#ooc。 disgusting and vile. not worth my time.

[willgrahamscock]

hanniballs :3 was rly tired writing, sorry for mistakes and all of the OOC 😔

Hannibal sighed and looked at his meat racks, he had used up the last of his supply cooking a dinner for Will last night. He only regretted it slightly, as he didn't like having to hunt in the morning; it was uncivilized to get up so early in his opinion. He supposed the act of sharing with Will, making their stomachs come together as one was worth it.

Cracking the fingers of his giga-chad hands, he went up his stairs focused on one thing, the hunger in his stomach.

Hannibal's eyes searched through his Patrick-Batemen-Esque collection of business cards until he spotted the perfect one. 'Gabriel Sullivan', his nose crinkled in disgust, he remembered Mr. Sullivan oh too well.

The memories flashed of an intoxcicated Gabriel bumping into Hannibal at a gym (Hannibal was on the grind only at 2am). Gabriel had reached his hand onto Hannibal's shoulder and pulled him in close.

He was revolted just thinking about the vile words Mr. Sullivan had slurred out, "Heyyyyy soy-boy," Sullivan had hiccuped loudly, "do you want to hear about my new crypto-currency?"

As if the Hannibal Lecter would ever drink soy miilk instead of human blood!

Shaking his head slightly, Hannibal was returned back to reality, or at least, his version of reality. As he was sitting down in his car, he quickly put on his favorite song and his one inspirtion in life, Cannibal by Ke$ha. She was such a girlboss.

The speedometer was whirring alarmingly fastl, Hannibal glanced over and saw he was going 72 miles over the speed limit, oh well. Live Laugh Love.

Not long after, he had arrived at Gabriel Sullivans house, it was suprisingly well decorated, or at the least the outside was, for a man who put his trust into crypto.

He debated how he was going to do this, would he knock on the door and pretend to be a girl scout? Sneak in the windows with the positivly delightful curtains?

Before Hannibal could continue on with his musing, the door to the house was slammed opened.

How rude, not giving him enough time to prepare. It didn't matter though.

Stepping out of the car which Will had adornned with fishing equipment, Hannibal assumed the guise of a old man who was severly sick.

Almost immediantly, he was yelled at, "Who the fuck are you old twat? Get the hell of my property or I'm calling the cops!"

Mr. Sullivan has just now chosen the hard way.

Feeling the wood of his knife's handle, Hannibal coldly slide it into his hand, not caring if Gabriel saw it, there were benifiets to not living near other people, but no one being able to hear screams wasn't one, at least not for Mr. Sullivan.

He speedwalked as fast as a girlie could, managing to get close enough to jab into the pig's stomach, puncutering the pancreas. The glassy brown eyes stared at him, and he stared back, smirking slightly when the injured blinked.

Hannibal began smoothly, "Tell me, do you have one redaimable quality? Any cooking supplies? Blink for yes. This will go much better for you if you answer."

He of course meant better in the sense of taste, however Sullivan didn't need to know that yet.

Water welled up in Gabriel's eyes, but he managed to blink, hoping to save his life.

"Good. That will make this go much quicker then." Hannibal said right before snapping the other man's neck.

"Now to get to work..." It was as if time had suddenly sped up, or an author had work early tomorrow morning and realized they should have spent less time writing the set up and more time learning how to describe cooking.

First, Hannibal moved the body inside the house, for easier access to the meat. He was ready to cook a scrumdiddlyumptious meal, one historians would talk about for centerius if they found out.

The meal was... human balls!

The deilcacy wasn't one he often got to try, for the FBI would surely be suspicious if all the victims of the Chesapeake Ripper had gottern nuetared.

He hummed to the beat of Vivaldi's four seasons, whilst he carefully used his pocketknife to cut off the man's balls induvidially. After he managed to get them in a fairly circular shape (as was required for the recipe he was using), Hannibal raided Sullivan's food stores, grabbing almond flour, two eggs, and the rich people spices / herbs he had brought from home.

Making quick work, it didn't take that long to find a pot that he would be boiling his wonderful creation in.

You may be wondering what exactly he was cooking, well, you know how most people had meatballs as a side with their pasta? Hannibal liked to mix his food together.

Anyways, actually making the noodles took about twenty minutes, which was pretty good considering he'd never had balls cooked like this before, but there's a first time for eveything.

He grasped the two balls, dipped them in extra virgin olive oil, then scuptled the noodles onto it, making the ball's resemble his and Will Graham's faces. Once he was finally satisfied with his work, 30 more minutes had passed and he was growing hungrier by the second.

Putting water into the pot from earlier, he also dumped amounts of Saffron, Kaffir Lime Leaves, Long Pepper, Mahleb, and Black Cumin Seed inside, combining them to make a lovely concoction of all different flavors, enhancing that of the balls.

The water boiled quickly and he delicately put the ball faces in, not daring to ruin one of their designs, if Hannibal wasn't so hungry, he would have painted them with food dye as well.

Exactly ten minutes later, Will Graham showed up, wondering why Hannibal had texted him to come to such an ugly looking house. He sighed once he saw the blood drops on the front porch, he wasn't in the mood for human today, but it seems he would have to eat some.

"Ah, I see you've arived just one time. The act of procreation is one of the most intimate one can have, and yet the place where we can do it is the most painful. Perhaps God is gloating at us once more, for daring to continue after we left his garden. Tell me Will, would you leave the saftey of God's garden? Or continue to live in someone else's shadow, never being your own self?"

Will stared behind Hannibals shoulder, "Dr. Lecter, why are there noodle circles of our faces." Before Hannibal could answer he did his his leap and continued, "And what did you do with the dead man?"

The pychartrist tutted, "I though you would have been smarter Will. Those are his balls, so unfortanute of the poor man that they had to be cut off. I must admit I was curious what would happen if we ate the thing used to make another, but if it where shaped in our own image."

"I have one question Hannibal, who will be eating who?" Will smirked as he said this because hes silly like that.

"Oh Will, what is life but not the consumption of others?" Hannibals lip slightly moved upwards.

Will and Hannibal sat oppisite eachother at an unfamilar table, with tension thick in the air, they began to eat.

The food was so good the both them had transfered into cat's! And if there's one thing cat's do with dead bodies, it's eat them. So nothing really changed except Hannibal's person suit would cost more and Will has more a reason to hunt fish.

I never thought I’d be reading the most raw line

“The act of procreation is one of the most intimate one can have, and yet the place where we can do it is the most painful. Perhaps God is gloating at us once more, for daring to continue after we left his garden. Tell me Will, would you leave the saftey of God's garden? Or continue to live in someone else's shadow, never being your own self?"

In a crack fic about eating ballsacks.

[lichsent]

[no-droids]

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!!

[chaotically-cas]

Me talking about the tv show because I just finished my rewatch & I’m absolutely obsessed yet again

Aka a viewing guide

Spoiler warning

Sorry this is so long omg- I probably forgot so much too

Pilot:

Honestly the only true plot that interested me was Tim Shepard & Tim Shepard only. Steve’s care was pretty cool. Some dope Stevepop moments. Nice tarry content. Just nice Darry content over all. Dallas’s scene in the beginning keeps sending me thoughjskakfk

Ep 1:

Honestly I hate hate hate what they did to Sodapop’s character I absolutely hate it. They did him so freaking dirty. But we love pro choice Steve & Two Bit was also pretty scrumptious in this episode as well. I dislike this episode. It’s a no for me.

Ep 2:

This one is smack full of delicious tarry content for everyone to gobble on. Darry is absolutely scrumptious and I love the whole dynamic between him and Tim. I, again, hate soda in this episode. I hate him so much it’s unreal. Why is he like that. But I do love the way they did Buck so oh well. Kinda sad about the lack of Stevie.

Ep 3:

Definitely my favorite episode because iykyk. Steve is just absolutely scrumptious omg they really did a musical episode huh. And that song was really a banger huh. And he really had to look that good? Also Two but was absolutely scrumptious. The whole greaser band was a damn treat I wish we got more off. I will not be addressing the Ponyboy situation because no. Disgusting. Absolutely vile & perverted. No thank you & never again. But omg I cannot describe to you how amazing the band is guys ugh I cannot I cannot they are so cute & I want more content pronto. Also the bonding between Darry & Buck was kinda cute too. Like dar has a bit of a father figure again, it’s sweet.

Ep 4:

Pony is a damn flipping idiot. Wtf is he thinking. Like. Why. Why would he ever do that in a million years. Steve though, was looking fine again. And rip Soda even though he doesn’t die. I think Pony & Soda both nearly dying in this episode is so funny. Also kinda ooc of Darry? Like? Hospital bills are a deal ton and he is just gonna roll it off? Steve was more like Darry than Darry. Probably cause his boyfriends was dyi-

Ep 5:

We will not be addressing Tim & Cherry. Never. But omg. The tarry again guys the tarry omg I died. They’re so domestic & for what?? Also why is Pony such a moody little crap. I hate him in this because he cannot make up his little hormonal mind for a second. Also why can’t they put pants on? The lack of Two & Steve was very sad but ig the tarry vibes can make up for it. Idk what the brothers were on though agreeing to all that-

Ep 6:

A very close second favorite omg. I love the exploration of both Two and Pony’s friendship & the friendship between Steve and Darry. The scene was short but I really loved the dialogue between Steve & Darry. I think this was the one episode they tried (poorly) to give Steve the spot light & ehh. I love him & I loved hearing more about his dad & his relationship with his dad but there should’ve been more idc. I think the whole fact they all idolize old dead white men is a tad weird. But two’s speech on Elvis was the highlight of the episode by far omg. I just think Steve & Darry were idiots for continuing to work but it produced good content ig. Poor Darry though rip almost lol. I loved the Steve plot line of it all even if it was smaller than hoped for.

Ep 7:

Forking hate this episode. It adds absolutely nothing to the plot besides defiling Soda’s character even further. I think it was a poor poor attempted at ‘omg let’s all get along lol’ but came off incredibly racist & umm. It was an uncomfortable watch that is for sure. Honestly I plan on skipping this episode on my next rewatch it really isn’t worth the time imo. It’s just. Weird. 

Ep 8:

Every time I think about this episode I think it could be my favorite hdjskkd but idk. I absolutely freaking adorable the tarry & how they both protect each other. Please they are literally on a date. Soda is an absolute idiot but we know that. Steve was by far superior in this episode & he was a fine specimen too omg they Hawaiian shirt did wonders. Also Stevebit??? Omg please the way they blatantly flirted was so freaking fruity. Darry being a hero & saying the day in an epic way because again, Soda is a complete moron. Idk. Jewel was kinda vibey but Pony was good as well in this episode. Omg this is long but Tim & his parole officer sent me to the moon omg I see why Darry was crushing so hard.

Ep 9:

Ahhhh the two bit centric episode we all needed! I liked seeing how the stayed pretty close & true to his character, besides the drinking. It was fun & nice to learn more about him & his family aside from him just being a wise crack & I think both Pony & Steve saw that. That’s why they both helped him out. & I especially love the way the whole gang stood up for him in the end omg Tim Shepard was scrumptious but isn’t he always. I just love seeing more of two bit & his life & friendships outside the gang. However the scene with Sodapop was absolutely hilarious in an odd way- weirdo boyfriends. Also. Tim borrowing Darry’s suit is by far so tarry & I love them. Tim’s character exploration was also scrumptious in this episode.

Ep 10:

OK BUT- ok but this one also might be my favorite JSKSKKS I’m just gonna keep saying it. Two & Steve are absolutely complete asshole boyfriends. Especially Steve. The energy between two & Steve & soda is absolutely off the charts. Sodapop definitely lost his mind a little bit & I still don’t understand how Buck rationalized his decisions. Pony was just having the time of his life it was so funny. I feel bad for Darry omg it was his birthday & he was stuck being the responsible adult for a loaf of dumb ass kids. But honestly. Soda. You idiot. I know I should feel bad for you. But that sucked. How could you believe that. Buck too. Steve & Two are such fruity cuties though riding around, pranking, smooching, scheming together. Also, steve can draw & is musical? Ok king am I you or are you more attractive that I thought awooga woo 

Ep 11:

Haven’t rewatched it yet, will update with I do. Kinda homophobic that it’s missing the first part.

Ep 12:

Also will update when I rewatch

[alternislatronemhq]

Congrats, BEE, you have been accepted to AL for the role of DOLORES UMBRIDGE (FC:Olivia Taylor Dudley). OH MY GOODNESS, BEE! Your portrayal of Dolores was just stunning. I found myself laughing in places and gasping in others. You’ve really gotten into the head of a character that is just awful and played that out in a way that’s captivating. I can’t wait to see what chaos she brings to the dash! Please send in your blog (no sideblogs for first characters, please) in the next 24 hours and be sure to take a look at our new player checklist. Welcome home (once again), we’re so excited to have you join the family!

OOC

name — Bee age — 29 pronouns — She/her timezone — MST activity level — I have quite a bit of free time at the moment! I can usually manage being on for at least a little while every day and I’ll average a handful of replies a week at a minimum. any questions? —No questions per se, just a small disclaimer to let anyone reading know that I am a tolerant and open-minded individual, so while I’m excited for the creative challenge and entertainment of potentially writing an absolutely loathsome person like Ms. Dolores Jane Umbridge, anything offensive that she says or thinks or does IC does not reflect my own personal views!

IC Overview

name — Dolores Jane Umbridge—but my friends call me Lo, at least they would if I had any FRIENDS. -hold for laughter- Yeah, eat your fucking hearts out all you moronic lowlife swine. Hem hem. faceclaim — Olivia Taylor Dudley, Jenna Coleman, Mae Whitman age — 32 gender — Cis-female, and uncomfortably cutesy girly-girl for a woman over thirty. Hyperfemme caricature with BDE. Never met a shade of pink she didn’t just love.

sexuality — Outwardly, all Dolores cares about is locating the picture-perfect partner for the type of life she wants to be seen as having and lock them down, and in her mind that person is a man. She wants a husband with money and looks and brains and power, but not so much of any one that it would outshine her; she craves to be in the power seat of a power couple, and to get the attention she feels she’s always been unjustly robbed of. She’s got no interest whatsoever in romance and finds the whole concept a laughable waste of time. But for all she projects to the world, Dolores in reality harbors a deep, deep, DEEPDEEPDEEP same-sex attraction. She has thoroughly locked herself in that closet and a Norwegian Ridgeback swallowed the key.

patronus —Persian cat. This animal has all the appearance of being sweet and cuddly, but rub her the wrong way and those barely-retracted claws are coming out in an instant. Vain, independent, calculating, haughty, and very, very well-groomed at all times.

boggart —Stemming from her Napoleon Complex, Dolores’ boggart takes the form of herself shrunken down like Alice in Wonderland after sipping the drink me potion; her voice squeaks higher and higher into an undetectable range no matter how loud she yells and she can just barely avoid getting squashed beneath someone else’s disgusting, dirty shoes. Dolores as a person demands attention to function and she simply will not tolerate being made to feel literally small.

IC In Depth

personality traits —

tidy - Dolores is obsessed with beauty and perfection and symmetry in all things and nothing makes her skin crawl more than disorder—to the extent that after her mother and father split and she lived full-time with her father, Dolores developed OCD (though it hasn’t been properly diagnosed as such, and Dolores would immediately write off anyone who attempted to call it that to her face). In her mind she is simply particular; she has very high standards and she expects the world to rise to them, or else she’ll root out the filth around her weed by weed. She cut off the heads of her stuffies who stepped out of line at her toddler-age tea parties you’d better believe she’d do the same to you and care less about it.

passive aggressive - Dolores is well-known for her disconcerting calm in face of disagreements, her calculated cute-sweet demeanor and high-pitched voice. But make no mistake; Dolores is sugar laced with arsenic. In all likelihood she hates your guts and has already cooked up an in-depth five-year plan to chip away at you piece by painstaking piece. It’s a mystery how she manages to keep all that highly-pressurized rage simmering beneath the surface the way she’s somehow perfected, because she’s wound up so tight that it’s a wonder her eyes don’t pop out of her damn head and she’s about twenty-five seconds away from a full-blown psychotic break on a good day.

jealous - Dolores wants what she feels she’s due, plain and simple. When she sees others gain the things she wants while she gets overlooked, it stokes that ever-burning vindictive flame inside of her. It started in early childhood when her father gave attention to anyone or anything that wasn’t her, and it’s only gotten worse every day since.

intolerant - At this point in her life, her infamous intolerance is still in its earliest seed stages, but the seed is planted. One of the most interesting things for me about writing a character like Dolores at this age is to see how and why this mentality grows out of experiences she encounters in these formative years.

character biography —

Born ten pounds of spunk in a four pound, five ounce package, Dolores Jane Umbridge came into this world pink and perfect.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfectperfectperfect.

Even from a young age it was all Dolores cared about. Her father Orford Umbridge would whisper to Dolores what a beautiful perfect princess she was and Dolores believed it with every fibre of her being. Beautiful. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

Then her mother Ellen gave birth to a younger brother who showed not the faintest trace of magic, and that was not perfect. The rift between parents and siblings grew into a cavern as Orford’s whispering words turned against Ellen; her fault. Worthless. Vile. Mudblood. Filthy Squib. Repulsive. Disgraceful. Wrong.

It wasn’t long before the couple split up, with Ellen and her son being banished to the Muggle world, and then it was just Orford and Dolores, together in their once-more perfect world.

And would that it could have stayed that way forever. Orford had always had wandering eyes and Dolores, desperate always to be the only girl in her father’s life, grew jealous and suspicious and hateful (and nonononono NOT anything else nope) for the beautiful vapid creatures that drew his gaze, threatening to upend what was hers.

Knowing nothing beyond her childhood of constant praise and adoration, Dolores went to Hogwarts expecting the world to cater to her every whim. So when people didn’t immediately kiss the ground she walked on, it made her angry. When all the girls and boys didn’t fall all over themselves to try and woo her, it made her furious. When the professors and adults didn’t sing her vast praises on high, it made her outraged.

How was everyone on earth too fucking useless to see how perfect she was?!

Dolores was a bundle of dynamite wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, just waiting to blow.

She went to the Ministry with adjusted expectations on being outright offered what she knew she deserved, and was proven right when she was overlooked by grotesquely unqualified superiors in favor of the sniveling ingrates all around her. But Dolores was prepared to play the long game and bide her time, just waiting for that one weak crack in the system where she could dig in her knuckle and crumble an empire with a smile on her face.

And she thought she’d found that perfect crack when she went to the Dark Lord. Surely he would see Dolores for all she was worth, surely he would bestow upon her all that power, finally, finally, finally. He was only a silly man, after all.

But the foul, imperfect world let Dolores down again. The Dark Lord gave his preference to some other detestable twots just like Dolores always feared Orford would, and then he paid the price for his idiocy when he fell from power (serves him right the arrogant swine), and Dolores returned to her long game at the Ministry with a newfound fervor to crush all who dared try to overlook her beneath her pink kitten heels.

Waiting for the next perfect move to present itself. And when it does, she’ll be ready.

plot ideas —

Girlsgirlsgirls. I would love an opportunity to unpack some of Dolores’ deeply rooted internalized homophobia. Maybe it’s an openly gay and proud woman who drives Dolores up the wall, maybe it’s a beautiful lady who despite all of Dolores’ efforts starts to get beneath her skin, someone she can’t seem to shake… This could go in so many directions and I’m here for them all!

Ministry Spats. Anyone she might have dustups with on her Ministry stomping grounds—Arthur Weasley, Alastor Moody, etc. Also anyone with pro-creature leanings and/or sentiments at this stage could greatly inform her later mindset and I would love to have them interact.

extra —

Headcanon: Dolores hates children; she thinks they’re disgusting tiny wastes of breath and absolutely looks down on anyone who has chosen the family plan for their life.

[bonnie-barstow-of-flag]

ooc: Rant

This has nothing to do with Kn.ight. Ri.der. It actually has to do with a star on Dan.Ce Moms. 

Perhaps this is unpopular opinion but Ab.by Le.e Mill.er is a gross human being. I danced for her studios for several years. IN FRONT OF ABBY (before her tv show). She criticized me and my sister for being underweight and not wealthy enough to buy her specialty products and professional pictures. She’d say things like “I can see your ribs through your outfit. You’re disgusting!”  She caused me to have body image issues I should have NEVER had to deal with. Why? Because whilst my family was poor I was eating everything and everything I could get my hands on. My genetic make-up makes it incredibly hard for me to gain weight. But because I didn’t fit her mental image of a dancer, she wrote me off. Many... many times. I can only imagine what she did to the mildly overweight students. 

 As a twelve-year-old, I had to deal with her ripping up pictures of my sister and I and then handing them to us all because we couldn’t afford thousands of dollars worth of her pictures. I’m pissed that people keep giving her the time of day. What she does to pupils is VILE! It is not edifying. It is not bettering them. Because of her, I distanced myself from my passion which, had always been dancing.

Honestly, I don’t want her anywhere NEAR other kids. I don’t want them having to go through the HELLS I’ve been tormented with for YEARS. Sure, she turns on the charm for the cameras. But that really isn’t who she is. Ab.by Lee is UNHINGED, DERANGED, and CRUEL. While I do not wish her ill or harm, I do wish her career of torment would be OVER. Just watching her profess that she is going to return gives 

[fretitan]

WE NEED WOOD ! | Self Para

S CLASS JOB REQUEST Requested by Oak Town Citizen Description: 

My stupid husband was unable to get wood as he claimed to have injured himself before traveling into the WAAS FOREST in OSHIBANA TOWN. We need it to help us make dinner and I cannot go myself as I must watch my new born baby AND my husband! 

I need a weeks worth of medium sized wood for burning! If its heavy, please ask someone to come with you!! Oh, and be careful! My husband claims he saw a monster of some sort, got scared, and fell over!!

REWARD 10,000 JEWELS

Wait, how was this an S class mission? Titan wondered to himself as he looked at the job request on the bulletin board in Sabertooth's mass hall. Ask someone to come with you if it's too heavy? Rubbish. This is a one man job! Titan was quite a proud man and would not ask for help from anyone when it comes to doing jobs and tasks. His pride as a man depended on it, for the most part. Titan grabbed the paper off the bulletin board, "This one's mine!" And so that's how Titan accepted this job. 

The Waas Forest wasn't too far from the guild's mass hall, so he didn't spend much time on travel. Now it was time to get down to business, not to defeat the huns, but to get this woman her hard wood. Something her husband couldn't get her. This was a job for a real man, or well, someone considerably stronger, to say the least. 

And so, Titan got down to business. First order of said business was to wear gardening gloves. Splinters and crying from getting splinters wasn't manly in Titan's eyes, so it's best to avoid such a situation from happening. Second order of business, cut down the trees with his beautiful battle axe, because normal axes were too mainstream. Battle axes are also more  a e s t h e t i c ! Oh yeah, Titan also brought a battle axe with him. He never uses it since he's got some pretty decently ranged magic to use for the usual jobs he'd accepts, so this bad boy was just sitting on his wall collecting dust. There comes a time in a man's life where he needs a battle axe for no apparent reason, and so Titan got a battle axe. 

Chop chop, and down came the trees! Cutting them down was the easy part, chopping them into smaller pieces with precision German engineering- I mean normal precision and not German precision, was what Titan struggled with. He'd have to sanction the tree into three sections, then from there, chop them into halves. Sounds easy for the normal wood chopping husband, but Titan was neither a husband nor good at cutting wood. What more was that he was using a battle axe. It wasn't exactly the idea weapon to use. 

"Shit, How do I do this?" He looked at the logs while scratching the back of his head. Right then, the bushes to his left started shaking! Could this be one of the monster's the puny man's wife warned me about? He waited in anticipation for the creature to emerge from the bush. Titan was so ready for this, and out came a. . .  little.. tiny.. rabbit..? Wow, way to kill the mood. Titan let out an audibly loud sigh, "I was excited to fight a big, hairy, scary and maybe even smelly monster, but this is all I get? A teeny tiny rodent?" Titan mocked the tiny bunny rabbit. 

The bunnies ears twitched when he heard the rodent. The bunny looked at Titan and let out a monstrous roar, like a big giant demon roar. Wait, what the fu- ?! Titan jumped a little, what the hell just happened? Did that bunny just roar? That wasn't all, though. The bunny wasn't done. The bunny started growing bigger, like a moth coming out a cocoon, but less gross and it wasn't coming out of a shell. You could literally hear the sound of bones breaking, or was that cracking from the rabbit's rapid anger growth. It was absolutely disgusting, but now Titan understood why the requester's husband tripped and fell while running away. Any normal person would run away from just the sounds alone. Vile. 

By now the rabbit was about 10 feet tall, and crazy buff. Titan didn't expect this kind of development. Kind of disturbing, but he possessed holy magic, so he could technically perform and exorcism on himself, or even dowse his eyes in holy water after this is all over. The bunny looked Titan straight in the eye and flipped him off. Wow, talk about rude. Titan looked almost dead inside, he didn't want any of this. He regret taunting the rabbit, he regret all his life decisions that led up to this moment. 

With a sigh, Titan picked his battle axe up and pulled his arm back, winding up for a strong throw of the axe. Bullseye! The rabbit got hit with the battle axe, right in the middle of the forehead. It died on the spot. This was almost not worth the emotional distressed caused to Titan. He had to pull the axe out of the creature's forehead before he could continue chopping up his wood. He tried to finish up chopping the wood quickly so he could go home and forget any of this ever happened. 

Titan wrapped the wood in twine and string he'd brought to help keep it all together. He could easily carry that amount of wood with both of his strong man arms, but the hard part about this was the rabbit. He had to take it with him, and the only way he could do that was to fasten it to his back with his axe. It was touching his body, and he felt sick to his stomach, but he couldn't show his true emotions because that was anything but manly. He wanted to cry because he could feel it on his back, and the fact that most of it's body was dragging against the ground. He could feel everything. 

Reaching the house of his employers with wood and rabbit in tow, Titan had the bright idea of presenting the beast to them! Hopefully they'd take it off his hands because if he had to bring it back to the guild, he'd probably not make it back to the guild with his sanity in tact. "I've got your wood, ma'am!" Titan tried to muster up all the energy he had left to sound cheerful. His employers were very happy with his work with the wood, the woman even ogled a little at Titan's beautiful body, which Titan himself pretended not to notice. "Oh, yes, Ma'am, I also managed to slay the beast that frightened your husband." He smiled at her as he took it off his body. If you think sonic is fast, the time it took him to take the rabbit off his body was about 100 times faster. The woman's expression went from shock to joy, "We'll eat for weeks!" she exclaimed. Wait, people think this this looked appetizing? Titan was going to lose his lunch, and probably even his appetite for dinner. 

The woman took the rabbit off Titan's hands and paid him what he was owed for the wood. Titan thanked the woman for her patience, and secretly for taking that vile creature off his hands and went on his way. Before he departed for Oak Town, however, he stopped by the nearest creak and washed his axe off the blood it had on it. Today's job was a success, but it just wasn't worth the mental scarring. Never again.

ooc note: Click on ‘By now the rabbit was about 10 feet tall, and crazy buff.’

[zoophagist]

*fights u so u can defend ur son* wow... that renfield... sure is an innocent bby who did nothing wrong uwu

ooc;; hold on let me get myself ready

 ok how dARE U ISABELLE that is my SON and he is a NASTY BOY!!

he clearly has a love of animals but!!! misuses their trust to win them over and then ?? eat them????? what a piece of trash yeah sure cry me a river about how guilty u are over the thought of their souls i’m sure they’d love to hear it

he OBVIOUSLY knows dracula’s comings and goings and knew when lucy was being killed and didn’t make any big heroic sacrifices for her!! i guess only mina’s worth it???? and he’s not just passive either it’s implied that his attack on seward with the knife is prompted by an order from dracula who realizes the doctor is trying to stop his killing lucy so renfield PARTICIPATES in her murder to an extent. (counterpoint: he genuinely believes vampirism is a gift so he probably did not have any qualms about dracula hurting lucy if it would lead to her eternal life.) COUNTERPOINT TO THAT COUNTERPOINT: he should have thought the same thing abt mina then!!! but he didn’t!! because he recognized dracula’s drinking from her as an assault and was so distressed by it that he NEEDED to stop him. so why didn’t he have to mind to try to warn seward for lucy’s sake? because he’s a selfish, selfish man!!! he hasn’t had to meet lucy face to face so he can pretend it doesn’t concern him and there’s nothing he can do. what an asshole!!!!!!!!! 

i wouldn’t even be surprised by the argument that his lack of care came down to wanting to spite seward because renfield is such a petty bitch and he does not give a fuck about how many lives need to be ruined as long as he gets his eternal life!!

he tried to kill AT LEAST TWO PEOPLE while in the sanitarium one of whom was literally just transporting fucking dirt boxes but renfield takes this as a PERSONAL AFFRONT to his safety and after bitching this man out from the window, and then perfectly composing himself in front of hennessey to make sure he isn’t punished for it, BREAKS OUT OF THE ASYLUM FOR THE THIRD TIME AND TRIES TO BASH IN A MAN’S HEAD ON THE GROUND. who does that???? a fucking trashlord that’s who!!!!!!!

and it’s all for a literal monster!!! he does all of this bc he trusts dracula to reward him for it?? what the hell and fuck are u thinking renfield???? even after he’s taken to mina and tries to get himself removed from the building bc he KNOWS dracula will use him to get in, he fUCKIN G LETS DRACULA IN ANYWAY!!!! DRAC’S LIKE ‘HEY HAVE SOME RATS’ AND RENFIELD’S LIKE ‘DAMN I CAN’T ARGUE WITH THAT!!! COME ON IN, MASTER, AND SAP THE LIFE OUT OF THE ONE PERSON THAT’S SHOWN ME KINDNESS IN THE WHOLE OF MY MEMORY!’

and binch don’t even get me STARTED on his double motives for trying to saving mina, because he’s A JEALOUS INFANT AND KNOWS DRACULA’S GOING TO MAKE MINA IMMORTAL AND NOT HIM!!!! HE WANTS WHAT MINA’S GETTING AND HE FINALLY SEES DRACULA ISN’T GOING TO GIVE IT TO HIM AND THAT HE NEVER PLANNED TO! HE FIGHTS DRACULA BECAUSE HE’S AGNRY ABOUT BEING CHEATED. (counterpoint: but he DOES care about mina and on some level he knew that fighting dracula would kill him, and so he would have to willingly act against his pursuit of eternal life by standing up to him, which implies that it was not entirely selfish and at least 40% self-sacrifice) ok well yeah i’m not going to fight you there because this IS supposed to be his one redeeming moment. i’ll let u have this one….

but just in general he’s ??? supposed to be disgusting!!! ur supposed to pity him and wish things were different, sure, but above all, he should repulse u. he is the stereotype of the vile, animal nature of the vampire myth that juxtaposes the count’s calm, cool, collected, and civilized evil. the point is that renfield is everything humans find ugly about vampirism, but he is the mortal, and while dracula is suave and cunning and restrained, he is the monster. it’s a play on ur expectations and so stoker DELIBERATELY wrote renfield to be repugnant to our sensibilities; he is disgusting, violent, cowardly, brutish, malicious, apparently illogical or mad, and has no care for conventional morality. u NEED to understand that he’s portrayed this way in order to fully appreciate his about-face with fighting dracula. he goes against his entire nature and against all our expectations of his behavior to do a good thing and that moment is MEANINGLESS for his character if you don’t already think he’s awful.

rant>

[lichsent]

k, so let it be known-- this blog is still pretty new. i haven’t really promo’d it yet (nor do i really plan on doing such.) so... i guess a few things, first? or maybe just one?

i’m shipping with someone. i’m single-ship. my ship partner, however, is not and that’s fine. however, what isn’t fine is using me or her other ship partners (whom are also friends of mine.) to get to her. i literally do not wanna deal with that on this blog or see it anywhere else, and i severely doubt that you would wanna deal with that, too, if you were in her or anyone involved in this situation’s shoes. so, like, let’s be mature and think things through before doing anything obnoxious, thanks. :- )

also? i’m blocking people who are doing that because, yes, it’s already happened lmao