forgive me the injustice i have carried behind your back to collect all that has been lost to you. i could not bear to see you suffer further when it was within my power to soothe your weary heart. i have seen your silent torment, one which could only be born of the truest and most noble love, and as i sat in my hours of contemplation, i thought that to leave you at the mercy of your grief would be a betrayal of our shared history. a betrayal of you.
i will not bore you with the lengths that i have taken to reconstruct the happenings of the first weeks of your life, from the moment of your holy birth to the unfortunate awakening in that hospital chamber we once shared. only know this: when the kind doctors discharged me, i travelled straight to edinburgh, armed with nothing but the name victor frankenstein, which i have learned from you. oh, i never did dare to ask you of it, for i felt, and it must have been true, that you did not recall the name you spoke in dreams, so quiet and loving that it ailed me to hear it.
my search was arduous, but not fruitless, for i, by complete accident, or perhaps led by the gentle hand of fate, stumbled upon the account that belongs to a dear friend of your most beloved maker, whom lives not far from the university of edinburgh. henry clerval – such a charming name! – was much oblivious to the behaviour of his old friend, and none the wiser of the miracles of natural science victor frankenstein was able to perform in authoring both the one that unmade you and your wonderful person as well. nonetheless, we exchanged stories. he much obliged me in communicating all he knew of your victor, and this record would, i believe, not have been possible at all without his contribution.
i hope my depictions of your maker’s residence did justice to the disarray which impressed upon my eyes when i arrived, though i must admit, i was greatly disturbed much before entering. the butcher's street! i cannot fathom how a creature of your benevolence could have gazed upon the shapely meats and not trembled from that abject cruelty, or how your creator, seemingly so ignorant, introduced you to sights as such without consideration for your womanly senses. a pupil of medicine you had not yet been. though, i suppose, cruelty you had not known, either.
the house was very eerie, clammy with the smell of blood. i almost collapsed by the threshold, assaulted by the sullen, vaporous silence that here resided undisturbed. yet nothing would dissuade me, for the prospect of your happiness was what fuelled me to continue. up the spiralling staircase i went, nearly collapsing once more from vertigo. there, i broke the lock and found his atelier, destroyed and damp with rot. the windows were shattered and rain had touched upon everything but the wall closest to my person, where victor’s desk stood layered in dust. the sight stirred me most strangely. here comes the truth, i thought, and carefully inspected all that i could find.
oh, my poor wretch! nothing my own paltry imagination could contrive could have ever prepared me for what i discovered in that room. sister of my heart, i grieve for and with you, for all the wrongs inflicted upon your person, and for the emotions that will splinter you once you read these letters!
these pages are derived from victor’s personal journal. i have taken the liberty to expand on some aspects and translate the many medical terms and estimations with the help of a professor of natural sciences i enlisted to aid in my endeavour. worry not, he does not know of our secret, for i had transcribed victor’s journal in my own penmanship and told him it was a gift of fiction from an old acquaintance. at first, he questioned the validity of my lie, but eventually, he succumbed to my evasions and kindly directed my interest. my hope is that the truth that has reached you will evoke your own memory and will, perhaps, bring some peace to your fractured soul.
if i have harmed you with this retelling, i fear i must do so once more, for the story would be incomplete if i did not confess to the further happenings that had taken place without you. dear elizabeth and william have been laid to rest by your daemonic husband. the fiend’s whereabouts are unknown, and so are, i am so sorry to convey, your beloved author’s. victor’s journal ended at your unmaking, stopping mid-sentence. i do believe he was devastated to think your existence was no longer. he did not realise the monster had, once again, tricked him, yet i do not blame him, for the creature was truly the devil if the devil did exist. oh, how it angers me to even think of it! i fear i might combust into flames.
i did inquire mr. clerval whether he was familiar with the location of his friend, but he informed me that victor had left before elizabeth and william’s funeral and never did return. as to where, he did not know, and then begged me to ease my queries, for it was too painful for him to think of all that had happened. poor, poor wretch! truly, i broke into tears at the sight of that ruined man, and left him to his solitude as he had requested. my beloved companion, he did not know of you, but he would have loved you all the same, as all that had met you have, for your unnatural nature has proved to be the most natural of us all.
the more i reflect upon my actions, the more i question my own motives. perhaps, in my desire to mend your broken pieces, i have only succeeded in shattering them further. perhaps this knowledge is a curse, not a cure. and yet, i could not bear to be the sole keeper of such a calamitous secret, to watch you wander in the shadows of your own forgotten life. you deserve to know the truth, no matter how dreadful it may be. now, the choice of what to do with this truth lies in your hands.
forgive me, my luminous friend, forgive my presumptuousness. i pray that my actions, however misguided, have not extinguished the last flicker of hope within you. should you wish to silence me, i will accept your judgment without reservation. but know that my love for you remains unwavering, a constant in this world of shifting horrors. i shall return soon, and if you wish, we can discuss our next steps together.
always, in love and sorrow,
your bosom friend and most faithful servant
post scriptum. here is the passage from victor's journal which had convinced me at last to document your tale, and later, in my doubt, urged me to the post office, reconstructed faithfully to imprint upon your heart as it had onto mine:
i would like to preface by
i stand upon the shores of dissolution and
there strikes a i am no poet. i possess no romantic sensibilities. i deal with matter, and this matter is of magnificent, duplicitous nature: one, i have knowingly and willingly condemned her to suffer the most miserable fate, and two, i find i appreciate her far less for her abject perfection i love her.
author's note. while reading, i found that a sign-off of “most faithful servant” actually had nothing to do with servitude and everything to do with courtesy, so the more you know. anyway, i loved writing this. the moment i saw oscar as victor i knew what i need to do. i love victor, that evil man. i love shelley, who won’t ever give us the truth of frankenstein and leaves room for interpretations like this. i wanted to be true to the narrative and give a nameless voice a la walton to create the story, but i leave the last letter as optional if you don’t want to think of it as that. because... who constructed the narrative? not bride, she isn't a writer. not victor either. same situation as in the original book, i'm afraid. but there is some merit here, i think. like victor's real thoughts, unhindered by voices of dubious validity. i also like that it's lowkey meta, so the author is talking DIRECTLY TO U!!! YES U!!! HOW COULD YOU FORGET!?!?!?
but yes, if you're a bit confused, let me explain: you were pushed (or were you?) into the bay by the original creature (was it really him though?), where you unfortunately hit your head and was washed away. at hospital, you met author, who you befriended and who was quite taken by you, as you can see, to the point of doing a lot of work for the chance of your memory returning. suppose now all is left to decide is whether you chose to trust this account and leave to find victor.
as a side note, i wanna emphasize that this is the first thing i wrote and based the whole retelling on, and subsequently - my favorite chapter (i love writing letters). i have also not killed anyone who wasn't canonically supposed to die. in fact, i kept clerval alive. i know some people who know me are scared of my tendency to kill the mc, but bride can't die, so, i'll get you next time. kidding, of course. heh. ok ok i love you very much and i hope you have a wonderful day, where ever you are! and thank you very much, again, for reading. now, i'll see you in all sorts of other stories. darcy over and out !!!
✶ summary. caving under the creature's demand, the maker assembles another from a metaphorical rib in his edenic atelier. but there is no beastly construct – only the cherubic veneer of innocence. the bride of frankenstein's monster becomes simply frankenstein's bride.
pairing. victor frankenstein x monster!f!reader
warnings. dubious morality, allegory to religious worship, religious themes in general, creator and createe relationship, deplorable levels of yearning
wc. 1.2k
BRIDE, VOL. 1; OR, THE RETELLING OF THE UNHAPPY FEMALE CREATURE, AS AUTHORED BY THE MODERN PROMETHEUS
there was light. providence would teach you that it was a gift, and science would inform you that it was a cosmic necessity upon which the conditions of all existence depended equally. for now, there was only the contrast of what was before and what came after, illuminated in what you would learn to be a window that opened the great vistas of crashing waves and wet sand; the jagged cliffs that marked the edge of the world.
“you’re awake.”
the sound went up your spine. lost in the confusion of your machinations, you had neglected to account for the noise that warned of an arrival. the thing that was you turned quickly, by no will of your own, to scrutinize that which was like you, recognized upon instant.
matted and soiled cotton clothing this muse wore, leaned against the doorway as though its strength had abated it, or you had wounded it by acknowledgement. a mess of dark and curling hair laid atop, strands stuck to a damp forehead and nape, wet with perspiration. the thing was troubled by the sight of your unexpected awareness, and yet! frantic brown eyes, which missed not an inch of the physical material that made you, retained a fraction of their warmth in their assessment.
was this you? surely not! it must be something related, another of the same design. even if, upon initial, wondrous estimation, you concluded it differed in all ways you differed from it, and that what you shared was only that you were of something which was the same.
it released a sound. a strange one, of the lungs. the look it fashioned shifted to something which reduced the anxious quiver felt below your throat. it hastened away from where it stood mute with admiration and drew closer – warmth, then, you truly met, warmth which lived threaded in the iris now impressed upon your elbow. it turned your limb to run a finger down the middle to the pulsepoint by your wrist. a gentle examination and pause.
“you’re alive.”
the statement rippled through your substance, not with meaning but with a distant, miraculous familiarity. the other’s keen appraisal inspired you. you took to your own arm and looked very closely to locate exactly what so bewitched. you could identify no thing, thus it must have been the sum of things if sums were things which could be counted.
“can you understand me?” it inquired in a cadence softer than before, and earnestly did it search your features for a clue. wildly impotent, you found no way to answer or to decipher what was being requested, only that you had the capacity to do both. here, the first appearance of frustration fouled your temper and shook you into inaction, and no longer did you excavate it or yourself for sensations which would serve as explanations of the architecture of this world.
it was perceptive, or you, unschooled, too conspicuous. how many expressions could it make! your capacity must have been just as much or greater, but this particular one cooled your spirits, or better yet, disarmed them completely – you had learned of light and warmth, and both, you found, existed twice forever in a smile.
“you can, perhaps in your own way, but you can. i see it in your eyes. clear and intelligent, with no foul yellow ring to obscure their intention. wonderfully mundane, but all the more impressive for it. i know of people who possess not half the awareness of an animal, and some even less than that, and here you sit,” it directed its gaze downward. you spotted shattered glass and combusted contraptions laid askew, glimmering when the morning sunlight caught against them; soot-spilled walls, as though from a great fire that never existed, and ruined pages of detailed symbols, mesmerising but incomprehensible. “you should not,” it tacked on quietly, “but you are. you are. day and night you are so different, day and night.”
you sensed it approved of you, somehow, by some measurement. you did not yet know that this was a human-being that cradled you so carefully, nor the folly of all human-beings, displayed yet unrecognizable to your untrained eye. you did not know of comparison, the thief of joy, and you did not know that all things of conscious thought could exist in no other way than to think of things in terms of familiar and not. good and evil, truth and lie – these terrible binaries dictated their conduct, but they would never admit to it. the one which loved you would not admit to it as well; and would not teach you of these laws of their nature, either.
at present, this sliver of what you did know – a room with a view, and a thing like you which was so partial to you – pleased you immensely. how quickly did you change, from frightened to irked to pacified! you wished to return this gentle sentiment. you hoped to witness its smile which so quickly vanished, trounced by a deeper, complicated emotion you could not comprehend. guilt, you would learn, you would learn so much.
you freed your wrist from its grasp, though it was reluctant to release you, momentarily confused by your sudden retreat. and still, it read your intentions perhaps quicker than you could understand them yourself. it unfurled its sleeve and presented its arm for your curious fingers. this, you thought – in parallels and corporeal sensations –, was a custom, or a greeting, or something of equal importance, for it was the first thing it inflicted upon your person.
the appendage was much different, as was it to you: the skin coarser, older, but not unappealing in its presentation. you could see the webbing of its interior, blue lines in the crook of the elbow and the wrist, by the pulse which you found hammering. you, it watched enraptured, and made no further sound. you looked to your hand to compare, and how much of a human-being did you then seem! what a terrible thing you were performing, fixing to their inexhaustible pairs without encouragement, going against your unnatural objective disposition! oh, but were you to blame, naive and benevolent, that which learned from sight and touch?
the width of the palm was larger, a map of carved rivers that you traced with your nail. your lines did not match. next, you inspected its long, trembling fingers, bony but warm. you turned the hand, and found the knuckles split and scabbed over, veins and tendons popped, buoyant when pressed. what did all of this mean?
you aligned your palm to its, and how much hotter it burned than you! such was a concept which perplexed, and which seemed to draw to the other something withering like old, sunburned branches from the life still dormant within, but by whose instruction you knew not, and this was a dilemma for another time. in the present, you felt a resounding comfort, and once that had settled into the whole of you, the joy of the unknown took over.
a good start, this one seemed to be, not a waste of your energies or a pointless endeavour you should have otherwise staved from. a shared bond. you decided you liked this feeling.
you liked it when it laughed, too, low and tempered and breathy from an ache. the smile returned, a gentle quirk of the lips, and you hoped that the sight of yours would elicit a similar reaction, of good faith and fondness.
author's note. we aren't exactly faithful to the style of the book since i'm not that good and also this was a smut fic that got out of hand. so now we must deal with the consequences. i'm very much in love with oscar isaac btw. again btw. need him biblically, so we have this. certified bruh moment. regarding THIS chapter in particular, i just think it’s funny he doesn’t introduce himself, even if the creature wouldn’t fully understand it, but just plays along in this paradistical garden in the orkney islands. he actually introduces himself in the next part, youll see its so funny.
Summary: When you publicly challenge the philosophies of Victor Frankenstein, the brilliant and haunted scientist becomes dangerously fascinated with you.
The night you first meet Victor Frankenstein, the old university hall is lit only by gas lamps that shiver with every draft.
You stand at the front, reading from your paper on the sanctity of mortality, when a voice interrupts you.
It does not cut through the air. It glides.
“Your philosophy is poetic,” Victor says, stepping forward from the shadows, “but naïve.”
You turn.
He is nothing like the portraits in the medical journals.
In person, he is darker, sharper, feverishly alive. His curls are damp from the rain, his coat clinging to his shoulders, his eyes too bright for someone who pretends to be calm.
He challenges your thesis with surgical precision, and you challenge him back with equal fire.
The audience thinks it is an academic debate.
You sense something deeper.
A hunger. A wound. A mind on the edge of something terrible and brilliant.
When the symposium ends, you expect him to storm away victorious. Instead, you find a note slipped underneath your door, Meet me. Midnight.
You almost don’t go.
But curiosity tugs at you.
You find him under the monastery archway, half-soaked and leaning against a column. His smile is small, almost shy.
“I wanted to continue our discussion,” he says, though the way he looks at you suggests he wants far more than that.
The conversation is low and intimate, almost whispered.
Philosophy turns into confession. You learn he has not slept properly in weeks.
He watches you as if memorising the way your lips form words.
He leaves abruptly, as if frightened by his own desire.
Days pass before you see him again.
Books begin appearing on your desk, rare volumes filled with his annotations. Then come invitations to walk the fog-shrouded gardens at dusk, where he listens to you with unnerving focus.
He is brilliant, magnetic and unravelling.
One evening, as mist creeps over the campus lawn, he says quietly, “There are things I cannot tell them. But I can tell you.”
You shouldn’t follow him.
But you do.
His laboratory is a cathedral of shadows.
Coils of copper and iron rise like skeletal ribs. Candles burn low, their wax pooling like spilt blood.
Journals lie open, filled with frantic handwriting. And on a metal table, beneath a shroud, something hums faintly with leftover life.
Victor watches you see it all.
He waits for you to recoil.
“I crossed the boundary,” he whispers. “I did what others claimed impossible. I brought life from death. And in doing so, I may have damned myself.”
His voice breaks on the last word.
You step closer instead of stepping back.
His breath catches at your nearness.
“You are not damned,” you say.
But he looks at you with such aching relief that it frightens him. He retreats, trembling.
“Do not soothe me. You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve abandoned.”
Abandoned.
You remember the shape beneath the shroud.
You leave the lab shaken.
The creature comes to you first.
Not as a monster. As a lost child.
It finds you outside the university church, its form hunched, eyes wide and glistening. You should be terrified. Instead, your heart cracks open.
It speaks with a voice that sounds stitched from broken glass.
“Creator. Gone.”
You touch its arm gently. Skins tensed, cold but alive.
“Come with me,” you whisper.
You lead it to safety, then go searching for Victor, fury burning in your veins.
You find him in his manor, hunched over his desk, hair dishevelled, candles burning low. When he sees you, he stands so quickly the chair topples.
“You,” he breathes, as if you are salvation.
Your fury surges.
“You left him,” you say. “You left your creation alone.”
His face collapses.
“I know. I know. I was afraid. Of what I made. Of what it made of me.” He steps closer, voice cracking. “Of what you would think of me.”
Your anger falters.
His eyes shine with desperation.
“You are the only light left in this darkness,” he whispers. “And I have no right to ask you for anything.”
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the room in blue. He reaches for you, stops, then reaches again. His trembling fingers brush your wrist.
“You make me want to be better,” he murmurs.
You don’t pull away.
Together, you search the countryside for the creature, through graveyards lit by moonlight and chapels where dust drifts like falling snow. Victor softens beside you. He steadies. He laughs once and looks at you as though he cannot believe joy is possible.
But when you finally find the creature, Victor panics.
He lifts a weapon he brought “just in case,” hands shaking violently.
“No,” you say firmly, stepping between creator and creation. “Not like this.”
Victor staggers back, breath ragged.
“I cannot control it. I cannot control myself.”
“You do not need control,” you say. “You need forgiveness. His and your own.”
You take his hands, press them over your heart.
His fingers curl into your clothes.
“You are not lost,” you whisper. “Not while I am here.”
Victor breaks most quietly, a shuddering exhale, head dropping to your shoulder.
The creature watches silently, and something in its expression softens.
Family, strange and broken, begins there.
Months later, the manor no longer feels haunted. You teach the creature to read by the fire. Victor rebuilds his laboratory into a place of learning instead of horror.
Shadows still cling to him, but they are gentle now, not suffocating.
One night, he finds you in the library, candlelight haloing your face. He approaches as though approaching something sacred.
“I once believed death the greatest enemy,” he says softly. “I no longer think that is true.”
You close your book.
“What is?”
“Loneliness.”
Your breath catches.
He kneels before you, taking your hands.
“You came into my darkness without fear. You saw madness and gave me mercy. You saw guilt and gave me grace. You saw me.”
His voice trembles.
“If you will stay… if you will allow me to love you… I will spend my life earning the right to stand beside you.”
You lift his face with gentle fingers.
“I already chose you.”
He rises and kisses you slowly, reverently, as if afraid you will disappear. His hands cradle your face, your waist, your back, and when your lips meet again, he sighs, a quiet, relieved sound that seems to break the last of his ghosts.
The creature watches from the doorway, peaceful, finally whole.
Victor rests his forehead against yours, breath warm, eyes soft.
“You cured nothing. But you healed everything.”
And in the flicker of candlelight, surrounded by the strange family you created together, you know it is true.
You saved him.
He loves you.
And the darkness has finally learned how to hold light.
clicking on the SOURCE LINK you will find 127 gifs of OSCAR ISAAC in THE PROMISE as Mikael Boghosian
the gifs are 245 x 138 , made by me from scratch for roleplay purposes. do not repost, include in other gif hunts, claim as your own or edit in anyway.
like or reblog if you're using or if you like 'em.
cabin pressure , part 3 — r ; poe dameron x reader
☕ .
title: cabin pressure , part three
pairing: poe dameron x fem!reader
rating: r ; explicit
summary: “ take us back to base — commander ,” you order , your voice harsh and keening ; smiling wistfully at him .
x-post: here .
content: established relationship . humour . cheesy sexual innuendos . smut . sex in the x-wing . semi-public sex . dirty talk . p in v sex . cock riding . rear . stimulation . sex in the x-wing .
a/n: if fluff is what you’re here for , part one is all you need .
you can however jump straight for the smut from part two onwards if it so pleases you.
thanks to everyone who’s read , liked , reblogged , kudos’d and commented so far — you guys have made my week ! 💛
//
You take your time with Poe, drawing out the minutes and the seconds as you settle down on his cock — slowly; savouring the every inch of the pleasurable stretch, and the every ridge of his hard length gliding deep into you.
His hands are firm on the curve of your waist, fingers flexing against your skin — waiting, until he bottoms out. You break from his darkened gaze, eyelids fluttering wildly as goosebumps race up the nape of your neck and down your spine; pooling molten heat in your belly.
“Fuck, baby — you fit me so well,” he groans, his hands tightening on your waist to hold you together; as he leans up and kisses you — searing and deliberate, indulging the passing seconds as much as you are.
“So fucking perfect,” his jaw clenches, hands sliding across your torso for your breasts, as he gyrates his hips up at you; the leather seat creaking rhythmically to his wet cadence, barely muffling your moans.
He shifts slightly, tilting his cock at an angle that when you push forward just a smidge, the tip drags along that unbearable spot that has you whimpering for mercy, fresh bursts of arousal wetting his cock between your thighs.
“There,” he grunts low and smug. “Right there.”
Oh, yeah — he knows what you like when you’re riding him nice and slow; like a pilot who knows his starship at the back of his hand — where the pressure needs to be, and how deep, and what makes you fall apart like you are now on his lap.
Before long, you are right there again at the cusp, teeth clinging to your bottom lip as your fingers dig into the sides of the cockpit for dear life. Your head bows and your brows crease; his ministrations getting harder, like an answer to the prayers you never needed to convey out loud.
“Cum for me, baby,” Poe grunts; he knows you’re close — he can hear it in your strained outcry, he can feel it in the way your muscles cinch around him. “Use my cock, take what you need.”
He has only to reach down and strum at your clit — and you’re a goner. Your whole body locks tight in his arms as the orgasm surges through you; your nails biting into the cockpit walls with such intensity you might’ve dented the Transparisteel make.
Beneath you, Poe slows his hips to languid rolls, riding you through the storm as you quiver so lovingly around him, your slick coating his thighs and trickling down the pilot’s seat.
“Mmm — you feel so good when you cum on my cock,” Poe murmurs against your exposed neck, hot lips trailing along the side of your head tilted back on his shoulder, hovering close to your mouth grasping for air.
When the stars have cleared from your eyes, you unfold your wobbly legs onto the floor, purring long and throaty as his cock slips out of you.
You feel the weight of his eyes on you even before you glance over your shoulder to catch them — dark and dilated and hungry, raking down your spine. You arch your arse up at him with a seductive wriggle, bending forward to lure him with the view of your cunt still aching where he was last, your thighs spread and smeared with the muted shine of your slick.
“Take us back to base — Commander,” you order, your voice harsh and keening; smiling wistfully at him.
Poe licks at his swelling grin as he shifts from the seat, crowding in on you to give your arse a cheeky grab.
“Fucking love it when you call me that,” he rasps against your ear; teeth finding your earlobe, sucking your skin a violent red.
Poe nudges your knees apart, spreading your legs until your thighs are pressing firmly against the cockpit walls for balance. You mewl as he bends you over, nestling his crotch pleasantly in the valley of your cheeks.
He slathers himself up, teasing you in the process — every slide up and down the cleft like a promise waiting to be fulfilled; before he pushes into you to the hilt in one fluid motion, tearing a throaty groan from the both of you as you fall forward, gripping onto the control systems — full.
At least in this position, there’s enough room for the both of you — but only just.
Poe fucks you rough, fingers digging into your shoulder; each rugged thrust punching the next breath out of you — bumping your crotch against the console, the flight stick digging into your stomach.
You can’t exactly say that it’s uncomfortable like his predicament from earlier. In your current position, it actually feels rather — sensational when the buttons and triggers catch so close to your sensitive bud.
You can actually use them to your advantage.
Every time he thrusts into you, you let the slight propulsion rock you forward, edging you just a little lower each time — until the wide, blunt head is pressing lusciously against your clit; a humming whimper slipping past your smiling lips as you revel in this — delightful stimulation.
“Shit, baby —” Poe growls, drawing you to his chest again.
Inside, you feel him stiffen — it’s fucking turning him on.
“That feels good — huh?” He croaks; one hand closing over your neck, and tilting your lips to lick into your mouth. “Ugh, the way you’re clenching around me — I know it feels so good.”
You can only moan back vacantly as he picks up speed — skin slapping and slick squelching between your legs; grinding you against the flight stick until your exhales leave your body in shallow spurts.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart — you know that?” Poe mumbles. “I’m gonna be thinking about you — rubbing yourself like that the next time I’m away.”
Your breath catches in your chest, tension building low and tight where the flight stick is probing at you.
“I’m gonna be jacking myself off to that beautiful sound you’re making right now, and how tight you are wrapped around my cock while you do — that,” his words taper to a feeble groan when he feels you gush warm around him.
Kriff — the image of Poe throttling through hyperspace masturbating in this very cockpit to the very thought of you; that is fucking turning you on.
“You think about me, Poe?” You purr, your hand twisting to the back of his head to bring his face closer to you, clammy foreheads touching and heated breaths mingling. “You think of me when you’re away?”
His laugh rumbles low against your back, his canines indenting the round of your shoulder — making you gasp.
“Always, baby,” he hums, licking at the salt on your skin. “Always thinking about you waiting for me, being so — naughty.”
“I’m gonna be thinking of us fucking — right here, right now,” his fingers bite crescents into your waist, his hips starting to lose rhythm. “Hnghhhh — this whole cockpit is gonna smell like you weeks from now.”
Then — Poe grabs the flight stick, his fingers latching onto the grooves, as he manoeuvres it to apply sweet, delicious pressure on your clit; while simultaneously from behind, his cock keeps its unfaltering punches into you — adamant in taking you apart.
Your head tips back onto his shoulder as heavy pleasure crests in your stomach, and your whole body seizes again as you cum with a laboured whine.
He follows seconds after you, a broken moan tearing from his throat as he propels you both forward across the control systems; sweaty hands clawing for anything to hold on to as you ride out the orgasm together — stars blooming behind your eyes.
//
You both collapse onto the pilot’s seat in a smouldering heap, drenched in sweat with blood roaring in your ears. You feel his cock softening inside of you, as his fingers clasp over your jaw, pulling your gaping mouth to his again for a deep, passionate kiss.
“Best — birthday — ever.” Poe croons, a smiling peck punctuating each word against your lips.
“Really, Poe?” You huff a short laugh, raising a brow at him. “I banged my head and cramped my leg, you kneed yourself in the misters, and you got pegged —”
“All worth it, sweetheart,” he chuckles, smiling goofily at you; eyes glazed with an afterglow that makes your heart swell. “It’s all fucking worth it.”
So — fucking — annoying.
You sigh, sweeping the damp curls from his forehead: “You really are incorrigible.”
“And you really do like me,” he murmurs back.
“Debatable,” you taste his smile against your lips; stealing his contented moans for yours, as his arms wrap around you tight to have as his.
“So, uh —” he starts, warm panting breaths caressing your cheeks. “Is it — better?”
You pull away, crinkling your nose. Your fingertip trails along the protruding veins on his hand draped across your stomach while you pretend to consider the question.
This really is better than the many times before, but instead of confessing —
“Need to go a few more times before I can be sure,” you whisper against his needy mouth.
He lets out a guttural laugh, capturing your lips again: “Not gonna say no to that.”
“Uhhhh — Black Leader, this is comm tower — over.”
You both freeze when the ATC’s wary voice fills the cockpit.
“On behalf of the whole Resistance base,” he clears his throat carefully on the other line. “Might I suggest that no — please don’t do that again?”
Your head whips around the perimeter, looking for the source — then your eyes fall on the control systems, and your heart drops.
By the flight stick, still shimmering with your slick in the low light, the commslink blinks a rapid red.
“Oh shit!” You yelp.
You must’ve accidentally flipped the switch when Poe —
“Or at least — wait till I’m done with my shift, for the love of the Force…” the ATC mutters before he ends the transmission.
You scramble from Poe’s lap to kill the switch; as if that’s going to make any difference now.
“OH — MY — STARS!” You bury your face in your hands, furious heat crawling up your neck.
Poe, in the meantime, has his face pressed up against the nape of your neck — wheezing.
You slap him: “Stop it!”
That instead makes him laugh harder, his whole body shaking against your back.
“Fucccccck —” you groan.
“Ohhhh, baby — I love you so much,” Poe laughs against your cheeks, peppering kisses across your face twisted in a wince.
When he finally catches his breath, he throws in: “At least he definitely knows I’m better now.”
You punch him on the chest this time — hard.
“That’s not even him!” You shriek, already laughing with him despite the violent blushes.
//
tag : @mysticalmoonb3ams @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction 💛
cabin pressure , part 1 — nc-17 ; poe dameron x reader
☕ .
title: cabin pressure , part one
pairing: poe dameron x fem!reader
rating: nc-17 ; mature
summary: you indulge on the little edge of uncertainty in his eyes before they widen, the realisation coming down on him like a 90,000-metric-tonne light cruiser : “ you guys fucked in the X-wing !”
x-post: here .
content: established relationship . fluff . humour . pillow talk . cheesy sexual innuendos . implied v fingering . implied p in v sex .
a/n: blorbo’s birthday is coming up so i gotta get him something .
//
Poe practically leaps into bed and stretches out next to you. Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your cool as your eyes stay trained on the datapad, casually swiping away from the blueprint you have been studying.
The schematic blurs under your thumb as you pretend you have been checking the week’s roster in the next tab all along; something you usually do as you both wind down for the night.
You can feel his gaze on you as he heaves a dramatic sigh and folds his arms behind his head. When you remain unresponsive, he snuggles into your side with a purring hum, an arm encircling your waist to finally break a smile upon your face.
“Who was your first?” The question is soft against your shoulder, laced with an impish undertone.
You turn to him with an arched brow, amused. “Oh, we’re gonna do this now?”
“Yes,” he grins, nestling into that wedged corner between your body and his pillow, keen eyes fixed on you as if waiting for his favourite bedtime story.
“Who was your first?” He asks again.
You shake your head at his antics, wriggling slightly under the firm press of his hands on your hipbone.
“It was — a cadet, at the Civil Defence station back home,” you relent, scrolling aimlessly on the datapad. “We got along pretty well, I guess, and one night, he waited for me to clock out so he could — kiss me.”
Poe pauses for a beat — “Smooth,” he jibes, barely keeping it together.
You throw him a deadpanned look: “I take it your first time was with Zorii then?”
“First kiss, yes,” he huffs, looking away. “First time…”
Oh, this is getting interesting — “What, some cadet in the academy?” You set the datapad aside, turning your body toward him.
“Uh — not really,” he scrunches his nose, scratching a nervous tick at the back of his neck.
You stare him down as he toys with the hem of your shirt, his bottom lip pushing out childishly.
When he catches your questioning eyes fixed on him, he tuts: “Fine — she was a major.”
OH, this is interesting — “My, aren’t you the ambitious one?” You raise a brow at him, just about to burst with laughter.
“Can’t believe I’m telling you this…” He smushes his reddened face into your arm.
“Hey, you started it,” you laugh, squirming away from him.
“I know, I know,” he mumbles, mouth gaping slightly before he continues: “It was a graduation thing. We both had a little too much to drink and I — you know, walked her back to her room.”
“Smooth,” you tease back. “How uncomfortable did it get?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Poe sighs, shrugging. “I was transferred to the Mirrin Sector with my own squadron shortly after that.”
“Wow,” your smile brightens. “Really fucked your way to the top there, didn’t you?”
“It — that wasn’t my plan, I swear,” his hands hang in the air in self-defence. “I think she just did it so it wasn’t — you know, awkward and stuff.”
Your facial expression remains skeptical — until he finally rolls his eyes and mumbles: “OK, fine — we did it again before I left.”
“Well,” you slap his face lightly in jest. “We do need a bit of a — leg up to get somewhere.”
“What about you?” Poe diverts almost immediately with a lick across his smiling lips, pulling you up against his chest.
“When was your first time?” His tone is lighter, but there’s teeth in the question.
You crinkle your nose at the question, and at that split second hesitation, the man just — lights up like a bulb that went off above his head.
“Oh — someone on base,” he smirks. “Is he still here?”
You pause, your cheeks dust a mild pink: “Yes.”
“Who is it?” He persists, bumping his nose against yours.
“I’m not telling you,” you nudge back.
“Why not?” He squeaks, deft fingers already scurrying across your waist. “I told you who mine was.”
“Because!” You clamp down on his wrist, ducking away from his tickles. “It was a long time ago, and it didn’t last — and I especially don’t want you to be weird around him if you know who he is.”
“Is he a pilot?” Poe presses on regardless, but you shake your head.
“A tech?”
You purse your lips — Maker, he’s good.
“Oh — he’s a technician like you.” His eyes sparkle, like he has just uncovered the galaxy’s deepest, darkest secret — before his face falls again. “Kriff — there’s so many of you though.”
His eyes glaze over the way they do when he’s running tactics through his head. You can practically see the gears turning as he works through the logic. Eliminating variables, narrowing down possibilities, locking onto a target — it’s annoying.
“Stop it,” you shove your palm against his face; as if that would hold him back.
Poe catches your hand and starts naming names — all of which are incorrect, thank the Force.
“Were you guys still — when I came in with Rapier?” He asks.
“No — we stopped way before your squadron was absorbed,” you shrug, half-hearted. “He moved on after that — started seeing someone else on base.”
“And you’re OK with that?” His brows pinch.
“It wasn’t serious,” you say. “We just needed to let off some steam, so when that was done — it’s over.”
Poe hums pensively, his hands starting their slow, torturous slide up your back under your shirt.
“Was he — you know, good?” He smiles, lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Treat you well?”
“Mmm-hmm,” you let out a breathy laugh.
“Did everything we uh — did?” He ventures, light kisses flitting against your parted lips.
“Yes,” you kiss him, pushing your lower body against him. “— and more.”
Poe breaks away abruptly, brows creased. “And more? What could you guys have done that we —”
You indulge on the little edge of uncertainty in his eyes before they widen, the realisation coming down on him like a 90,000-metric-tonne light cruiser.
“You guys fucked in the X-wing!”
You laugh, tucking your burning face upon his sternum.
“So, that’s why you wouldn’t —” he gasps, clearly rattled. “You’ve already done it!”
“Oh, so the reason you’re adamant we go up on the same X-wing is purely for fucking purposes?” You scoff, feigning disbelief as you pull away.
“Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind,” his arms tighten around you. “How was it?”
“Pfft — like you’ve never done it before,” you quip.
“I — it wasn’t a T-70,” he chuckles.
“Wasn’t a T-70 we were in either,” you counter.
“I just —” he stammers, blushing. “I’ve never been the one — you know, riding.”
You tighten your lips to a thin line, noting the exact moment his brain catches up.
“Are you telling me,” he clears his throat, but his voice is already cracking at the seams. “That it was more than once —”
“And you were —” his flat palm gesturing above your head; “and also —” and again, scooping up from the chest level.
Your smile swells; rather amused watching him get it — see it.
The sound he makes is almost pained as he buries his heated face in the crook of your neck.
“Kriffin’ hell, sweetheart — you’re killing me…” he moans, rubbing himself deprivedly against your thigh.
“And they were not comfortable,” you stifle your laugh, hips canting to meet his growing hard-on.
“There —” you emulate his hand gesture above his head; “or there —” and again next to his chest.
“Wouldn’t recommend it,” you cup his face to kiss his pouting lips. “Wouldn’t do it again.”
“Was it Maxxus?” Poe sulks. “He seems like the type who’d fuck in an X-wing.”
“Ew — no!” You squeal, slapping his chest, unleashing a rumbling laugh that reverberates in your bones. “He’s my boss, for kriff’s sake!”
“Does the guy know we’re seeing each other?” Poe continues, trying to sound casual but failing.
“Yes, Poe,” you exhale. “I think it’s a bit hard for anyone on base to miss that.”
“Do you think he’s jealous?” He hums, peppering a trail of kisses across your collarbone.
“I wouldn’t know,” you murmur, smiling; your fingers sliding up the nape of his neck. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”
You know Poe would like him to be jealous. He’d like everyone to be jealous that you’re — his.
“You’re better,” you bump your nose against his, and plant a reassuring kiss on his stubbled cheek.
“I didn’t ask,” he grins, as he drapes his leg across your body until he is poised comfortably on top of you.
“You wanted to,” you snicker, endearment zipping down your spine, and stokes a curling heat low in your belly where your crotches align.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Poe grunts, capturing your lips. “We’d have to get on an X-wing for me to be sure.”
You snort into his mouth.
“Will you just let it go?” You push his face away from you; again — as if that’s going to stop him.
His teeth nip at your palm lightly, as he presses himself down onto you, shackling you in place.
“Not until you tell me what you have planned for my X-wing,” he husks.
//
You pause, blinking.
His gaze flicks to the datapad beside your head, then back to you, a sly smile curving at the corner of his lips.
“The roster isn’t that interesting,” his hand misses by a fraction of a second as you slide it out of his reach. “It’s the same thing every damn week.”
Kriff, of course he saw it — him and his beautiful brown, astute pilot eyes; annoying!
“Just — sorting some things out for your X-wing,” you purse your lips, the lie light on your tongue as you try to shimmy out from under him.
“What things?” His brows narrow.
You jerk when his fingers press gently against your hipbones, a wayward mewl escaping through your lips.
“It’s a surprise,” you pull an innocent smile, batting your eyelashes slowly at him as you lick at his bottom lip. “You’ll see tomorrow.”
“Why tomor—” Poe flashes that boyish grin; you’d slap him six ways till Taungsday if it doesn’t make him look so infuriatingly handsome. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” You blurt out, exasperated.
But then, his forehead falls forward upon your chest, and he lets out a groan.
“There’s not gonna be a party, is there?” He mumbles, as you card your fingers through the soft curls at the back of his head.
“I mean, I don’t know what Snap and Karé have planned—”
“Wait, they’re doing something?” He lifts his head sharply, almost knocking into your mouth.
“Why not?” You eye him quizzically. “When was the last time they did something?”
“Never? Heck, I don’t even know when all their birthdays are,” Poe leans back to his side of the bed, dragging you along with him to drape across his chest. “Rather just — let the day go by unnoticed like we usually do…”
There is an awkward beat — and you can see from the corner of your eye the regret that hits him even before the words finish landing.
You hum in blithe dismissal, already untangling yourself from him.
“Well, I guess I’m just gonna have to—”
“What Snap and Karé might have planned — not what you have planned, baby,” he rectifies swiftly, the shift in his muscular arms keeping you flush against him.
“My plan is sort of connected to their plan,” you whisper between your lashing tongues.
“Ah — so there is a plan,” he smirks. “Plans are flying all over the place — tell me.”
“Tough,” you giggle against the smacking kisses. “You’re just gonna have to go through what they have planned to see what I have planned.”
“Ugh — but it’s gonna take foreverrrrr…” Poe whines, his mouth now warm against your neck in mock despair.
“Be nice, Commander,” you tip his chin, guiding his puppy-dogged eyes back to your line of sight. “It’s not everyday you get to celebrate your birthday with your squadron.”
“OK — I’ll be nice,” he pouts, bottom lip jutting out; like a promise that needs to be sealed with a kiss.
You smack a quick one on his mouth before clambering over him to switch off the lights, hoping that will be the end of it — at least for tonight.
You’ve barely settled in the darkness when you practically hear the cogwheels chugging along in his mind. His fingers tap restlessly against your hand resting upon his chest, his pulse under your palm thrumming faster than it has any right to at this hour — his whole freaking aura vibrating with questions he can’t quite contain.
So — fucking — annoying.
You only manage to hold out for another 30 seconds, before your resolve crumbles; scrambling across him again to switch the lights back on.
“You’re incorrigible, Poe,” you grunt, as you give your datapad three hard taps out of sleep mode.
“That’s why you like me,” he beams, sidling into a sitting position next to you.
“Debatable,” you feign a grimace at his theatrical smooches on your cheek, zooming in on the blueprint you were going through earlier.
“Wait, is that —”
“The blueprint for the T-85 — yeah,” you interject, unable to hide your smile. “Took me a while to recover it since they were destroyed along with the X-wings when —”
“The Hosnian System was atomised, yeah — but how?”
“One of the techs found it,” you lift your shoulders, watching the soft smile on Poe’s face brighten.
“I’ve been streamlining the specs,” you bring up the 3D imprint of his T-70 on the screen. “See what can be translated to your X-wing without over-exhausting that old hunk of metal.”
“The KX14 laser cannons — Krupx MG7-B proton torpedo launchers — advanced Fabritech and Melihat sensor system — IN-630-B ‘Sightline’ targeting system…” You chew at your bottom lip as you prattle through the upgrades.
“I mean — theoretically, the T-70 should be able to handle the 5L9 fusial thrust engines with an additional 200 klicks per hour, but I’m not sure if…”
You trail off when you look over to him. Your breath hitches when your noses graze, finding him closer than expected, his shining eyes sweeping your features intently.
A slow grin spreads across his face.
“Can I take her up for a few rounds,” he asks, eyes dipping momentarily to your mouth. “Maybe do a few barrel rolls and stuff?”
“You can do whatever you want with her, Commander,” you coo, leaning in until your foreheads touch.
“Have to take out the life support for recalibration though,” you screw up your nose, eyes dropping to the datapad again. “You’ll need an oxygen mask if you’re gonna —”
Poe’s hand slides up your face, pulling you toward him for a deep, open-mouthed kiss. His other arm sweeps the datapad out of the way, finally letting your bodies collide.
“You’re kriffin’ amazing — you know that?” He smiles, his lips brushing teasingly against yours.
“And so — fucking hot, when you talk schematics,” His voice plunges lower; insistent fingers hooked into your waistband, tugging your shorts down.
Delightful warmth blooms across your skin when you feel his touch trace the all too familiar path to your core, working you up with deliberate strokes. You melt into his kiss, reaching down to grip the hardness straining against his boxers, rolling your hips against his touch —
“Was it him,” he manages between kisses. “Did he help you find the blue —”
Oh, for the love of —
“Now’s not the time, Poe,” you grumble breathlessly, giving his arousal a pointed squeeze.
“OK — okokok…” He groans, his own hand pressing against your centre in response; making you writhe against him.
He spreads your thighs open with his knee, anchoring into the cradle of your hips so deliciously, as his tongue coils inside your humming mouth. His length aligned to your entrance, and your fingers wander the expanse of his broad shoulders; the anticipation alone rousing a pleasurable shudder at the pit of your stomach…
“You know — maybe after that we could…” he endeavours one last time.
“I’m upgrading the systems, Poe,” you huff, getting impatient. “I’m not making the starfighter larger.”
He snorts, and you can’t help but laugh with him.
Later, when Poe sinks into you, you breathe out a shaky gasp instead of telling him: yes — actually, the tech who recovered the blueprint in the black market was the same one who took your virginity.
But, ohhh — the way he’s moving in you right now; the purposeful drag, and the deep gyrates of his hips…
Maker, if he’s not lightyears beyond that fumbling first fuck.
Warnings : Angst, FLUFF, canonical style violence, mention of injury, mention of blood, talk of death, near death experience, language, idiots in love, Poe just being adorable
Summary : Poe Dameron often likes to say he's "fine", it's "fine", everything's "fine". But when a mission goes drastically wrong you no longer believe the pilot and his use of the F-Word.
A/N : Softer and fluffier than it sounds I promise…
GIF by the lovely Salome-C
Anon - I know you submitted this request forever ago. I'm sorry it took so long to write. Since I wasn't sure which prompt list you wanted number 45 form I picked number 45 from two lists:
"You're hurt. Please just let me heal it" & "I bought this. It's your favourite colour."
— — — — — —
There were two things you had quickly realised about Poe Dameron since joining the Resistance.
The first is that the rumours were true. He actually is the best pilot in the galaxy, and much more humble about it than you would have expected. And the second, is that whenever the pilot used the word "fine", things were, in general, very much not fine.
So listening to him grit out the word through clenched teeth, hammering buttons on the console in front of him as the ship groans and alarms blare around you, you already knew things were bad. Very, very bad.
Glancing over at him, you can see sweat trickling down his brow, he's breathing hard, one hand pressed tightly against his side, the glistening of red peeking through his fingers. He'd insisted that the glancing blow from a vibro-knife during the fight that had you running back to your ship, had been nothing. He insisted it barely grazed him, and he'd be perfectly fine, but that you needed to leave now. And with the First Order hot on your tails, you hadn't had time to question it. That is, until now.
"Poe, please tell me that's not blood I'm seeing!"
"I said I'm fine," he growls in response, slamming his hand down on the controls before swinging the ship around in a way that has you almost thrown from your seat.
"You're hurt! I need to patch that!"
"Now is not the time to play medic when we have the first order busting in our cargo doors!" He shouts, clearly frustrated with your concern.
"Now's not the time for you to bleed out over the kriffin floor, either!" You yell back, redirecting your fire to take out a Tie creeping up on you.
"I know that!" He snaps, swinging the ship again. "This is not good. Not good."
You can hear him mumbling to himself between stuttered breaths as he tries to get your hyperdrive back online, while simultaneously trying to evade the first order fire. You yourself are barely keeping pace with your shots, there's too many, too quick, and Poe's flying is too erratic.
"Poe, I'm having some real trouble here," you shout over the noise, taking out another two ties, which are quickly replaced by more.
"I just need…a few minutes." Something in his voice sounds wrong, it's quiet, barely whispered out above the blaring alarm. It sends fear shooting through you.
Taking your eyes from the battle in front of you, you look back over at him. His movements are sluggish, and he groans leaning over the console. When he catches you looking, he shakes his head.
"I'm fine. Just keep shooting."
You want to keep looking at him, to make sure he's still breathing at least, but trying to keep up with the enemy ships surrounding you needs all of your attention, and when the ship judders and groans under another hit, you have no choice but to concentrate on the battle. That is, until a soft series of beeps gets both your attention.
"Ok good. Hyperdrives up, mostly," the pilot nods, taking a deep breath. "It'll do what we need."
Another round of fire glances off your shields, making the ship give a shudder of protest before you spin to take out the Tie circling you.
"Shields aren't going to…hold...much…l-longer.' His words are slurred and spaced as he tries to breathe through the pain every jolt of the ship must be causing him. Even with the little medical training you have, you know the amount of blood spreading out across his shirt, the amount of pain he's in, is not a good sign.
"Poe?"
"Just shoot!" He yells, making you flinch at his tone.
Shoot. All you had to do was shoot.
~
With a shudder the ship blips into hyperspace, taking a series of quick timed jumps, designed to throw off anyone who would try to follow you. When you finally come to the last jump, deep in the heart of dead space, you check the tracking console and let out a woot.
"We did it! I don't think they managed to follow us! Poe we-" the words die on your tongue as you glance over at the pilot. He's deathly pale, sweat making his hair curl at the ends, staring at the beeping console display with a frown. "Poe, you're not happy? Why aren't we happy?"
"I don't…it's fine. We'll be fine," his fingers continue tapping away, watching the flickering statistics scroll past.
"Why aren't we happy?" You ask again quietly, worry creeping into your tone. Bringing your eyes back to the display, you pull up the same information he has, and your stomach drops. The shields were gone, life support was rapidly running out and worse your fuel tank had been hit. The last of your fuel had been burned up with the final jump, rendering the ship dead.
Poe must see the look of horror on your face, and he constantly tries to reassure you in a soft, confident tone. The one he used on you when you went into your first battle and froze. The one he uses to talk to the new recruits when they get scared.
"Hey, don't worry, ok? I can-I can get a signal…out…everything will be fine."
Drawing your eyes back to the pilot, you watch as he doubles over, red seeping out over his fingers as he clutches his side, gasping in pain. You're out of your seat and at his side in seconds, trying to peel his hands away, so you can assess the situation.
"Poe, you gotta let me look at it," you beg, kneeling down and placing your hands over his.
"We don't… have time," he grits out, panting for breath.
"Yeah and I don't have time for you to go dying on me, ok? You're going to bleed out, and I'm not going to be the girl that let the poster boy of the resistance die!" You hold his stubborn gaze steady until he finally drops his hand away from his stomach. Letting out a soft sigh of relief, you carefully lift up his shirt to look at the wound, flinching at his hiss of pain. Your stomach gives a sickening turn as you take in the ragged slice through his side.
"Ok, ok, so, it probably just looks worse than it is right? Sure, you're about to tell me you're fine." You force a smile to your lips as you press your hand over the wound, attempting to stem the bleeding.
The fact he's strangely quiet is what makes you look up again. His head lolls on his chest, eyes closed, sweat dripping off his brow, breathing…but barely.
~
"Keep still, I'm not done." You sigh as he moves for what feels like the thousandth time as you try to stitch his wound.
"It hurts!" The pilot complains, shifting again, which earns a growl of warning from you.
"Yeah, well I'm not a medical droid, so you're gonna have to put up and stop whining about it. Or shall I just let you continue to bleed out all over the cockpit? Besides, the painkillers will kick in soon enough."
He lets out another hiss of pain, and you do feel bad, really you do. If you had a med droid it would have been quicker, easier and Poe probably would have stayed asleep for it. Unfortunately for you, he'd woken with a start, ripping half the stitches out when he tried to jump out of the pilot seat, meaning you had to start over with very little medical equipment. And since then he seemed to do everything possible to make this job harder.
Pausing in your actions, you soften your approach, letting out a sigh and trying to bite down your building fear.
"You're hurt. Please just let me heal it?"
"I'm fine," he insists with an annoyed huff, but looking him over you can still see the sheen of sweat on his skin and the stuttered way he's breathing through the pain, especially since you had to remove his shirt to patch the wound.
"Yeah, course you are," you mutter, pushing him back down when he tries to get up. "Please don't move. I'm not a good medic, and the resistance needs you alive."
"Disagree." He lets out a hiss of pain as you put in another stitch. "Actually, bad medic part, I might agree with."
He groans as he tries to get up again, and this time when you press him down you hold your hands against his chest, pinning him in place.
"Poe, stop! I'm serious. Sit your damn ass down and let me finish this." Something in your tone seems to make him stop, gazing up at you and giving you an almost playful smile.
"Yes ma'am,"
"Remind me never to fly with you again," you mutter to yourself, going back to fixing a medpatch and bandage over the wound. Frowning at the blood still seeping through.
Taking off your scarf, you gently try to clean up some of the blood covering his side, checking for any further injuries. Poe gently catches your wrist, holding you still as his eyebrows pull together.
"You know that's going to get ruined? It's your favourite one."
You frown at the fact he knows that, but then the rational part of your brain kicks in. Of course he does, you wear it everywhere. It had been a gift from home, the last thing you'd taken with you when you left for the resistance, a reminder of what you would be fighting for. You're home, everyone's homes, families, loved ones.
"Yeah well, it's just material," you shrug, refusing to look up at him, "I can get a new one."
"It's not, though, is it?" He asks softly, letting you go. From the corner of your eye you see him fingering the chain around his neck, and you know he understands. Things are most often never what they appear to be.
You stay silent, going back to cleaning him up, and he doesn't stop you again or push you for an answer, instead he lets silence settle over you for a long moment.
"Sorry I've been a bit of a dick. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I know you're trying to help," You pause and lift your eyes to look at him, but Poe is staring at his boots.
"The state of you, I'd say you're in an immense amount of pain. If I was you, I'd have done a lot more yelling. So please don't apologise," you give him a reassuring smile, watching as his eyes flick over your face.
"Still sorry," he sighs softly. Catching your hand, he squeezes your fingers gently. "I just didn't want anything to happen to you. I just want to get you back safely."
Even though both your hands are covered in blood, and you're floating through space waiting to be blasted into stardust by the First Order, or suffocated when the life support runs out, the touch still makes your heart leap. You're fairly sure he has no idea of the crush you've been harbouring since meeting the resistance pilot, and in all honesty you're glad for that. Poe, with his good looks and reputation could have anyone he wanted, and you suspect he did. There was no need to embarrass yourself, or him, when he turned you down.
You can't find an answer to his words, so you allow the silence to drag out for much longer than it needs to, savouring the feeling of his hand in yours. Of course, Poe wants to get you back safely. He holds himself accountable for too many deaths already, although they aren't his fault. If you died out here he'd only blame himself and that's the last thing you want.
But you couldn't let yourself think like that. Someone would come for you and everything would be fine. There wouldn't be anymore bodies to add to his conscience today.
Letting go of his hand, you swallow hard and busy yourself clearing up the medical equipment.
"So, Commander, how are you feeling? Let me guess, fine?" You ask, still unable to look back up at him and trying to lighten the tension threading through the cockpit. His answer is so smooth you could almost think he's had it lined up for a while now.
"Like you're just using this as an excuse to see me shirtless."
You hope he doesn't notice the way your hands fumble on the medkit at his words, or the way the heat rises to your face. Instead, you try to cover them both with a sigh and a roll of your eyes.
"Not everyone is trying to get you naked, you know."
"I didn't say everyone. I said y-" he cuts off his own words, letting out a low whine of pain as he sits up, leaning over the console. "We gotta try and get some help or get moving before they catch up. Remind me again why we didn't bring an astromec?"
"Easy mission, in and out, non-hostile, won't need one, and BB is busy doing something for the General. I can handle this myself."
Poe gives a huff of laughter of your impression of him, one that ends in a gasp and has his hands flying to hold his side. Your own hands automatically cover his, as though you could make any difference to the pain he's in by pressing your palm against his knuckles.
"I'm fine, don't worry. Just don't make me laugh again," he smiles reassuringly, but you can feel his fingers trembling under yours.
"I'm banning that word as soon as we get back. The next time you use the word fine in my presence I'll-" you pause, not sure what your actual threat would be, and it earns you a lopsided grin.
"You'll what?"
"I'll do something terrible you won't like," you finish lamely. "Now just sit still while I see what we can do about getting a distress signal out."
~
"Fuck," the curse stutters out quietly, and he tries to cover it with a cough, but you catch the word, and the grimace of pain he tries to mask. It sends a spark of worry through you. He shouldn't still be in this much pain, not after the amount of painkillers you've dosed him with over the past hour.
His eyes catch yours in the dim emergency lighting and despite the pain, he still manages to give you a cheeky smile. "Caught you staring. Would you rather I put my shit…urgh…shirt back on?"
"You're in pain," is your flat response, no longer even taking any notice of his lack of clothing, "can I do anything to help?"
"You can kiss me?"
The data pad you'd been holding while checking for a rescue, clatters noisily to the floor as your hands forget to work, staring at him in shock.
"What?"
"I said you can kiss me." He wheezes out a small laugh with a grimace of pain, evidently entertained by your reaction. With a huff, you pick up the data pad, brushing down your clothes in distraction.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because it would distract me from the pain. It's my dying wish. You have to grant it."
"You are not dying. Don't talk like that," you frown at him, your stomach twisting as you look him over. He's too pale, and all too clearly trembling from the pain.
"Feels a lot like dying." The absolute lack of humour in his words is what worries you the most.
Kneeling down next to him, you press the back of your hand to his forehead, fear splintering through you at the burning heat that meets your skin. Glancing down at the wound, you can see blood still slowly seeping through the bandages and your stomach lurches at the sight, well aware he shouldn't still be bleeding this much. Carefully peeling down some of the bandages, you look over the wound, taking in the black threads creeping out under his skin from the cut. It's like nothing you've ever seen before - They run like dark veins, spider webbing out across his skin, spreading further with each passing moment. You have to carefully school your expression in order to not alarm him, but Poe is the most observant person you know, and he notices even the smallest stiffen of your shoulders.
"It's not looking good, is it?"
"No, it's not looking good," you admit quietly, noticing he doesn't even look down for himself.
"You know, I always thought I'd go out in battle? Pulling some heroic stunt in my X-Wing?" He sighs, leaning back in the chair and staring at the darkness through the transparisteel pane, his breathing shallow and laboured. "At least it's still out here, in the stars."
"Poe, listen, you aren't dying here. I forbid it. I order you to make it home and live a long, happy life."
He smiles, rolling his head onto his shoulder and flicking his eyes to you. It's clear the effort of holding it up is becoming too much, which only makes your heart pound harder in fear.
"I'm your boss. You don't make orders," he tries to give you a teasing grin, but he only manages a grimace.
"I'm staging a mutiny against you. So, now I'm the boss, and I'm ordering you not to die." You hope the words come out more firmly than they feel, desperate more to keep him talking than anything else.
"I've never been good at following orders," his lips twitch in a small smile as beads of sweat break free from his forehead, rolling down over his cheeks like tears. "I'll try, though, just for you. Need a better offer tho- fuck!" he doubles over, taking a few short shaking breaths.
Something was wrong. Something was so terribly wrong, and you have no idea what to do, how to help. You can feel tears pricking your eyes, helplessly pressing your hands over his.
Glancing down, your heart drops into your stomach as the SOS signal still pinging away on the datapad shows nothing, no incoming ships, no planets or moons, just the empty vastness of space and the quickly running out life support.
Poe was going to die out here. And soon after you would too. How poetic to die with the man you fell for, before you ever had the courage to tell him. Far from romantic like in the holovids you only feel a bitter disappointment of time stolen from you, and the sharp tang of fear on your tongue.
Poe goes quiet so suddenly that you think he's already gone, his eyes drifting shut, sweat dripping off him, his breathing barely there. Jumping into action, you grab his shoulders.
"Hey no, no, no sleeping. Stay awake, ok? Poe, stay awake," you desperately shake him until his eyes open a little, blinking blearily at you as though he can't see you properly. "I'll make you a better deal, ok? How about, you stay awake and make it home alive, and then I'll kiss you. I promise. But you gotta get home alive first," you warn him, reaching up to brush his damp curls away from his forehead.
Poe affords you a small, exhausted smile, his eyes half lidded and glazed.
"I always liked you, you know? Bit disappointed…I won't…be able to…accept that…deal," his sentence is broken between gasped breaths and fear tightens painfully in your chest.
You shush him softly, shaking your head.
"You're going to be fine, ok? You're fine. You're always fine." Grabbing his hand, you hold it tightly in yours, feeling the tears you'd been holding back break free, rolling down your cheeks as you whisper.
Poe doesn't even attempt to squeeze your fingers, his hand stays limp in yours as you desperately bite back sobs of fear. "I promise I'll kiss you when we get back. I promise you can have anything you like. Just don't die on me, ok?"
"Don't cry…I'll…be fine," he chokes out. He lifts as hand, as though he would brush the tears from your cheeks but it never makes it that far up, it drops limp to his side as his eyes roll back in his head, his breathing stutters, and silence engulfs the ship.
~
You sit back in your chair, stretching out your sore muscles, staring at the words on your report. They told you there was nothing you could have done. The blade had been tipped with poison and it was spreading fast through the pilot's veins, each beat of his heart pushed him closer to death. The medical training you had, the supplies on the ship, none of it was equipped to deal with something like that. No, you did everything you could. You couldn't have done anything more, or at least that's what they tell you.
It had felt like days sitting in silence, Poe's hand growing colder in yours, the only noise the warning beep of the failing life support. No matter how hard you tried to wake him, he wouldn't even stir. Dizzy from the lack of oxygen, you'd laid your head against his thigh, squeezing his cold hand as you waited for your own demise. You were grateful for the dim lighting then. It meant you didn't have to look, you didn't have to see if his breathing had stopped.
The image of Poe motionless, his head lolling to one side, as they carried him onto the rescue ship, had haunted your dreams for weeks. He was no longer the effervescent pilot, no longer full of life, teasing and commanding. The last image you had of him was a broken doll, limp and lifeless.
You can kiss me?
His words ring out so clear in the room it's almost as though he was standing beside you, with the playful smirk he always seems to have around you, dancing in his lips.
Maker, you missed him.
You'd gotten used to his presence in your life — the easy friendship and banter, the way he never made you feel like less, even though you're the least experienced pilot he's ever had in his squadron. You miss his laughter that happens at the most inappropriate times. You miss him distracting you on purpose when you're trying to concentrate. You even missed him being snappy and grumpy when he was tired. You missed him so much more than you could have imagined.
With a sniff, you hastily wipe your eyes. It was no good dwelling on what already happened.
"No point crying over spilt caf. Just get another cup," Poe would often tell you brightly when things went wrong.
Taking a deep breath, you go back to the report, determined to finish it in the hopes that once it was done, you'd never have to think on that day again. That's the reason you'd come here, all the way at the edge of the base, to the abandoned part, filled with empty rooms full of dust, to finish this damn report in peace. But even as your fingers hover over the keys to start typing, a hesitant knock on the door stops you.
With a groan of annoyance, you push the chair away from the desk, standing up on stiff legs that have been sitting too long and don't want to move. It’s a surprise that anyone has even come this far down the base, let alone appears to be purposely coming to find you.
Pressing your hand to the door panel it slides open with a soft woosh, revealing a head of messy curls, an impish grin and a pilot who should, to your knowledge, still be laid up in medical recovering for at least another couple of weeks.
"Poe! You're out!"
"Yeah, I escaped my captors, and I'm on the run! So I probably don't have long before they drag me back. Did you miss me?" He grins in an all too familiar way, as though you haven't been separated for weeks. "I've been looking for you for ages. Why are you here? Nobody uses this room anymore. Meeting up with a secret lover?" He pokes his head into the small room you've been using to work in, confirming that it's empty, as though you might have been hiding someone inside.
You blink in shock a few times, still surprised he's standing in front of you, when the nurses had exasperatedly told you for the tenth time, that his recovery would take at least a few more weeks. He didn't yet have his full strength, nothing had changed since yesterday and no you were absolutely not allowed to visit him. But the grinning man standing in the doorway, albeit a little less put together than he usually would be with his crumpled untucked shirt, tired eyes and messy hair, seems like he's perfectly fine.
"So, what are you doing?" He asks again, raising an eyebrow when you fail to answer his questions.
"Oh, I just needed somewhere quiet to finish some reports, you know, about what happened. And I guess I'm hiding a bit," you shrug, shuffling your feet, suddenly awkward in his presence after weeks of not being allowed to see him. "People keep asking me what happened, how you are, if I've seen you, blah blah. I swear, if I have to hear one more girl simper at the fact you got hurt, I might defect to the First Order just to save my sanity. How are you feeling?"
"Me? I'm fine, and I can't help being popular," he grins with an easy shrug. "Can you tell me who's been asking though? I'm hoping one person in particular might have been enquiring after me?"
You frown at him, trying to bury the spark of hurt at the comment. It isn't Poe's fault you have feelings he doesn't know about. But even so, your answer comes out snappier than you mean.
"Go ask them yourself instead of bothering me."
Poe raises both eyebrows this time at your tone, but there's still a hint of a smile on his lips as he shrugs.
"Alright, I will. In fact, I'll go ask them right now." He spins on his heel and walks two steps, barely giving you time to feel the stab of hurt in your chest, before he turns back around to face you. "Oh, hey, there you are! I just wanted to ask if you have been enquiring about me and my wellbeing since I almost died?"
"What are you doing?" You sigh with a shake of your head, your demeanour softening as he walks back to you.
"Asking the only person on base I care about, at least in a ‘I’ve fallen head over heels for you’ sort of way, if they asked about me while I was recovering?"
You flounder, opening your mouth and closing it again as he grins. Heat floods through every inch of your skin, and you're sure your expression is one of absolute shock.
"No? And here I thought they were upset and worried about me. Frankly, I'm a bit offended now because they made me a promise. And you know, promises made on people's death beds you have to keep. It's the law." He stares at you seriously, his expression almost grave but it's not hard to see him fighting back a smile.
You have to fight to keep your breathing steady, your stomach plunging down to your feet at his words. Part of you had perhaps hoped that he hadn't heard you say that, that maybe he'd be too out of it by then to remember it, that maybe the trauma had wiped it from his mind. Or, at the very least, he would have taken it as a joke. Now you can't tell now if he's using it to tease you, or he's actually serious.
"If I remember right," he pauses, tapping his chin with his index finger as he pretends to think, "I think you might have said I could have anything I wanted if we got home? Sound about right?" He raises an eyebrow at you as he watches you squirm in embarrassment.
"I-I…well… it was a stressful situation…" you stutter, heat prickling out across your skin, "I just…wanted to make sure you got home…and…I-I just…you know, said stuff to keep you awake."
His expression softens as you trail off, gesturing wildly and trying to defend your words.
"Oh, so you don't want to kiss me?" He tilts his head, regarding you standing frozen, still trying to process exactly what he's trying to tell you. "Listen, I'm an idiot. I should have told you this a long time ago. I know you like me. You're terrible at hiding it. But," he pauses with a sigh, running a hand through his hair, "I always thought you would make a move if it's what you wanted. But then out there, when you made that promise, I thought maybe… maybe you do want me as much as I want you?"
You could kiss me?
His words come back from the ship in stark clarity. You had assumed he was joking, trying to lighten the mood and tease you. But now you realise he was serious. He was asking for something he thought he couldn't ever have, because it was his last chance to do it.
A whole storm of emotions rise up quickly and overwhelmingly, the biggest being the regret that you hadn't listened, not truly listened. Not just that day on the ship, but always. The more you think about it, the more opportunities you know he's given you to say something, anything, about your feelings, and you'd let them pass by.
Taking a deep breath, you meet his questioning gaze.
"Well…I did promise you anything you wanted if you got home," you finally answer quietly.
The pilot pauses for just a moment, swallowing almost nervously as though he had expected your rejection, before he nods solemnly, taking a step closer to you. Bringing his hand up to rest against the side of your neck, he rubs his thumb across your cheek before down to softly trace your bottom lip.
"You did," he replies softly, as your breath catches at his touch.
"And it was your dying wish," you continue, your heart hammering against your ribs in anticipation.
"It was," he whispers, leaning into you and bringing his lips a breath away from yours, allowing his soft curls to brush against your forehead. The blood roars in your ears, deafeningly loud and you wonder if he can feel the heat currently blazing out across your skin.
"And you're sure you're in your right mind?"
"I am," he answers, and you catch the flicker of a smile before he presses his lips to yours.
It's nothing like what you imagined kissing him to be like. He's sweetly tender — first the slightest brush of his lips against yours before placing gentle kisses to your top and bottom lip. Only when you relax — the tension you hadn't realised you were holding dropping from your shoulders — does he sweep his tongue across your lower lip, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against your own, carefully slow, as though he has all the time in the world to map each part of your mouth.
You can't help but allow a soft moan to escape as he kisses you, and your reaction seems to be the signal he needs, because he stops holding back.
His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close against him as his tongue battles yours with ravenous desire. Your hands tangle in his hair, kissing him back with as much desperate passion as he was giving you.
The way he kisses you is all consuming, wiping away thoughts of anything else that exists in the galaxy. You hardly notice the way he backs you up into the room, without ever breaking your kiss.
He doesn't pause until your legs hit the back of the desk. Only then does he pull away from you, taking your lower lip in his teeth and tugging gently. You let out a somewhat shaky breath, having only a moment to breathe before his mouth crashes into yours again, kissing you as though he's been starved of touch for years, not just a few weeks.
When you eventually break apart, giddy with excitement and breathing heavily, he continues to steal quick kisses from you, keeping you pressed close against him.
"Stars," he breathes softly, leaning his forehead against yours, as you bite your lip shyly, still trying to process the fact he kissed you, and like that. "Yeah, that was absolutely worth almost dying for."
"Yeah, maybe take out the near death experience next time though?" You laugh breathlessly, allowing your eyes to flicker closed as you enjoy the moment, trying to calm your heart to a normal speed again. Maker, there's no way you'll survive if he kisses you like that again.
"Do you mind if I sit down for a second?" He asks suddenly. Blinking yourself out of your kiss hazed daze, you notice how pale he's become, and you have a sudden stab of anxiety. It's a stark reminder that he's still not well and should be resting.
"Yeah, come on."
He doesn't walk like he needs your help, but he allows you to support him as you lead him around the other side of the desk to sit down in the chair. "This is why you were supposed to stay in medical."
"I'm useless sitting there, though," he complains. "They won't let me have visitors, they won't let me do any work. Apparently I'm too likely to tire myself out if I leave. Like they know," he scoffs with a roll of his eyes.
That at least makes your frown soften just a little. Imagining Poe confined to a small corridor of rooms was difficult, given his chaotic nature.
"You kiss a someone and you go weak at the knees. I think maybe you should be listening to people who know better?"
"I think that was because I had to look everywhere for you while evading capture," He complains, giving you a pointed look as though it's your fault. "I can't be cooped up in there any longer. I'd rather spend as much time as I can with you until they track me down. I've sent BB to tell them I'll be back later anyway," he grins proudly at his own plan to evade medical care, making you roll your eyes. "Let me do something useful, please."
"Poe," you start gently, leaning back on the desk, but he knows what's coming and gives you a pleading look, making you stop your lecture and sigh. "Fine, just tell me honestly how you're feeling now?"
"Really I'm fi-"
One glare from you stops him in his tracks. He gives you a small nod, remembering that the word is banned between you now.
"I feel like I could sleep for a month and still be tired," he sighs honestly, leaning back in the chair to stare at the ceiling, "I mean I feel like that all the time now. It's getting better but it's taking too long. I feel trapped. I need to be doing something to help. I can't just lie down all day and let everyone else do all the work."
His frustration is evident, and it makes your heart ache for him. You know this is Poe's worst nightmare, having to sit back and watch, unable to do anything to help. Pushing yourself off the desk, you instead stand between his legs, gently brushing your hands through his soft curls as he looks up at you.
"You did almost die. You just gotta take it easy for a little while. You'll be back in your X-Wing flying circles around everyone in no time." Leaning over, you hug him tightly, feeling his arms slide around your waist as he buries his face in your neck. "They said you'll be better soon. Just be patient with them, they are doing their job."
He sighs softly, squeezing you hard before he lets you go. Sitting back down on the edge of the desk, you look him over as he talks, glad the colour seems to be returning to his cheeks.
"I know. I'll go back later. But will you please let me stay for a couple of hours? I'll be fi-alright now, I promise. It just comes and goes when I overexert myself."
"Well then I guess kissing is off the cards for the rest of the day," you smile, and he gives you an unimpressed look. "Hey, you said you wanted to help. Kissing me is not helping anyone."
"It helps me," he grins. "Besides, I deserve them. I came bearing gifts!"
He fishes around in his jacket pockets, eventually slowly pulling out a length of material and placing it in your hands, his gaze hopeful and wide as you look it over. You run your fingers across the soft fabric, watching the lights catching the colour as it slips through your fingers.
"I bought this for you. It's your favourite colour, right? I know it doesn't replace the one I ruined, but still. It's a sort of thank you for saving my life. But you know if you don't like it…" he trails off, watching your expression.
He knew your favourite colour. Your heart swells, and your fingers tighten in the scarf, stopping yourself from throwing your arms around him, purely from fear the sudden movement might hurt him.
"I love it. It's honestly perfect. Thank you, Poe." Leaning over again you brush your lips sweetly against his as his eyes light up with relief.
"Wish I could take credit for anything but the colour," he smiles sheepishly. "I had to send Karè out with instructions because they wouldn't let me leave medical."
You lean back against the desk as he stands up holding his hands out for the scarf.
"Can I?"
Nodding, you hand it back to him, allowing him to carefully wrap it around your neck, his thumbs brushing softly against the edges of your jaw as he does. You wrap your arms around him as he leans into you, brushing his nose against yours, barely allowing his lips to ghost over yours, sweetly teasing you until you pout. With a soft laugh at your reaction he finally kisses you properly, with an intensity that makes your own knees go weak.
By the time you pull away, you're breathless, and the room is far too warm once more.
"If you keep kissing me like that, I'll end up in medical with you," you giggle before you pause, pulling back to look at him suspiciously. "Maybe I'm already in medical? This is just a really good dream, isn't it?"
Poe laughs softly and shakes his head.
"I really hope not, but if you do wake up, I'll kiss you again and remind you just how much I like you."
You roll your eyes and shake your head, "Ok being sweet is not going to stop me sending you back to bed."
He grins, knowing he's been caught out.
"How about we make a new deal? I’ll sit here with you, and I'll be very good and quiet, and then when you’re done with your reports I'll go back to medical for the night?” He gives you a soft kiss, and you're sure its purely in distraction.
“I feel like there’s a but coming,” you raise an eyebrow at him, and there's a look of absolute mischief shining in his eyes.
"But you have to sit on my lap,”
Maker, he was going to be a nightmare this entire recovery.
----------
If you enjoyed this please take the time to reblog and leave a comment :)
Contents: this is just fluff, gn!reader, hair talk (you and Santi), pet names (sweetheart, pretty), language, reader a little insecure
———-
“No, no way, I’m not doing that to you,” Santiago says.
You’re laying in bed at his place, both of you unable to sleep. You’d turned to face him.
“But you wouldn’t be doing anything to me. I’d, essentially, be doing it to myself. You’d just be there.”
He huffs out in a laugh, a quick grin on his lips that pulls at the stubble along his cheek and jaw.
“If I fuck it up, you would really get hurt.” He tucks his arm under his head and brings his other hand to your face. “I can’t risk that.”
You’d never thought of Santiago as a cautious person, but since settling into civilian life, and into being with you, the calculations in his eyes had started to look different.
Not so much, what’s the angle and where’s the exit? More like, how long are we going to have to stay at this party because I want to go home and make out on the couch and watch a movie? Or how do I arrange my day so we have time to fool around before dinner with the guys?
Sometimes though, he needs reassurance. He feels like he should be panicking about something, even though there’s nothing left to panic about.
“I know change is difficult for you,” you say, scratching your fingers through his short, curly hair, “but I thought you’d be into trying something new.”
He smiles, lines of confusion around his eyes as he traces your face with his fingertips. “Why?”
You shrug. “We’ve been together for almost a year. I kind of thought, given your history,” your sentence trails off.
Santiago’s gaze sharpens on yours. He’s a little pissed because this is the only thing you fight about. And it’s not even a fight really. It’s just that, you’re pretty good at reassuring him that it’s okay to live a normal, boring life. It’s hard for you to accept sometimes, that he wants that normal, boring life with you.
His hand drops from your face, eyes piercing into yours. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. Just, like, aren’t you a little sick of me?”
He rolls onto his back, rubs his hand over the hard set of his jaw. “Un-fucking-believable. Stop trying to get me to admit something that’s not true. You should’ve been an interrogator. Do you hear yourself?”
“I know, I know, but come on. I used to see you with someone new every weekend, before we got together. Your number is like, ridiculously high. And you say that you don’t really have a type and that-“
Santiago shakes his head and covers your mouth with his hand. You shift and lay the top of your body over his, taking his hand away with a laugh.
“My number is one. Only one. Only you,” he says.
“I’m serious,” you say, even though you’re smiling.
He gives you a patient look, runs the warm palm of his hand over your cheek. “If the only reason you want to dye your hair is for me, then don’t do it. It’s not worth risking a chemical burn on your pretty face.”
“You have the pretty face, Santiago. I am gorgeous,” you say.
“I say it all the time,” he smiles. He gives you that level look of his, when he’s prepared to talk you into something, big brown eyes all serious and factual. It’s his no-argument look. “Don’t make me put chemicals on your head.”
“Fine. I’ll get it professionally done.” You start to roll over, but he wraps his arms around you, trapping you on top of his body.
“Maybe I should dye my hair,” he says.
“Not funny, not even as a joke. I love your white hair.”
He grumbles. “Don’t say it like that, like white is the only color my head is anymore. And it’s still only going gray. It’s not white.”
“Vain.”
“A little.” He kisses your forehead. “If you really want to make your head purple or green, then I’m all for it. Hey,” he tips up your head to look at him, “is it you who’s getting tired of me? Maybe you’re the one who needs change.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Santiago, I do not need change from you. You are exactly right. Kind of the only right thing in my life.”
He smiles softly, hands going up and down your back. “I’ve been thinking. Change isn’t all bad. I know I like things a certain way, but I was special forces and you know how we are. The change I’m talking about is good. Move in with me.” Even in the dark, his brown eyes sparkle at you.
“Me? Here?” You try to sit up, but his arms keeps you in place, snug against him, shocked face right in front of his.
He shrugs his free shoulder. “I’ve never lived with anyone before. Except the guys. And those weren’t usually ideal circumstances. You make my life better. I’d like to do the same.”
“You do.” You lean in and kiss him. “Are-“
“Swear to God if you ask me if I’m sure, I’m going to dye my hair blonder than that guy in that movie you made me watch.”
You laugh. “Ken? No, that’s maybe the worst thing you could threaten me with. And you loved that movie, don’t lie.”
“It was pretty funny,” he says begrudgingly. He raises a black eyebrow at you.
“I’ll move in with you.”
“Good.” He smiles, heaves a sigh of relief.
Had he really thought you’d say no? Santiago Garcia, the man who oozed so much confidence that people automatically assumed he was in charge of every room he entered.
The man who, in your second month of dating, took you to every bar in town because people refused to believe he wasn’t single anymore. So, he spent a week sucking the lips off your face anywhere he could so word would get around. Then again, that one might have been him marking his territory a little. Whatever. You’d enjoyed it.
“And just so you know,” he says, “I’m way ahead of you on the hair-dying thing. I’ll show you some pictures from when I was a teenager.”
“Aren’t all your childhood photos in black and white?”
Santiago calls you something incredibly rude and digs his fingers into your ribs until you’re begging and breathless, too tense with laughter to even ask him to stop. Sweating from laughter and useless escape attempts.
“I’m sorry.” You scream out, trying desperately to get away from him, mouth killing you from smiling so hard. “I’m sorry, okay?
He finally relents, letting you back away to stretch out the cramp in your side. He watches you try and catch your breath, laughter still rumbling in his chest.
“I should put you over my knee for that,” he says with a smirk.
You roll your eyes playfully at him, leaning back in to run your fingers through his hair and over his scalp. He sighs appreciatively.
“Santiago,” you touch your lips to his, trying to erase the fake-grumpy look on his face, “it was a compliment. Black and white are my two favorite colors.”
I’m sorry Rally; I’m in your dms again!! Please tell me what Dad!Santiago does for Valentine’s Day? I know Santi does the MOST!
Dad Santi does the MOST!!! (also, I hope your wisdom teeth removal was okay even though it was 2 months ago!)
(<500 words) "I think I fucked up, guys," Santiago says over beers on the back porch.
Frankie's face falls. "You forgot Valentine's Day. I can't believe it. That's not like you. It's next weekend, man."
"I didn't," Santiago insists, giving Frankie the stink eye. "I might have gone overboard."
Benny sits back in his chair, stretches out his long legs. "This, I gotta hear."
Santiago sets aside his empty beer bottle and rubs his hands together briefly, like he's bracing himself.
"Here's the situation," he says. "I wanted to surprise her. Maybe dinner or even an overnight somewhere, but she's breast feeding Rosie and I can't just spring something like that on her. And it would be our first weekend away from both kids, and we'd probably get in our feelings about that and it wouldn't romantic.
"So, I think, maybe my mom can watch the kids and we can have dinner here. She loves when I cook for her."
"Yeah," Benny snorts, "she loves when you put a bun in her oven."
Will smacks the back of Benny's head. "We don't make jokes about our friend's wombs. Make all the dick jokes about Pope you want, leave her out of it."
Santiago licks his lips and continues. "So, I have all the ingredients to make a big dinner and dessert. Candles, flowers. I got her a new dress and pretty lingerie. And then, I kind of..." he rubs the back of his neck.
Frankie rubs Santi's shoulder, trying to comfort him, even though it all sounds great so far. "It's okay, man, you can tell us."
"I kept buying her things," Santiago mumbles. "I don't know what got into me. I thought she should have shoes to match the dress. Then, I thought, she'd probably want to look nice, so I hired a makeup artist. And I thought, if we're going to all that trouble, we should mark the occasion, so I called our wedding photographer to see if he'd take some photos here at the house."
Benny's wide-eyed. "Okay, yeah, that sounds like a lot."
"I'm not done," Santiago says miserably.
Will looks concerned.
"I thought about how gorgeous she'd look after dinner, how I wanted to bring dessert up to the bedroom and... I... ended up buying entirely new bedroom furniture. And I got her a new laptop because I thought, maybe we'd want to video it."
"Whoa!" Benny jumps up. "I've heard enough."
"We've all heard enough." Will walks away.
Frankie frowns at Santiago. "Too far, man."
Santi nods sadly. "I know."
Frankie claps Santiago on the back. "I say, go for it. She deserves it." He smiles bigger. "Hey, what'd you get for the kids to give to her? Moms love that."
There's a moment of painful, piercing silence.
Santiago's face falls. "I have to go back to the mall."
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