumu had a tendency to flirt with anything that breathes and has a heartbeat, but suna couldn’t shake the feeling like something with off

but he knew that you loved no one but him, so he tries not to let atsumu’s jokes and teasing get to him

until he realizes that maybe... maybe it wasn’t completely harmless

The flirting was a fairly common thing at this point. Never too heavy, just little winks and cocky smiles sent your way, along with the occasional flirtatious compliment.

“C’mon, I’m just sayin’, I could treat you so much better than Suna can.”

What.

While he didn’t like any of it, that was where Suna drew the line. He didn’t say anything at first, he didn’t react at all except a furrowing of his eyebrows.

He didn’t really know what to do — he sat there for a few moments, trying to figure out if he’d heard Atsumu right and then letting that fact sink in. And then he was walking over to the other guy.

Suna had seen the expression on your face. You looked confused to say the least, trying to figure out what Atsumu had meant. Because surely he hadn’t meant what it seemed like he was saying... right?

“Come again, Miya?” Though his tone sounded somewhat bored, it was laced with hostility.

Atsumu’s face dropped at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. It took him a few moments to regain his composure, blinking a few times and smiling.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I was just jokin’ arou-”

“Hm, you aren’t funny though.” Suna said in the same half-bored tone. He stepped closer to you, looping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer to himself.

“It’s harmless flirting, it’s a joke. What, am I not allowed to joke around anymore?” He smiled, though he was clearly nervous.

Suna set his jaw, “Not with my partner, no.”

━━ IWAIZUMI

he didn’t get jealous often, he trusted you so he could usually bite down his insecurity easily

but it’s not like anyone would hit on you when mr. biceps was with you anyway

nevertheless, he doesn’t like the way mattsun speaks to you — he knows that mattsun has a somewhat unconscious tendency for dirty jokes or being unknowingly flirtatious

and he doesn’t mind usually, but iwaizumi swears there’s some times whenever the flirtatious comments seem a little too frequent

but you haven’t stated that you were uncomfortable, so iwaizumi told himself that he could grin and bear it

everyone has limits though

Iwaizumi could have sworn that Mattsun was laying it on a lot heavier now that he didn’t think your boyfriend was still within earshot.

But of course this was all just Iwaizumi overthinking things. That was all... wasn’t it? The last thing he wanted to do was to be overbearing, to be controlling, to make you uncomfortable. So he held his breath and tried to focus on anything except your laugh.

“You can come over tonight if you want, I need to study and-”

“Y/n has plans tonight, actually.” Iwaizumi cut in, and when he turned around he was glad that he had.

It wasn’t that you looked exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t like you wanted anything to do with the conversation either. A smile crossed your face at the sound of him chiming in, and you took a small step closer to him.

“It’s just studying, Y/n can help me-”

“I said that Y/n isn’t helping you do shit, alright?”

Mattsun didn’t say anything in response, just swallowed thickly, nodded, and walked away. You hadn’t seen Iwaizumi get so bothered by something like that — and Iwaizumi wasn’t expecting himself to either, but the expression on your face whenever he’d turned around caused him to abandon most of his filter.

“Are you ok?” You asked.

He took a deep breath and turned to you, his face relaxing. “More importantly, are you ok?”

━━ BOKUTO

he’s oblivious sometimes, too caught up in looking at the big picture to realize smaller things going on

which isn’t always a bad thing, but whenever he looked past the way akaashi was being just a little too friendly with you it was

it didn’t last long though, and once he had the idea planted in his head it was stuck and wasn’t going away any time soon

so naturally he was a little more mopey, although he didn’t say anything yet

that was until akaashi started getting closer to you, and you didn’t even seem to notice that

“Oh hey, Y/n! We can go someplace after school and study for a while. Uh... it’s just, you mentioned a while ago that you needed help in one of your classes.”

Bokuto frowned at his friend’s words, watching as you smiled and thanked the setter. The worry ate at him, but it wasn’t even jealousy at this point, just something like sadness. You agreed and it painted Akaashi’s cheeks pink, spread a smile across his face.

“But, Y/n...” Bokuto said, his voice almost a whine, though it fell quieter at the end of his sentence.

You looked over to him, seeing the pout and expression in his eyes. Akaashi seemed to notice it too, asking Bokuto if everything was alright.

“Yeah, Kou?”

“Don’t you want to go somewhere with me after school?” He said, looking up at you with hopefully eyes. You walked over to where he was sitting and reached to grab his hand.

“As much as I would like to, I really need to study. Akaashi was nice enough to-”

“Akaashi this and Akaashi that,” The whine in his voice was fleeting now as he came to realize just how unnecessarily kind his friend had been to you lately. “spend time with me, baby.”

The setter seemed a little more alert than he had been a moment ago, eyes wide and barely breathing. Bokuto’s eyes landed on him, and though his eyes were usually warm and kind, they now held a level of hostility you’d not seen before.

Akaashi was making up an excuse to leave quickly, telling you that something had come up and that you couldn’t study.

“...and maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time around him.”

“Huh, why?”

“No, I mean, you can- you can choose your friends and all, but just remember I’m your boyfriend.”

“I know, Kou, wouldn’t have it any other way. That date you offered though sounds good, anywhere in mind?”

━━ TENDOU

tendou gets jealous a fair amount, although none of his jealousy is unfounded

he’s not controlling or possessive though — he trusts you not to do anything, he just doesn’t trust other people

of course, there’d been some rumor started about how your whole relationship had been fake for one reason or the other, but now the secret was out so you’d broken up

so now these types of situations got more frequent, but if he sees you in a situation where someone is getting just a little too friendly, he’ll step in without another thought

it’s a little different whenever it’s his teammate though, especially when it’s ushijima

he tried not to let that get to him though, telling himself that it’s just like any other random person

“Y/n... could you help me?” Ushijima asked, laughing sheepishly.

But of course you smiled and agreed, then walked over to him. Tendou didn’t know what it was, honestly didn’t care, he just didn’t like how much it bothered him.

Alone, it was harmless, sure. But with everything else he’s been doing lately...

“Also, Y/n, I was wondering if I could ask you something? There’s this-”

“Y/n is busy that day sorry!” Tendou cut in, quickly turning around to look at the two of you. A smile was spread across his face, though nothing but hostility in his eyes. “They have plans with me.”

“Wait, what day?” You asked, not remembering any time recent that the two of you had planned on going somewhere.

“I dunno, whatever day he was about to say. You’re my partner after all.”

He smiled at you. Then his index finger was under your chin and he was pecking your lips. Heat rose in your cheeks at that simple action, but you tried to ignore it.

“Oh. I didn’t know that you and Tendou... I apologize, that-”

“It’s ok,” You laughed. “Half of the school still believes that we aren’t dating.”

Tendou huffed, then stepped closer to you and grabbed your hand. “But we are, and I would very much like to kiss you in public so people can see that. C’mon, where do you think there’s the most people right now, angel?”?

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landinoandco · 3 years

Note

Could I ask for a Max Verstappen request?

Where you get all excited to tell him you’re pregnant and it doesn’t go well. Could you make it super angsty

Of course you can :) here you go, I hope you enjoy!

Max Verstappen x reader

Warnings: angst but with fluff at the end

Word count: 2.2 k

Requests are open...

Baby, the future is ours

At last the summer break had rolled around again, to the relief of the Formula one drivers and crew, they had 3 long weeks ahead of them to fill with whatever they deemed stress-free or relaxing. The subject of activity depending on person to person - most sane folk tended to stick to a holiday to Greece or if you were an adrenaline junkie like Daniel Ricciardo jumping out of planes or BMX biking. You had lost count of the times Max - your boyfriend - had rushed in to tell you about all of the exciting things his best friend had gotten up to as of late.

You and Max had decided to take a break and travel to a cosy, quiet part of Italy - to escape the press, the stress and most importantly the eagle eye of social media. It would just be you and him for a few weeks before reality brought you back to Milton Keynes in the shape of Christian Horner and his motley crew.

You and Max had met in 2018 at a gala event Redbull had hosted, Pierre Gasly - being a close friend of yours - had introduced you two and to say the pair of you hit it off instantly was an understatement, whether it was a mixture of the Dutch meets British humour you had no clue but you weren’t one to complain. A few months later and Max had asked you to travel around the world with him - you did so willingly and life had been nearing perfect ever since. Of course you had your ups and downs, where the universe seemed to really test not only your love for one and other but your patience. A few arguments had shown you that both being hot-headed never ended well.

You were sat out on the balcony, a book in hand and looking out into the Italien countryside. Max had left for a run and to explore the local village, leaving you, your thoughts and your growing baby. You were pregnant - you had taken the test just before flying out, this meant that Max wasn’t aware. You hadn’t told him yet and you had no clue how you were going to. As it turns out telling your partner you were pregnant was easier said than done - ironically.

You and Max hadn’t had the baby talk yet - you had but only along the lines of: “one day, when we’re older and married and driving isn’t the main priority anymore.” Those were Max’s words. He wanted to be there for his child, to watch him or her grow, to see every milestone but most importantly to be a good and nurturing father.

There was part of you that was slightly worried because you just didn’t know how Max would take it - you couldn’t keep it in any longer though. You had to tell him. There was another part of you that was excited - from a very young age you knew you wanted to have a family of your own with the person you loved the most. Call it childish naivety. At this point in time, you were ready to become a mother - well as ready as anyone ever could be.

Placing your book onto the table, you made your way into the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it. Sighing loudly as you leant onto the countertop.

“That was a loud sigh.” A voice called out from behind you. You recognised it instantly. Whipping your head around, you saw Max standing there, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Chuckling, you hit back, “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

Rolling his eyes, he made his way over to you and wrapped his arms around your middle, placing a sweet, chaste kiss onto the side of your head. Leaning into his warm embrace, you let out another long but content sigh.

“Seriously, what is it with you and sighing today.” Max uttered, his lips still against the side of your head.

You went to move forward, out of his welcoming embrace. You knew what you had to do.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Instantly the atmosphere changed, you could feel Max stiffen behind you. Maybe the tone you chose to make that comment in was too serious but it was now or never.

“Haha, which of your friends is pregnant this time.” He quipped jokingly, trying to break the tension.

Instantly you knew the way the conversation was going to end, a pang of hurt felt in your stomach. You squeezed your eyes shut, catching your lip with your teeth. He stood there with an air of innocence and unknown, concern dancing in his eyes - he went to reach his arm out to you, to offer that encouragement.

You braved the words that came out of your lips, “Me.” You almost whispered. Time seemed to slow. Max dropped his arm and instantly took a step back.

“Pardon.” Was the only thing he could force out of his mouth, his throat seemed to close up and his hands went clammy. He definitely heard you the first time but he wanted to make sure it wasn’t a night terror. A bad dream he had failed to wake from.

“I am, Max,” You said again, your voice wavering.

“Oh.” He stated, his face drained of colour, his mouth set in a straight line.

“Is that all you have to say.” You swallowed thickly, your eyes swam with tears. You had a hunch this was how it was going to end but it didn’t stop is from hurting the way it did. You had hoped he would have proved you wrong, to have wrapped his arms around you and to have spun you around. To have laughed. To have cried. To have shown a little more excitement to the fact you were now carrying his child. His first child.

You moved past him and sat down on one of the wooden chairs, rubbing your hands over your face. He was still stood there. His eyes fixated on the view out of the window. No emotion read in his eyes. It was almost like you had hit the ‘off’ button. He tapped his foot and made a clicking noise with his mouth before turning around to face you - meeting your gaze.

“How long have you known.” His voice was hoarse.

“A couple of days before we flew out.” You answered him, moving your face back to rest in your hands.

There was a pause. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner.”

You took a breath, looking him dead in the eye. “Because I knew this was how you were going to react.” You didn’t trust your voice at all, you also didn’t know whether you wanted to scream at him or cry in the corner.

“Right.” Was all he said. Still stood there like some awkward teenager after a rather large telling off from their mother.

“Is that all you have to say to me?” You asked him, nostrils flaring. You were allowed to be angry, right?

“What do you expect me to say.” He rounded on you, his voice raising more than was necessary. Tears had spilled down your cheeks, you didn’t have the energy to fight back. As soon as he realised the effect this was having on you, he went to move forward again, his eyes softening instantly. “I’m sorry - I - I shouldn’t have raised my-”

“Get out, Max.” You stated lowly. By this point, you had stood up, shuddering away from his desperate grasp. He knew he had made a mistake. You knew he regretted it, the moment the words had left his mouth.

“Get out?” He repeated quietly, his voice cracking, you could see tears glazing his vision.

“Just - please, go on a walk - come back once you have more to say to me.” You spat.

“But - But I already have more to say-” You cut his rambling off once again.

“Please. Max.” You insisted, your voice betraying you again. “Go.” You whispered.

Max stormed out of the door, ensuring to slam it so hard the chandelier on the ceiling swung precariously. You sank back into your chair and let out a loud sob, unable to hold it in any longer.

Max was mad. Not at you, that would be unfair. He was mad at himself. At the world. At everything actually because at this point why the hell not. You were pregnant - don’t get him wrong, he was over the moon. He was going to be a dad.

It was too soon.

He still had his full F1 career ahead of him. A promising and long F1 career as a matter of fact. He wanted a baby to be his main priority and he wanted to share those one in a lifetime moments with you. He knew there was no point in being mad, it wasn’t like they were in a position where they couldn’t have a child. They had plenty of things to offer, a nurturing home with parents who were head over heels in love with each other and a large family - blood and not - who would be willing to support and love the child as if it was their own. Max really was in love with you. He knew it would be you to mother his children in the end, he just didn’t think it would be now.

He reached for his phone, went into his contacts and pressed on the number that read the name: “D.R new phone.” Whilst it wasn’t adventurous like many thought it would be, it saved the confusion from calling a number that no longer existed.

Daniel picked up on the second ring. “Hey dude, how’s it going?”

“Not good at all, Dan, not good at all.” Max admitted, his voice wavering once again. He explained the events that had happened a mere 5 minutes ago, the way he reacted and the way he left you. Hurt and alone.

“I’m not going to lie to you, mate, you’ve fucked up big time.” Dan spoke after what felt like a loud silence. After all, Daniel knew you just as well as he knew Max.

“I know. I know I have, do you think I’ve been selfish?” He asked, his tone full of raw emotion.

“Yes.” Dan stated simply, “I think you have been, especially since she even told you this is how she thought you would react. How much stress do you think she had been putting on herself? Come one, I’ve taught you to be better than this.” Daniel paused, Max could almost hear him place his thumb and ring finger onto the bridge of his nose. “You know, just as well as I know, she knows it isn’t the best time. Her becoming pregnant is very much a two person job, I think it’s time that you go back to her and have a conversation like the adult I know you are.”

In that moment, Max was so grateful to have someone like Dan just a call away. “Thank you, Dan. Really. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Alright Mr Father-to-be, don’t be going all soppy on me now.” Daniel joked, returning back to his normal teasing. That was the best thing about Daniel, he was quite useful when you needed him to be.

“You can count yourself on being the godfather after that.” Max added, a large beaming smile plastered onto his face.

He heard Dan let out a loud laugh, “Go on, leave me be. Good luck, mate, let me know how it goes and when the time is right tell her I say congrats.”

“Of course, mate. Thank you, again.” Max muttered, looking back in the direction of the villa. After he hung up, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and ambled slowly - working out exactly what he was going to say to you.

Once he had opened the door, he called out to you. “Babe?” He heard a sniffle in response. You were still slumped on the chair in the kitchen, shooting daggers at the cupboard opposite.

Max sat opposite you, reaching out for your hand. Grudgingly you let him take it, you blinked and he took a deep breath before a large, beaming smile crept onto his face.

“We’re going to be parents.” He rubbed the back of your hand, speaking tentatively. You nodded, your lower lip trembled. Max stood up, still keeping a hold of your hand as he gave it a slight tug, indicating that you should stand up. You made your way into his embrace, his arms wrapping securely around you, tucking your face into the crook of your neck as he rocked gently side to side, burying his face into your hair. He then moved his hands to cradle your face, wiping the stray tears away before peppering your face with feather light kisses.

“We’re going to be parents.” He repeated, a little louder and to this you let out another sob, laughing as he picked you up and spun you around.

“I’m sorry. I was being selfish.” He said, as he wrapped you back up into his arms. You smiled into his chest. In that moment, you couldn’t be happier. It was like all of your childhood dreams had come true. In that kitchen stood your new family, mismatched and sometimes a little bit broken but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen fanfic #f1blr #f1 2021 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #f1 fanfic #formula one one shot #formula 1 x reader #formula one fanfiction #formula one x reader #fanfiction #f1 requests

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makeste · 3 years

Text

“but I thought about how I needed to say this”

a.k.a. yet another meta dissection of The Apology. I actually wrote most of this up on Friday night based on the original Japanese (@pikahlua has an excellent translation up here, and I also used @hanashimas’ translations as a reference as well), but I wanted to wait until the official release, though that turned out to be a mixed bag to say the least lol.

I would also recommend reading @pikahlua and @class1akids’ breakdowns of this scene (here and here, respectively), because they are excellent, and because if any scene deserves to have as many meta breakdowns written about it as possible, it’s this one.

anyway so here goes.

Caleb did a more accurate job with this than the fanscan, even if he did try his best to take us out of the seriousness of the moment by throwing in that swiss cheese line lol. anyway so there are two things I want to talk about here. the first is the line about Izuku not remembering, which I thought was a nice touch. of course he doesn’t remember what Kacchan said back then. he wasn’t exactly in the soundest emotional state after seeing one of the people he cares about most taking a near-fatal blow that was meant for him. I’d be shocked if he remembers anything about the aftermath (including the way he flew into a mindless rage afterwards) right up until the point when he entered the OFA Interstellar Party Void with Tomura. anyway, so I thought that was a nice callback.

and speaking of emotional states, the other thing I wanted to talk about is the part that Caleb got right which the fan scanlation didn’t. “but I had more to say.” in other words, “stop trying to win on your own” wasn’t just a one-liner; it was meant to be the beginning of a much longer speech. “there were other things that I needed to say.”

like, can we just stop and talk about that for a second. because basically what this means is that in that instant, when Kacchan pushed Deku out of the way and got impaled, his one and only thought was that he needed to apologize to Deku. his life was presumably flashing before his eyes, he had no idea if he was going to survive or not, and the only thing on his mind was how urgently he needed to make things right with his former childhood friend.

moving on!

so I have a confession to make, which is that I am relieved to see Katsuki describing this as the reason why he bullied Deku, as opposed to Horikoshi trying to retcon it into some sort of “secretly he was just trying to protect him and keep him out of harm’s way because he was worried” thing, which ngl would not have gelled very well with me. the thing is that I’m really not a fan of the whole “Kacchan Did Nothing Wrong” mentality that some fans seem to have. like, I have seen all sorts of convoluted attempts to find excuses for Katsuki’s shitty behavior, but in my view those attempts undermine what I love about his character in the first place. Katsuki is such a great character specifically because he is not perfect. his redemption arc is so compelling because he was such a giant asshole at the start. he was completely at fault, and he acknowledges this, and takes full responsibility for it. and that is fucking fantastic.

his arc is so great because it doesn’t rely on garnering sympathy by giving him a Tragic Past, or by trying to foist the blame for his behavior over on someone else. it’s an arc that acknowledges that redemption isn’t something you achieve by making people feel sorry for you; it’s something you have to earn by actively working to change and do better. and by forgoing the “misunderstood/tragic past” route, Horikoshi is making a statement that anyone can go down the wrong path, but that more importantly, anyone can also choose at any time to turn away from said path. there is only one requirement for doing so, and that is realizing that you’ve done wrong, and deciding that you want to change.

anyway, so in chapter 284 Kacchan of course had that whole speech about Deku not taking himself into account, and mentioned how that made him want to keep his distance. and a good chunk of fandom took this to mean that Katsuki’s bullying was actually a misguided response to Deku’s reckless tendencies -- sort of an “if I show him how weak and powerless he really is, I can get him to accept the reality that he’s quirkless, and that being a hero will just get him hurt or killed” type of thing. and I won’t lie, for a good while I was wondering myself if Horikoshi was really going to go down that route. and like I said, I am honestly relieved that he didn’t. not only for the reasons stated in the previous paragraph, but also because the message that would have sent -- that there are certain circumstances in which bullying can almost be excused because the bully had Good Intentions and was just trying to save the other person from themselves, and so it Wasn’t That Bad, Actually -- is all kinds of fucked up to say the least. so yeah, I’m glad we ended up steering well clear of that.

(ETA: this post was long enough already so I edited out the 3 additional paragraphs I originally wrote analyzing the dialogue from 284. but just to be clear, I’m not trying to imply that Kacchan worrying about Deku’s recklessness is a retconned thing that Horikoshi only threw into the story recently, because there are multiple instances throughout the story where he clearly is worried and in total denial of it. but I firmly believe those feelings are not what led to the bullying. they’re two separate things. Kacchan worrying about Deku is what prompts him to yell at him in chapter 1 when Deku comes to save him. but it’s not what incited him to burn his notebook and taunt him earlier in that same chapter. that action had a much meaner and more selfish motivation behind it, and I’m glad Horikoshi didn’t try to change it up last minute, because it wouldn’t have felt right.)

thankfully as of this chapter I think we can safely cross that out as a possibility, as we’re given the true explanation straight from Katsuki himself. and the truth is that he bullied Deku out of insecurity and jealousy and fear and intolerance. there was nothing noble about it. there were no good intentions concealed in his actions. there are no justifications given, no excuses offered, and no mitigating circumstances to be considered, other than the fact (which neither he nor Horikoshi bring up) that he was and is still a child, and that children make mistakes.

it’s an explanation that challenges many of fandom’s ideas on who is and isn’t eligible to be redeemed. there is no Ozai in Katsuki’s backstory. there’s no great tragedy that he spent a lifetime trying to rise above. the only villain in Katsuki’s story is Katsuki himself. the only darkness that he has to overcome is his own. and it’s challenging, because I think many people believe the only way someone can be redeemed for doing bad things is if bad things happen to them in return. but what Horikoshi is saying here is that that’s not the case. bad doesn’t erase bad. and the one and only way to truly earn redemption is by doing good.

and that’s what makes this such a phenomenal scene for me. by not shying away from Katsuki’s flaws and failings, and having him take full responsibility for them, Horikoshi keeps the apology from being self-serving, and underscores the true depth of Katsuki’s character development. the level of self-awareness he has here is something most people can only dream of. which is very fitting, as that’s perhaps the most important takeaway from his character arc -- that it’s only by acknowledging your own weaknesses and flaws that you can learn to overcome them and reach your full potential.

one last thing to point out here, which is that in the panel where Katsuki finally acknowledges his terrible treatment of Deku, Deku is not even visible. instead, Horikoshi drew the panel from a perspective that makes it appear that Katsuki is addressing this particular line not just to Deku, but to all of his classmates.

again, he shows him taking full responsibility and admitting his wrongdoings in front of the people whose opinions and approval he cares about most. and just to clarify in case there’s any confusion from Caleb’s translation, Kacchan’s wording makes it very clear that he wasn’t just “mean” to Deku, but that he full-on bullied him (he uses the same verb -- “ijimeru” (苛める) -- that he did back in chapter 284). there’s no attempt to downplay his actions here.

moving on now, this chapter also reaffirmed another thing about Deku and Kacchan’s relationship which I was glad to see revisited -- Kacchan’s unwavering belief in Deku’s ability. this is one of those paradoxical things about their relationship which I’ve always been fascinated by, but which is also kind of hard to explain, because I don’t want it to come off like I’m trying to put a positive spin on something which was unequivocally awful. like, please don’t think I’m trying to say that Katsuki’s bullying of Deku was in any way a good thing. but that being said, there’s also a strange irony at play here, which is that Katsuki’s jealousy and insecurity also betray the fact that even at his very worst, he never once underestimated Deku. he has always believed in Deku’s strength, even when that strength pissed him off and made him afraid and uneasy.

no one else -- not All Might, or even Deku’s own mom -- believed from the get-go that Deku could become a hero. but Katsuki never once counted him out, even when he was calling him a pebble in his shoe. he confesses here that even though he “tried to act superior by rejecting [Deku]”, in truth he was never able to shake the feeling that Deku was above him. long before he ever understood the concept of “win to save”, he knew instinctively that there was a strength in Deku’s heart that couldn’t be measured, and which had the potential to surpass even his own strength. and I’ve always felt that this was so important, because it’s the one aspect of their early relationship that hinted that on some level, however subconscious, Katsuki held the same type of faith in Deku that Deku always held in him. it was one of the few things that hinted at there being a possible path towards reconciliation one day. and it paved the way for the most important shift in their relationship to date, when Katsuki finally realized who Deku got his quirk from, and responded not with resentment or spite, but with acceptance.

moving on, I also really love the way we see them portrayed at the different stages of their childhood throughout this speech, and how it perfectly lines up with the dialogue. from small children (when Katsuki talks about his insecurities first manifesting), to middle schoolers (when he talks about the bullying), to high schoolers (when he talks about the past year and everything he’s learned at U.A.). Horikoshi really didn’t have to go that hard, but he did, and that’s why we love him.

and then we finally get to That Part.

where do I even start with this there are so many things omg.

the bow. this is the one and only time Katsuki has ever bowed to anyone of his own volition as far as I recall. and this absolutely is a bow, just to be clear, even though his form is straight-up garbage (very Kacchan-esque, with his feet and arms spaced apart because he’s still a punk after all). this is Kacchan showing more humility and respect than he’s ever shown to anyone else in his entire life.

regarding “Izuku”, I actually have mixed feelings about this to tell the truth. I think it was a good call here because it was incredibly effective in setting the tone and showing just how serious Kacchan is. however if he continues to use “Izuku” rather than “Deku” from here on out, that would give the impression in hindsight that all his past usage of “Deku” really was meant as an insult, which would undermine some of my favorite scenes. I would really like to believe that since DvK2 or thereabouts, Kacchan has (mostly) been using “Deku (affectionate)” rather than “Deku (useless loser)”, lol. but if he switches to the “nicer” name on a permanent basis following his apology, it implies that the previous nickname was indeed being used cruelly. and so honestly I hope this was just a one-time thing, because I do think that in Katsuki’s mind, the name “Deku” hasn’t been meant as a slight to him for a long time now.

“my truth/this is what I truly feel” -- the word Katsuki uses in Japanese is honne (本音), and if you’re familiar with the concept of honne/tatemae, that’s the same “honne” he’s talking about here. it means that he’s casting aside all of his walls and facades and expressing what he truly feels. and of course, one of the fascinating things about Katsuki’s character is that he’s the exact opposite of most people in that he chooses to put his meanness on full display to the public, and ironically it’s the kindest parts of himself which he tends to keep the most carefully guarded and hidden away. this also means that while his rage and anger are very often insincere and put on just for show, those relatively few occasions where he lets his humanity truly shine through are pretty much 100% genuine, as is the case with this one here.

and Deku’s face says it all when it comes to how powerful those moments can be as a result.

and this, right here, is why it wasn’t enough for Katsuki to atone solely through his actions, and why he needed to actually say the words as well. it’s not that the words are more important; obviously the actions are far and away the most important part, and carry far more meaning. but the reason why Katsuki needed to say the words as well is simply because Izuku needed to hear them. needed to, and deserved to, because this is one of the most important people in the world to him.

and so he deserves to know that the relationship isn’t just one-sided, and that he is just as important to Kacchan as Kacchan is to him. he deserves to know that Kacchan understands how horribly he treated him, and that he’s sorry for it. and he deserves to know that Kacchan, without any expectation of it changing their relationship -- meaning that he will continue to feel this way regardless of what Izuku says or does from here on out -- cares about him. now more than ever, with AFO out there doing everything in his power to make Izuku feel as alone as possible, this is something that he really, really needed to hear.

so this part has some interesting wordplay which neither Caleb’s translation nor the fan scanlation was really able to get across. basically, in the Japanese version, when Katsuki talks about “those ideals”, Horikoshi uses the kanji for “ideal”, but pronounces it as “All Might.” obviously the meaning of this isn’t too hard to decipher, as we all know how much both boys admire All Might. to them, he absolutely is synonymous with the Ideal. so this is a way of showing that respect they both have towards him, even as Katsuki goes on to point out the one fatal flaw that All Might was never able to overcome.

and speaking of interesting wording, as others have noted, at this point in his speech Katsuki switches from “temee” (which he was using earlier during the “your strengths and my weaknesses” part) to “omae” (“omae” being a less insulting word for “you”, though still very manly and tough-sounding), which is definitely a big deal. though fwiw this is not the first time he’s used “omae” for Deku (he switches to it briefly right after DvK2, when he tells Deku “you had the strongest guy lay the groundwork for you -- don’t lose”, and then later when they’re walking back to the dorms and he says he’ll learn and get stronger by watching everyone around him just like Deku did). it’s definitely a good choice on Horikoshi’s part though, as it makes this last part of the speech sound more earnest and sincere.

just a quick note, he does indeed use a plural pronoun here, as in “the obstacles that you can’t overcome, we will overcome.” but as @pikahlua pointed out, the “we” here is ambiguous -- it could either mean “we” as in class 1-A -- “we will overcome them for you” -- OR it could mean “we” as in all of them -- class 1-A and Deku. “we will overcome them together.” idk about you, but I know which one gets my vote.

anyway, and so this is the line that finally wins Deku over and allows him to let go of his fears, however briefly. what I love about this is Kacchan’s utter conviction. one thing that Caleb’s translation doesn’t quite get across is Kacchan’s use of the word morenaku -- “without exception” -- when he talks about how they’re going to save everyone and win. it echoes that same sentiment he showed back during the Joint Training arc -- that it’s not a perfect victory unless they save everyone. every last person. and he explicitly lists Deku among their number, just so there can be no doubt.

and Deku’s response to this (or at least his thoughts, since he’s not really able to get many words out) pretty much brings everything full circle here.

he acknowledges that everyone else has gotten ahead of him. which is especially meaningful given who he’s standing directly across from. because for most of the series, as we all well know, it’s been Kacchan who was woefully lagging behind Deku in the character growth department. but now Deku himself is acknowledging that not only has Kacchan finally caught up at last, but that he and the others have surpassed him. which is only temporary, I should add, as I have zero doubt that Deku will catch up again soon. but the fact remains that just as Deku’s rapid increase in strength and skill left Kacchan scrambling to keep up earlier in the series, Kacchan’s extraordinary character development has now left Deku in that same position. as All Might once put it, “when he’s starting at level one, and you’re already at level 50, it’s only natural that you’ll be growing at different rates.”

and what’s so wonderful about this though is that the two of them are finally approaching that point where they’ve both caught up to each other and are finally starting to level out. Deku is a full-on badass, and Kacchan is out here talk-no-jutsuing with the best of them. the two of them have been chasing and chasing after each other this entire time, and now they’re finally just about ready to meet in the middle at long last, with each of them fully embodying both of those two crucial aspects -- win, and save.

just about. because Deku still needs some help catching up. but seeing as help has already been offered -- and accepted -- I can’t imagine it will be very long now, and I can’t wait to see him finally overcoming those fears and doubts with his friends by his side. it’s going to be such a powerful moment.

and last but not least,

or, as I prefer,

you had one job, Caleb. flkjsdlk.

but at least this provides a good opportunity to note that unlike the “we’ll help you handle it” line earlier in the speech, here the phrasing is left up to interpretation, as he doesn’t use a pronoun. so it could be “we know”, or, as the fan scanlation put it, “I know.” or it could be both. regardless, it’s good stuff.

anyway, and so Deku passes out, and in the process Horikoshi gives us one last parting metaphor, just in case anyone still thinks Kacchan is all talk because they haven’t been paying attention for the past 322 chapters (more likely than you think). once again, Katsuki’s actions speak louder than his words (even his nice words) ever could: he is literally there to catch Deku when he falls.

so that’s it! my sincere thanks to anyone who actually read through all of my endless ramblings about this scene which I have been waiting for since day one. props to Horikoshi for taking on an impossibly difficult task, and pulling it off with all of the emotion and care and nuance that I’ve come to expect from his writing. imo he delivered on every single level with the exception of the aftermath, which I don’t consider to have actually happened yet. Deku’s part of this is definitely a “to be continued.” but yeah, as far as Kacchan’s part goes, 10/10. so fucking proud of this kid.

#bnha 322 #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bakudeku #bnha meta #bakugou meta #deku meta #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha

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forever-rogue · 3 years

Note

If you’re taking requests, can you do 102 & 110 from the 390 prompt list for Bucky Barnes please 💛

Prompts used:

102. "I had a nightmare about you and just wanted to make sure you were okay."

110. "I just wanted you to know that when I picture myself happy...its with you."

A/N: I hope you all enjoy! 🥺

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

It was dark, filled with smoke and haze as Bucky looked around, attempting to figure out where he was. He waved his arm around trying to clear the path in front of him as his heart pounded in chest, threatening to burst through and bleed out. His mind was reeling as he tried to shut out the noise, screams, shouts, cries, and pleas that rushed to him all at once. It was so much, too much, at once and he felt like putting his hands over ears to ground himself.

His knees felt weak and shaky as he pushed himself to move forward and make some sense of his situation. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right -

But then he heard it. And it caused him to stop dead in his tracks and stand still. It was your voice, your very distressed cry meeting his ears.

"Bucky!"

His head whipped around so quickly it was a shock he didn't snap his own neck. Ragged breath and broken cries left his lips as he tried to make sense of where you were. He followed the trail of your voice as best as he could, pushing his way through crowds of people that were suddenly there.

"Help me!"

Blue eyes scanned the crowd as he looked through the frantic horde. A sound of frustration bubbled up in his throat, along with acid and bile when he realized you weren't nearby.

"Bucky!"

»»————-　♡　————-««

Bucky sat up rod straight as he tried to slow his breathing. His chest was rising and falling rapidly and he was covered in a sheen of sweat. At least he was safe, he realized as he grounded himself by looking around his small apartment. Refrigerator, television, table. Refrigerator, television, table. He repeated the phrase to bring himself down several times until he finally felt the panic subside. He held his tired face in his hands as he slowed and evened his breathing, reminding himself that this was all a nightmare. It wasn’t real, none of it was real - it was all a cruel ploy of his imagination.

With a loud sigh, he grabbed his phone off the nightstand and glanced at the time. 3:33. It was too early for anyone to be logically awake, but too late for even night owls. Bucky threw off his thin blanket and stretched, all of his thoughts rushing back to you.

It was all a dream. He had to force himself to remember that. There was no reason for him to fly into a panic and come to check on you. But then again...he had the spare key to your apartment and could easily just pop in and check on you. Five minutes, he reasoned with himself, five minutes was all. In and out to ensure you were safely tucked into bed before he returned home to pretend nothing happened. He’d tell Dr. Raynor about this later. Maybe. He didn’t need her on his case even more about his nightmares and demons.

He quickly swiped his black t-shirt off the floor and tugged it on his haste, not even bothering to change out of his grey sweaters before sliding on his shoes and grabbed his keys. He had no doubt he looked like a mad man, more mad than he even felt half the time, but he didn’t care. There was only one thing on his mind right now and that was ensuring your safety.

»»————-　♡　————-««

When he reached your apartment, he was silent and aloof as he approached the door and looked around to see if anything was amiss; it all looked perfectly normal. Almost too normal in fact, and although the logical part of his mind knew he was overreacting, he couldn’t help but think of the worst possible things. Looking down the hallways, he made quick work of sliding his key in and quietly unlocking your door.

Windows closed, lights off, everything put neatly away as it always was. Not a thing out of place. He shut the door behind him, remembering too late that it always creaked if you closed it at a particular angle and grimaced at the sound. Hopefully you were deep enough in sleep that you wouldn’t stir. Bucky stealthed down the hall to where he spied your open bedroom door and heard the faint sounds of the television still.

A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth as he realized you’d fallen asleep while watching your favorite show; you’d had it on in the background when you’d talked to him on the phone earlier too. And then there you were, sprawled across your bed in your pajamas, mouth open ever so slightly as you snored quietly. You were okay, he told himself, very much alive and very much okay. He nodded to himself as he grabbed the remote for the television and switched it off so you’d have full peace and quiet. But for some reason that was the singular act that snapped you out of your dream sleep and you sleepily rubbed at your eyes as you moved to sit up.

Bucky froze in terror as you yawned and opened your eyes to find him awkwardly standing there. Despite your sleepy state, you beamed at him and his heart relaxed as you held out a hands towards him, “hi Bucky. What are you doing here? ‘ts late and you should be sleeping, silly old man.”

Unable to stop, he came to you, taking your hand in his as he pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, causing you to sigh softly, “I-I had a nightmare about you and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“A nightmare?” you were suddenly wide awake as you looked at him with gentle, curious eyes. You pulled him towards you, “oh Bucky, I’m so sorry, my love. Stay - come lay with me.”

“It’s late,” he reminded you, “you need to sleep and I need to go.”

‘I’m not going to be able to sleep if I worry about you for the rest of the night,” you insisted firmly, standing up in front of him, “just get into bed with me, Bucky. Let me hold and you make sure you’re okay. I love you and just like you worry about me, I worry about you.”

“You don’t-”

“Don’t even try to argue with me James Buchanan Barnes,” you insisted gently, but with bite before you pressed a kiss to his lips. He relaxed, truly relaxed for the first time that evening as he keened into your body, “let me care of you too. You deserve it, Bucky. Stay with me?”

And who was he to refuse such an enticing offer? Blue eyes met your gentle ones as he bit his lip lightly before nodding. Your hands moved to his waist as you reached for the hem of his black shirt and slowly pulled it up and over, letting him discard onto the floor. A hand rested on his chest, just above his heart as you felt it beat, steady and true, under your palm. Bucky swallowed the lump on his throat at your small act of intimacy before letting a world weary exhale. You pressed a few kisses to the bare skin of his shoulder, working your way up his neck and jaw before pausing at his lips. He kicked off his shoes before letting you guide him into your soft, warm bed; it was always a comfort, just like you.

He made himself comfortable, burrowing his way under the covers and taking up the spot he normally occupied as you rejoined him. Curling around his body, you enveloped him, making him feel small and safe, and most importantly loved. It had been a rarity for him, before you came into his life, to feel like this, but you gave and gave and gave, almost never asking for anything in return. But he always gave back, as much as he could, because to him you were everything. Everything he was not, every bit of light and love that he wished he could be. But he was learning, learning to live and love again, and for whatever reason you were there with him, never thinking twice about your decision to so openly love and care for him.

You wrapped your arm around his waist as you rested your head against his back, but not before pressing a few more kisses to his warm, soft skin. He practically hummed in content as his restless thoughts lurched to a screeching halt.

“I know they seem real, Bucky, but they’re just nightmares. Nothing can hurt you anymore,” you whispered softly, tracing aimless shapes over his body, “you’re not him anymore, you’re you. And it’ll be okay, everything will be okay. I’ll fight off all your demons myself if I have to.”

Bucky choked up for a moment, unable to properly form any words, but you felt him nod lightly as he took your hand and laced your fingers together. You didn’t need him to say anything; you knew, you both knew. It was quiet for some time, and eventually you felt yourself start to drift off to sleep as his breathing became heavier and steadier.

“You’ve asked me before about why I stay with you,” you whispered to what you thought was a sleeping Bucky, “and I hope you know it’s because I love you - fully, and completely, every part and parcel. I just wanted you to know that when I picture myself happy...its with you. Always. And even if it takes you a while to realize that, I’ll always be by your side. I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. I am yours and you are mine.”

Bucky’s eyes were wide open now as he listened to your gentle words and stared out the window at the pale moonlight. Suddenly he felt calmer, more relaxed, like he was seeing things with a sense of clarity for the first time in a long time. He swallowed the lump that had welled up in his throat. Blinking back the stinging in his eyes, he brought your hand back up to his chest holding both of your hands above his heart. How vulnerable and human he felt in that moment - how loved.

“I love you, Bucky,” was the last thing you said once you closed your eyes.

You didn’t hear it, but if you’d been awake still, you’d have heard the gentlest I love you spill from his lips. But it was okay, because you knew. You knew.

»»————-　♡　————-««

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier

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inkandpen22 · 3 years

Text

Dazed and Confused ( S1: 3/?)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

Warnings: mild language and violence

Word Count: 3.1k

Part Summary: At Tina’s party, Y/N wants to forget all of her problems. Things take a turn when Billy makes a move on her, angering Steve

Masterlist

Arriving at Tina’s after dropping Dustin at Mike’s, I am in much need of some good old spiked punch. I yank down my gray oversized sweatshirt some more so that it hangs low off my shoulder. As I cross the threshold into the house, the heat of the crowded living room slaps me in the face. Directly to my left, the kitchen AKA the alcohol hub. I slip between bodies and end up at the counter covered with semi-empty bottles and old plastic cups. Most importantly, a bowl of maroon punch sits in the corner. I grab a cup and make my way over. A boy stands in front of it but I reach around him and scoop up some of the mystery substance.

“What’s in this?” I hear a voice holler behind me.

I turn around to answer but freeze when I realize it’s Nancy. She stares at me equally stunned. My face falls, this is awkward. Seriously universe? I couldn’t have at least one drink before bumping into her?

Steve appears behind her looking slick as ever in his black sunglasses and matching blazer.

“Everclear is my guess,” I answer, acting civil.

She nods timidly, “thanks…”

I step out of her way so she can get some of her own. Steve’s head travels up and down slowly with a blank expression. I can’t see his eyes but I assume he’s studying my costume. A gray oversized sweatshirt that hangs off the shoulder, red heels, matching earrings, and some shorts, though they’re unnoticeable. I can feel him starring me down through those stupid Ray-Bans. Silently, I beg for him to not bring up our encounter in the parking lot. All I wish for tonight is to drown out reality and try to forget. He’s a human ticking time bomb. The tension between us could be cut with a knife.

“Are you finally going to tell me what you are?” Nancy jumps in, forcing me to break my staring contest with her boyfriend.

I open my mouth to answer but Steve beats him to it.

“Flashdance,” he answers for me. “It’s one of her favorites.”

He acts distant, unattached, distracted by the party but I see right through it. There’s something he’s not saying. He says things like this as if it’s common knowledge. A random person wouldn’t describe my eyes as Y/E/C but gray depending on the lighting. One minute, he calls my eyes beautiful and the next he’s starring me down like a disapproving parent. The hell Harrington?!

Nancy gushes, apparently she and I are okay all of a sudden, despite early today with the whole Barb thing. Plus, I think she’s already been drinking for awhile so buzzed Nancy is fun Nancy.

“That’s so cute! You look hot!” She pulls me into a hug.

Over her shoulder, I glimpse up at Steve as he lifts his glasses to rest of his head. His brown eyes threaten to expose my upset from earlier. I get that he’s pissed about my neglect for my feelings. He wants to talk about what was wrong but right now we’re at a party and parties aren’t meant for depressing conversations.

“Let’s go dance!” Nancy suggests, already tugging me into the living room.

Steve calls after her but she ignores him. He follows behind us through the crowd with a groan. In the center of the living room, Nancy stops and turns to me with a bright grin. She cheers as she tosses her head back.

“Woohoo!” She laughs.

This is what I wanted, normalcy. We’re surrounded by our friends, drinking, dancing, being stupid! We did this before everything so why can’t we do it now? Perhaps after tonight, everything will fall back into place.

_______________________________________

On my third game of flip-cup, I’m beyond buzzed. In fact, when I walk I float. I’m on cloud nine. Here, this carefree and lively state is exactly where I wanted to be. Naturally, I’m competitive and amazing at drinking games so I finish my third game with yet another win. I cheer as Tommy from algebra hands me a cup of who knows what as my reward.

“Hey there beautiful,” a husky voice greets from behind me.

I spin around and kind of become dizzy from the action but catch myself.

It’s Billy.

“Hey hottie,” I smirk.

He snickers and closes the space between us to whisper in my ear. “How about you and I go somewhere a little more private?”

That’s a nice thought. He is cute. His ass could have its own zip code. Plus, he has no shirt on under that leather jacket, hello washboard like abs. His California tanned skin glistens under a thin layer of sweat. Damn, he’s a human Ken doll.

He’s no Steve though. Wait… what? I don’t think of Steve like that. Why would I think that? Um, yeah, that’s a no! Then again, Steve is always there for me. Sometimes it can be annoying how he’s always there. It means he cares but I don’t want to dump all of my drama on him. Then, he gets upset when I don’t open up. I hate it when I hurt him. I love him so much that when he’s in pain so am I.

“Okay,” I blurt out without truly thinking.

“Cool,” I hear him whisper as he takes my hand and starts pulling me toward the stairs across the room.

Wait, what? What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t like Billy. He treats Steve like shit. If anything I should kick his pretty ass. Though if I tried he’d probably murder me.

I glance down at his hand engulfing mine. It’s all rough and twice the size of my own. If we make it upstairs, it’ll be just him and I. I’ll be defenseless. I may be drunk but I’m not oblivious. My intuition is still working and it’s screaming for me to pull my shit together.

“Hey Billy? I don’t think…” I press my heels into the floor, slowing him down just as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

Aggressively, he whips around and purposefully towers over me to act intimidating. “What? Now, you’re saying no? Are you messing me? Playing with me!” He accuses.

I shake my head dramatically, “no! No, that’s not what-”

“Oh, so you still want to do this,” he presses.

Too impatient for an answer, he continues up the stairs. The grip he has on me has shifted up to my wrist. I attempt to tug myself free but fear dislocating it, his strength is too great. I stumble up the stairs behind me and I startle to feel dizzy. I think it’s safe to say I’ve had too much.

“No,” I whine, “I don’t want to! Stop! Please! I don’t want to! No!”

“Hey!” A booming voice echoes from the bottom of the stairs.

Rapid footsteps approach from behind me and a rush of relief consumes me when Steve appears beside me. He places a protective hand on my back.

“What the hell is going here?” He directs at Billy, taking note of his fist wrapped around my wrist.

“Nothing that concerns you, Harrington. Y/N and I were just heading upstairs.” He jolts his hand forward, causing me to traveling with it.

Steve instantly pries Billy’s hand from my body. Then, shoves him in the back, flying him forward to land with his ass on the stairs. “Don’t you ever touch her again! You hear me?!” He sneers. His face turns this deep red as he pants angrily.

The two start bickering but I can’t keep up. I see three Steves and a couple Billys shouting in each other’s faces. I lean against the railing unsteadily and slide down to sit on the steps. My eyes suddenly feel very heavy.

“I’m going to go to bed now,” I announce to no one in particular.

I decide to get some rest and shut my eyes. It’s okay, Steve’s here. He’ll protect me.

I’m not sure how much time has past when I hear Tommy and some of the other basketball boys come to break up the fight.

“Come on Y/N,” I hear Steve whisper to me, “let’s get you home.”

Feeling as light as a feather, I’m picked up like a sleepy child off the ground. For a moment, I fall asleep again. I rest my head on his chest and ponder the rare opportunity to sleep without being afraid of being eaten by a monster.

“Y/N?” I hear someone repeatedly call my name. “Y/N, wake up!”

I ease open my eyes and at first my vision is blurry but then they eventually adjust. Steve glances down at me as he we cross the threshold hold to the front yard.

“You smell like sunshine and all things exquisite,” I mumble to myself, adjusting myself in his arms to curl closer to his warmth.

“Even when hammered you still manage to be a walking thesaurus,” he teases.

Opps, he heard me. Oh well, I wasn’t lying. He smells like vanilla, the ocean, sugar, spice, and everything nice.

Goosebumps course over my skin as a brisk October breeze hits me. I shiver slightly and Steve holds me closer.

“We’re almost to my car. I’ll turn on the heat high. You’re okay,” he promises calmly.

Playing the hero, Steve places me into the passenger seat gently and straps me in. I toss my head to the side and rest my eyes again. He shuts the door for me before jogging to the driver’s side. The car drowns out the sound of chaos coming from the party and creates a sense of security. Steve slides behind the wheel and for some reason I choose now to act reasonable.

“Have you been drinking? If so, you shouldn’t drive,” I state like a health textbook.

He chuckles, popping in the keys. “I’m sober. Promise.”

“That’s nice. Good to know,” I yawn.

The last thing I can remember of the ride home is Steve turning on the car.

______________________________________

I wake up silently as Steve pulls up in front of my house. He’s unaware of my stare as he finishes parking and turning off the car.

“Hazel,” I tell him, announcing my woken state.

He looks to me with scrunched eyebrows, all confused. It’s cute when he does that. He’s cute. Geez, what the heck am I saying? He’s dating my best friend! Steve is Steve and Katherine, we don’t mix, at least that way.

“What?” He questions, turning to face me.

“Your eyes… they’re hazel…” I repeat softly with a yawn. “But, it really depends on the lighting.”

He snickers, and astonished expression blesses his features. The subtle blush forming on his cheeks makes me smile to see him all bashful because of my comment. He has no idea how gorgeous we truly is, inside and out. He glances down at his lap, at his hands fidgeting with a button on his jacket, then back up at me with hooded eyes.

“See, right now!” I point out, “they’re a dark brown like a burnt caramel, basically black. When you’re really focused on a task or upset about something, they go dark. Then, when you’re really happy or excited, they turn to a light hazel… like seaglass. It’s how I can tell if something’s bothering you. You don’t even have to tell me half the time. All I have to do is look into your eyes and I know,” I state a matter-of-factly with a light snicker.

I shift you see him directly and tuck a few strands of my hair away from my face. He watches my every move patiently, eagerly, for me to say something more, anything. I can’t speak for him but my heart won’t stop racing. Is it possible to have stage fright in a conversation? I feel like a mannequin, on display. Nervously, I twirl my hair at the ends and find myself unable to meet his gaze anymore.

“Your pupils are rarely small,” I add quietly. “They’re usually really big and take up most of your eye giving off the illusion they’re black. One thing that never changes is…” I make a circle with my finger in front of my eye to demonstrate, “is the gold rim around each of them.” I lower my hand into my lap and play with the end of my sweatshirt. “That’s my favorite part… ” I confess timidly.

I wouldn’t be saying these things if I were sober. I wish he would say something, anything. He must think I’m crazy. He finds me with Billy heading up stairs. I can only imagine what he must think of me now. Embarrassed beyond belief and sobering up, I excuse myself.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as I unbuckle myself. “See you Monday!”

Swiftly, I climb out of the car. As I walk toward my front door, I curse myself for acting so stupid! Geez, what was I thinking? ‘The gold rim around each of them, that’s my favorite part!’ What kind of mushy, guhsy, marshmallow fluff is that? Ew! If he never spoke to me again I would judge that as completely reasonable! He has a girlfriend! He’s taken! Completely off limits! Why did I spew out this creepy nonsense to him like a total idiot? I’m not some lovesick teenage girl! I’m going to go to my room, put in some Guns N’ Roses, and just scream into my pillow all weekend! It sounds like an excellent plan to me because I just ruined my friendship with Steve forever! Add Nancy to that list because once he fills her in on what I said I’ll lose both of them!

“Y/N!” He calls after me.

I ignore it as I march faster toward the door. He’s only going to call me crazy because I was acting crazy!

“Y/N, wait!” He repeats as I hear him shut the car door and run toward me.

“Goodnight, Steve!” I urge him away without turning around.

His footsteps speed up until they come to a halt directly behind me. I reach for the door handle, my freedom. Desperately, he grips my forearm and steps in front of me, blocking the front door.

“Look, could you just slow down for a sec?” He yells at me as he pants to catch his breath.

“No! I can’t slow down! I just want to go inside, get in my pajamas, and forget tonight ever happened! Alright? Now, excuse me,” I gesture for him to get out of the way.

Reluctantly, paired with an overly dramatic eye roll, he steps aside. Despite wanting his to leave, I thank him quietly for cracking open the front door slowly, making sure not to wake anyone.

“Nance and I broke up…” Steve drops on me.

My heart leaps and I stop dead in my tracks. Unsure of what to do or say, I remain still in the doorway and wait for him to say more.

“She never loved me,” he explains with a heartbroken tone. “At least… I don’t think she did…”

Shit. Please don’t tell me that, Harrington. It only makes me want you more. He’s always so close but too far out of reach. I care about him more than anything but he’ll never mine. I’m just the friend.

I spin on my heels and offer him a sympathetic smile, “would you like to come in?”

He nods, clearly miserable. I step aside, allowing him in. After shutting the door behind us, I warn him to be quiet so we don’t wake my parents. He nods slowly and slips his hand into mine. Never breaking eye contact with me, he leads the way through the moonlit house toward my room. His platonic touch is so blissful, I can only imagine what it feels like otherwise.

_________________________________

Steve and I sit on my bed in our usual positions with my record player going quietly. He lounges like a patient in therapy and me, acting as his therapist, criss-cross beside him. He explains everything. He describes how drunk Nancy got and how he followed her to the bathroom. It was there they got into a fight. She admitted feeling guilty for the loss of Barb. Then, she called all of it bullshit. Us acting like carefree teenagers, never telling Barb’s parents the truth, her love for Steve, all of it is bullshit. He asked Jonathan to take her home and that’s when he stumbled upon me and Billy.

Watching Steve relive it all and hearing the pain in his voice breaks my heart. How could Nance do this to him? I get that she’s going through something, we all are. I’m by no means normal. I’m hiding everything for Pete’s sake! I haven’t been myself for over a year. Steve was just now becoming truly happy again! He was putting on a brave face for Nancy for so long! Now, she crushed it. She crushed him.

I reach and place my hand over his as they rest intertwined on his stomach. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

“I really loved her. At least, I think I did. I don’t know anymore. I thought she loved me too.”

“I did too,” I tell him honestly.

He glances away from the ceiling down to me, “what can I do?”

I wish I knew the answer. I wish there was a way I could take away his pain. Yet, I have nothing. I shrug, “I’m not entirely sure. I think you should at least talk to her.

Tomorrow, of course, when she’s sobered up. Perhaps, she was just drunk and didn’t mean what she said. She wasn’t in the proper mindset.”

“So I shouldn’t take what she said to heart?”

“Well, there’s also the argument that drunk words are sober thoughts.”

“Does the same go for you?” He snickers.

I laugh, “sometimes.”

“So you don’t like the gold in my eyes? I thought it was your favorite part?” He smirks, turning to lay on his side and face me. My hand would’ve fallen off his hadn’t he flipped his over to catch it.

Ugh, he’s such a sneaky jerk! His cheeky smirk only grows with my silence. Warmth rushes to my cheeks as I bashfully hide my face.

“Yeah… about that…” I laugh nervously, “let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“Should I forget that you also said I smell like sunshine and everything exquisite?” He adds to the torment.

I groan, tossing my head back. This must count as torture. “Preferably, yes,” I request shortly.

We share a laugh at my annoyed reaction. He’s impossible! Even he should be mopping he still manages to tease me!

A comfortable silence fills the air and I stare down at the pillow in my lap as I play with the lettering on it.

________________________________

Masterlist

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #stranger things #stranger things smut #stranger things image

158 notes · View notes

no-droids · 4 years

Text

Mercy, Sabotage, and Dead Space

(gif credit to @redwyyne-archive)

Part One of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.7K

Summary:

1. No sex.

2. No touching yourself.

3. No orgasms.

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

***

This.

This shit, right here.

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

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

But then you met… fucking Dameron.

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

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

But this?

This shit? Right here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, there it is. “Second of all—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You… aren’t expecting that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright, no, wait—backtrack—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A false sense of…

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

… What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, oddly, he doesn’t say much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. Shitshitshit, did that actually work?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then everything goes dark.

No, literally. The stars disappear.

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

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

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

Your first name, roared out in startling, blinding panic.

You don’t often hear it. Just during roll calls mostly, but only if you’re flying with a different squadron and need a new temporary flight designation for the day. First names hurt. You can’t remember a time you’ve ever willingly told anybody yours.

Your head jerks up to look at his reflection but something else beyond the transparisteel takes immediate precedence. Your brain takes about two seconds to catch up before thundering terror slams through you and halts your previously inevitable orgasm in its fucking tracks. A runaway train about to launch off its tracks suddenly slamming directly into a megaton force-field of cold, hard fight or flight instincts.

A staggering fleet of First Order ships silently plunging out of hyperspace on all sides—your powered-down x-wing stationed right in the middle of the drop location.

***

Stay tuned for part two coming soon!!

#poe x reader #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #SMUTTTT #reader insert #star wars #fanfic #the formatting on this one is downright horrendous but im so mad that i cant even fix it right now so thatll have to come later im sorry

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lonely-lost-soul · 3 years

Text

First Lady of the Court

Part 3: Ghostbur (C!Wilbur Soot x reader)

A worn journal was opened, the pages faded and yellowing, a pen was placed on the parchment and the owner began to write. The sun rose over the horizon, and the wind nipped at the writer's skin, but they didn’t feel it. They didn’t feel many of life's sensations anymore, sometimes he felt warmth but it was always fleeting. He titled the page:

"Things I Remember", by Ghostbur

-The smell of bread

- L'Manberg

- The Revolution

- Bullying Tommy (he's a child)

- Sparring with Techno as a kid

- The wind

- Being president

- People cheering for me

- Fundy growing up

- Niki

- (Y/N) becoming my first lady

- The van

- Tubbo building everything

- Phil protecting me

- Sally the salmon

- (Y/N) the new love of my life

- (Y/N) adoring Fundy and treating him as her own

- Philza stabbing me to death with a sword

- A large explosion

-(Y/N) crying for me, I don’t like when she’s sad

- The taste of salt

- Air in my lungs

- Winning the election

- A ravine

- Techno's armory

- Books

- Tunnels

- Arrows

- ./..

- I don't know

The ghost’s head snapped up to attention, up until a few months ago he was lost in a void of darkness. Pieces were coming back together for him, he was once Wilbur Soot the president of the country he fought and died for, but now he didn’t have a purpose. He wanted to find Fundy, Tommy and Phil let them know he was here and alright, well alright for a ghost. But most importantly he wanted to find (Y/N), her cries wouldn’t leave his head. It was bad, a bad, bad memory, he’d taken to holding pieces of blue to make him feel better, but even that didn’t help his mood.

Eventually, Wilbur had found Fundy, who wasn’t that thrilled to see him, much to his disappointment. When he found Tommy he was slightly more thrilled and Phil seemed to be relieved yet mournful, Wilbur didn’t understand why, he did a good thing. However he had yet to find her, Phil seemed to be the only one who knew but he was giving him nothing. He didn’t know why was it because you didn’t want to see him? The thought made him want to cover himself in blue and beg for forgiveness. He managed to find a brand new buddy in his mourning, a blue sheep he had dubbed Friend. You would love her, (Y/N) adored sheep she would love Friend, she could be a forgiveness gift. Yet, nobody would tell the ghost where you were no matter how much he begged and pleaded, he watched as his once-prosperous country got rebuilt. Tubbo was doing a fantastic job as president, everyone seemed happy and Ghostbur accepted that fact.

A few days ago, Ghostbur sensed something was wrong. Phil was acting weirdly distant and even though Tubbo was trying to dodge his questions, he couldn’t fathom what was going on, until he saw you. You had come in wearing Alivebur’s old jacket and Ghostbur immediately froze, your hair was slightly messy and you looked tired. You were still you, same gorgeous, beautiful you, if his heart was still beating it would’ve skipped a beat. The only difference he could find was that your eyes looked deader than his own, and he was a ghost, it made him ache terribly. He wanted to float towards you, to welcome you with open arms but for some reason, he hesitated. He watched as Phil made his way over to you, he wrapped you in a hug and you hugged him back, the two made some small talk before Phil rubbed the back of his neck. Your brow furrowed and he watched you blink in surprise, you looked over Phil’s shoulder and right through Wilbur. The ghost would’ve flushed if he had blood, instead he settled on fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater before holding up a hand in a wave. You stumbled back away from him looking over at Phil who gave a little nod, Wilbur watched you shake your head and his heart sunk. His father reached out to you and your face scrunched up, you were hissing at him, clearly pissed off. Phil whacked you on the back of his head and you glared at the older man, Wilbur felt a small nudge on his arm, it was Friend. He took a shaky breath and ran his fingers through her wool, at least she had his back, when he looked up again you were marching over to him.

God, you were hot when you were mad.

“(Y/n)! Darling! It’s good to see you-”

“You son of a bitch!” You spat at him, eyes suddenly blazing with life and fire, Ghostbur felt himself falter and shrink into himself. “You think you can just come back here after what you did to us! How you treated us, how you treated me!” Ghostbur’s face fell, he didn’t remember hurting you, he refused to remember that memory, but the way he clutched his blue said enough. “I loved you! I wanted to marry you!” You choked out suddenly deflating as tears began to well in your eyes, you cursed and covered your face with your sleeve. “I cannot believe I’m crying right now.”

“You need some blue?” Wilbur said in a soft, tender voice different than you last remembered. You looked out over your sleeve finally taking in his ghostly appearance, he was wearing his big, round glasses, eyes a soft grey. Blue seemed to be pooling in the edges almost like tears, he had a shaky smile on his features, the yellow sweater he wore was one you’ve never seen before, a large red gash sat on his chest. He watched you swallow thickly and take a step back from him, “I don’t remember what happened to make you hate me so dear.” His voice quivered and he heard you whimper, “But I am so sorry...you can call me Ghostbur, I want to be different from Alivebur. Though his love for you still lives in me.”

Ghostbur watched you let out a heart-wrenching sob as you fell to your knees in front of him. You were clutching the L’manburg pin on your lapel, knuckles white, hands shaking in petrification. He floated beside you and wrapped you up in his arms, the hug wasn’t unwelcome but it was cold, Wilbur knew you’d feel no warmth from it but he hoped it’d bring you some form of comfort.

“I missed you. So much,” You admitted with a sniff, and Ghostbur couldn’t help but smile sadly.

“I missed you too,” He ran a hand through your hair and you leaned into the apparition's ghostly touch. Ghostbur glanced up at Phil who had a tense smile on his face as he nodded slightly at the ghost, it read don’t hurt her again, and Wilbur nodded. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you, you need to meet Friend!” His eyes lit up a little as he looked around for his blue sheep, “You’ll love her!”

“I’ve been living with Fundy,” You answered his question and his brows furrowed, but Fundy had told him he had no idea where you lived. “We’ve been taking care of one another, just like I promised you we would,” You responded flatly, your voice had a flat affect and Wilbur shuffled uncomfortably in the air.

Where was your spark? Your lust for life and the good things? Was this his fault?

No. No, it couldn’t have been, he refused to accept that outcome.

Alivebur loved you just as much as Ghostbur did, he felt that love so deep in his being it was almost suffocating. So, he’d never hurt you, you don’t hurt the people you love and that’s a fact. So why were you so sad?

“That’s weird. Fundy said he couldn’t find you!” Ghostbur huffed, shaking his head at his son's actions, “My silly, little champion.”

“Ghostbur don’t call him that, he doesn’t like it.” You stated gruffly crossing your arms and his frown only deepened,

“What do you mean he doesn’t like it? Of course, he likes it, he loves it!”

“No Wil he doesn’t. Stop it.” You hissed and he flinched, your face fell a little and you turned away from him. You shoved your hands in the pockets of the jacket, “I need a smoke.” You muttered and his jaw dropped,

“That’s bad for you! You know that!”

“So what? It makes me fucking feel better. You’re not my Wilbur. Stop pretending you give a shit about me.”

“I do care! I love you!” He argued desperately, “I know I’m not him. I can never be him but that doesn’t mean I love you any less. His love transferred to me, please...give me a chance.” You looked at him up and down and he’s never felt more terrified in his entire existence, he needed your hope, he could fix you.

“You don’t understand how much he hurt me.” You whispered completely vulnerable, “he went crazy, blew up a nation, and left me alone.”

He. Meaning Alivebur, Ghostbur was glad he was distinguishing the difference between the both of them. He didn’t remember doing that to you, after all, Ghostbur didn’t do that to you.

“I’ll never leave you alone. I can promise you that, with my whole heart I swear it.” He took your hands within his own, he knew you could barely feel his touch. You closed your eyes for a minute before reopening them,

“I’ll give you one chance. One. So help me god, if you ruin that chance I will never speak to you again. That’s a promise.”

Ghostbur swallowed thickly, nerves prickling at his entire being, “I won’t waste that chance, my dear.” You gave a stern nod and rubbed the back of your neck with a tired sigh,

“So...Friend?”

Ghostbur’s entire demeanor changed as he introduced you to the blue sheep that had taken a rather strong liking to him. The sheep nuzzled at your chest sniffing at your clothing choice, you hesitated a little before running your fingers through her wool.

“She’s very soft.”

“I know right!” he chimed wrapping his arms tight around his sheepy buddy, he buried his face in her wool. Ghostbur saw a weary smile spread across your face which made him smile back at you in return.

Maybe this could still work out for the both of you.

Months went by and you had set up residence outside of New L’manburg, everyone understood why you couldn’t make a permanent home out of the new country after everything that occurred there. In between watching over an exiled Tommy, Ghostbur would come by and visit you, even though you hated to admit it the ghost of your former lover had won you over. He was just so innocent so unlike the man who blew up his own country, so much like the goofball you had originally fallen in love with, you were enraptured. When New L’manburg blew up you weren’t surprised, there was a dull ache in your heart when you heard the news from a sobbing Ghostbur but you couldn’t feel sympathy. What you did feel sympathy about though was Phil’s uncaring attitude towards Friend, it was the first time you heard Ghostbur get legitimately angry.

It scared you more than you wanted to admit.

Even so, you confronted your former lover; he didn’t like sadness and tried to push the feeling away. You tried to comfort him the best way you could but he insisted he was fine opting to take his blue and forget his sadness. That was another thing, his quote on quote blue, it never did sit right with you. Hurt, sadness, and pain are hard emotions to face but they create character and depth and ultimately shouldn’t just be forgotten so easily, after all, how will you ever learn from your mistakes if you don’t experience sadness. Ghostbur didn’t want to hear your reasoning and still took towards using the blue, you eventually gave up trying to convince him otherwise.

You were sitting outside on your porch, rocking on your porch swing a cup of cocoa in your hand. Ghostbur was sitting beside you, head on your shoulder humming a soft tune to himself,

“Darling?”

“Hm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Ghostbur had asked so innocently it made your heart leap into your throat. Thoughts of Wilbur and his betrayal flashed across your mind, you wanted to scream and say no. That you’ll never let someone like that hurt you again, you were too strong, you opened your mouth but the hope in Ghostbur’s eyes made you close your mouth. This wasn’t the Wilbur you knew, this was Ghostbur, sure he was the ghost of Wilbur but they were so different. Ghostbur made you happy, he made you remember what it was like to be a good person, made you remember what it was like when you first met Wilbur. He made you smile and laugh, and he genuinely adored and cared for your happiness. You found yourself uttering a soft okay before your brain could comprehend your decision, the smile that lit up across Ghostbur’s face was illuminating. He floated over to you and cupped your cheeks, his pale hands were freezing, but it felt good against your scalding hot cheeks. Ghostbur’s eyes softened as he stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, he leaned forward and captured your lips in a soft kiss, the kiss was cold but not unpleasant. You felt him melt against you, and press desperately on to your lips, you couldn’t help but let out a little giggle you felt him pull away. He had the cutest pout on his pale lips,

“Don’t giggle at my kisses!” Ghostbur sounded so offended, you only laughed harder. “Stopppppppp,” he whined leaning against you dramatically.

“I’m sorry Ghostbur.” You covered your mouth with your hand, “You’re just too cute.”

You watched him freeze at your genuine compliment, a smile broke across his features,

“No, you’re cute!” Ghostbur cooed floating around you and wrapping his arms tight around your waist. You leaned into his touch with bright red cheeks,

“You’re a goofball,” You whispered softly, he nuzzled his face into your hair,

“I love you.” You froze in his arms and tensed up, reality crashing back onto all at once. Did you really kiss your dead lover's ghost? The lover who was a fucking asshole to you and blew up an entire country.

Not a girl boss moment.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Ghostbur was quick to add, “I know how hard this is for you. There’s no pressure with me my dear, I just want you to know how I feel.” He pressed the sweetest of kisses to the side of your head. Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes, not out of sadness, out of shock. You couldn’t believe Ghostbur was once Wilbur, the same man you yelled and screamed at you before his death, Ghostbur was wonderful. Ghostbur was kind and sweet, gentle and tender, one day you’d be ready to say you love him, just not yet, not when everything is so fresh.

“Thank you Ghostbur. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“Anything for you my dear.”

Months turned into years and you had officially fallen in love with your clingy ghost and his blue sheep. You knew he loved you to absolute bits, there were many occasions where Phil and Technoblade came up to you and begged you to get Ghostbur to stop gushing about you. You only turned red and smiled fondly, they scoffed but ruffled your hair, overall both were happy to see you smiling again. You hadn’t kept up with the dramas of the SMP, all your information was from Ghostbur, which happened to be not all that reliable.

You loved him but he was so naive, Tommy and Tubbo had defeated Dream, taken two of his cannon lives, and locked him in Sam’s prison. When Ghostbur told you a smile overtook your features, finally the bastard was getting what he deserved.

Isolation.

Tommy was growing closer with Ghostbur again too, which you couldn’t help but be happy about, he too deserved to heal from the trauma Wilbur had inflicted. You trusted Tommy, even when everyone else didn’t you tried to have his back and showed you he cared in his own weird way. Which mostly meant not stealing your shit, which you weren’t complaining about, today, however, he seemed tense. You both were walking the Prime Path on your way back to your abode, Tommy was loud and rambling, but they were different from his usual ramblings.

“Tommy?”

“What is it, women? I’m in the middle of my heroic story!”

“Are you alright?” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes and saw him go rigid. He cleared his throat shaking away his nerves,

“Fuck you talking about? Of course, I’m okay bitch. Don’t interrupt me again!” He scoffed nose high in the air, you narrowed your eyes and he shrunk under your gaze. “I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, you thought about his resurrection and assumed it had something to do with that, your gaze drifted to the white streaks littering his hair.

“Hey...it’s okay. Just know I’m here for you,” You assured with a smile. You reached up to squeeze his shoulder, he looked shocked at the affectionate gesture,

“Obviously I know that! Don’t assume things bitch!” Tommy shouted shaking off your hand, you shook your head with a smile and let Tommy continue his story. If the young boy wanted to tell you, he would on his own terms. That night Ghostbur had come home absolutely shaking with excitement,

“Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo said we’re going on an adventure tonight!” Ghostbur was absolutely glowing, you couldn’t help but smile faintly at his antics.

“Don’t have too much fun.” You chastised teasingly, ghostbur giggled in delight as you pressed a kiss to his cold skin. “Stay safe, don’t let them bully you too much.”

“They don’t bully me,” he huffed but he leaned in for another kiss. Ghostbur had discovered he loved your kisses, even though they were probably cold to you all he felt was warmth. If he was a hybrid like his son his tail would be wagging, and if he was alive he’d be bright red. “I love you (y/n), of course, I’ll stay safe. I promised you I’d never leave you remember?”

You flushed and nodded, “I remember. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Until then my dear!” He took your hand within his own and kissed the tops of your knuckles. You flushed pink and he sent you a cheeky grin,

“Get out of here loverboy! Don’t keep the children waiting!” You shouted as he floated out the door with a giant wave,

“I’ll be sending you kisses!”

“Ghostbur oh my god, go already!” You giggled with a fond roll of your eyes, he laughed loudly and floated out the door.

You should’ve told him you loved him. It’s okay, there would always be tomorrow.

You were getting ready for bed when Tubbo called you over the walkie-talkie, he was frantically apologizing and pleading for you to come to the crater that was L’manburg. Tommy then stole the walkie talking and started shouting about Ghostbur and your heart sink into your chest. He didn’t make a whole lot of sense but you put on a coat over your pajamas and ran in the direction of the once-prosperous nation. When you got there Tubbo and Tommy were a mess, Ranboo was trying to calm them down and Friend looked uncomfortable.

Where was Ghostbur?

You opened your mouth to call out to the boys when a pair of arms snuck around your waist. They were warm and real, pale hands caressed your abdomen,

“Hi, darling. Did you miss me?” Warm lips handed on your neck, “I missed you.”

Wilbur was back.

~~~ @blossom-702 @mayempress @thatguythatsshy

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