always funny to remember darth vader is anakin skywalker. the adrenaline junkie chucklefuck who used to dive head first out of speeders and built a pod racer in his yard when he was like six is now upper-middle management for the evil empire. half of his appearances in the original trilogy are Meetings. vader spends like 80% of his time dealing with bureaucratic bullshit. status updates. team meetings. holo-Zooms. budget rundowns. anakin betrayed the jedi and caused the fall of the republic and his punishment is being CC'd on every email forever. and you know what. he would hate that. the punishment fits the criminal
revealing of many things perhaps that the ‘you don’t know what you married’ fairytale trope contains such marked thematic differences between male and female protagonists… the selkie, animal wife/swan maiden, and lamia motifs being associated with the heteropatriarchal terror of perceived-feminine interiority; that if you don’t materially force your wife to stay, she might one day be gone, that there are things about her you don’t know and may not be able to understand. while female-focused versions of the structure—bluebeard, the robber bridegroom, fitcher’s bird, mr. fox, and so on—encapsulate the very real danger of abuse without recourse to anything but one’s own cleverness: the common fear that the person you marry and know might turn out to be a stranger after all, or that you may be forced to marry without even superficial knowledge or choice.
The stigma of self-inserts is so harmful to the creative process. Relax. Admit it. Everything you make is derivative of yourself, always, no exceptions. You can turn the mirror into tinier and tinier shards or you can make it as big as you want to reflect as much as you want. At the end of the day it's always going to show you inside of it. Pretending otherwise is stupid.
It's about doing it in a way so that the reader doesn't know.
If I read the book and come to a moment where "oh, this is the author writing about themselves" my interest in the story drops by about 300%. Don't make it obvious and you'll be fine.
Nope. You're missing the point still. Stop acting like it's acceptable behavior for you to call the earnest creation of art "lame". Power fantasy characters are rad as fuck. Everybody loves seeing John Wick do that shit. You're not just being needlessly rude and harmful to others, you're also just flat out fuckin wrong.
WRITE THE COOLEST, FUNNIEST, MOST ATTRACTIVE PERSON WHO WAS COMPLETELY OVERLOOKED UNTIL THEY MET THE RIGHT PEOPLE WHO RECOGNIZE THEM FOR HOW AWESOME THEY ARE
WRITE THE SADDEST, MOST TRAGIC AND UNLOVED PERSON WHO'S PARENTS DIDN'T EVEN SHOW UP TO THEIR BIRTH
WRITE THE MOST FUCKED UP EVIL PERSON WHO IS CRUEL AND IMMORAL AND POWERFUL AND UNTOUCHABLE
WRITE THE KINDEST, GENTLEST PERSON WHO'S TEARS HEAL MORTAL WOUNDS AND WHO WOULD SACRIFICE THEMSELVES FOR A UNIVERSE THAT DOESN'T KNOW THEM
Tags/warnings: Deran's friend!Reader, touch starved!Andrew (what's new), age gap (reader is mid 20s, Pope is almost 40), slow burn, friends to lovers, touchy reader, physical touch as a love language, injured!pope, a little angst cause it's Andrew, intox reader (she drinks and smokes at one of their parties and gets handsy [cute] with pope, he's a gentleman about it), Pope is just a big ol' simp, cuddling, unprotected piv sex, creampie, [inaccurate show dynamics, mostly cause I didn’t wanna deal with Cath (lover her though)]
Summary: Pope doesn't like to be touched...at least not until he met you.
a/n: my favorite touch starved boy <3
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
The first time it happens it's an accident.
There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.
The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.
He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.
But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.
He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?
It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.
Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.
The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.
You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.
You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—
And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.
An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.
He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.
If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.
That’s when he moves.
It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.
He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.
You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.
“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.
It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.
You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.
It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.
“You’re welcome.”
Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.
His stomach does another flip.
Who the fuck are you?
Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.
He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—
“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.
You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.
“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”
You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.
“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.
“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.
Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.
But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.
No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.
“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”
Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.
It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.
You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.
His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?
“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”
Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.
He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.
And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity.
His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.
Fuck.
The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.
You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.
You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.
Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.
“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.
Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.
But then Craig has to go and ruin it.
“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.
You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.
Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.
Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.
But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.
It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.
He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?
Unless…you’re not actually together, together.
Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?
You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.
“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”
Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.
Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”
“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”
Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief.
“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.
Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.
The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.
Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.
He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.
Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?
Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.
“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.
He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.
His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.
You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.
Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.
You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—
Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.
You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.
Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.
But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.
You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.
You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.
You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.
Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.
It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.
You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.
After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.
He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.
“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.
He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.
He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.
You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.
Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.
He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.
Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.
It’s…nice.
Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.
“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”
You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.
But to Pope it’s…euphoric.
He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.
Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that.
But is it real? Do you actually mean it?
It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.
“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”
You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding.
“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”
He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.
You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.
A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath.
“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.
You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—
Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.
You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.
It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed.
He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.
You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.
And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.
He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.
He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.
“Uncle Pope!”
Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.
She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.
It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.
You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.
“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.
“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”
Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?
“Ended early.”
You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.
“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”
You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.
“That’s up to him, sweetie.”
And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”
He nods. “Okay.”
Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.
You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.
Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.
“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”
He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.
Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.
But what does he know about ice cream.
So he does, he tries something new.
You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.
But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.
You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.
“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.
The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.
“You’re welcome.”
You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.
Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.
He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.
Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is.
Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.
She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough.
The house is uncharacteristically quiet.
He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.
It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.
Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.
He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.
No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.
He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.
It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.
He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.
“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.
Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?
A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.
He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.
You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.
You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.
He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.
You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.
You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.
And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.
He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over?
“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.
His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.
He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—
He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.
He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.
Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.
It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.
You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.
Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.
For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.
He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.
The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.
“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”
“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.
“My pleasure, Andy.”
Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.
For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.
He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.
His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.
He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?
Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.
Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.
The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.
He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.
His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.
It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?
His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—
A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.
You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.
Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.
Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.
He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.
The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.
He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.
“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.
He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.
“Were you hiding from me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.
“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.
Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head.
“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”
He opens his mouth to answer.
I didn’t have your number.
I didn’t know I had to.
Why didn’t you call?
But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t anything.
Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily.
He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.
Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.
It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.
He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.
“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”
He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.
“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.
He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.
If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.
He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.
He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.
You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.
You want him.
Desperately.
Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.
“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”
He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.
“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.
You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.
“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.
“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.
He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.
“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.
You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.
He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.
All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.
But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.
You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.
He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.
But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.
Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.
You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.
“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.
You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.
Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.
You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.
“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.
He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.
“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.
He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.
Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.
Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.
And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—
“All of it.” You answer for him.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”
And who is he to deny you now?
In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.
He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.
Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.
At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.
You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.
“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”
He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself.
There’s just one more thing to do.
So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.
It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.
He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.
He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”
You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.
“May I move?”
You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”
He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.
You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.
A desire to long for someone.
An allowance to feel.
A chance to love again.
“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”
He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.
“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”
You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.
You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.
“In me please, Andy, need you—”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.
He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.
You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.
“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.
it means so much to me that rocky's lead puppeteer james ortiz got to voice him and got like. full billing right next to ryan gosling in the opening credits. and he's gotten to do interviews and red carpet appearances and talk about puppetry and it's all being taken so seriously just like he's any other type of actor. gonna make me cry fr. like they could have gotten some famous person to be rocky's voice to try and pull more star power but. they went with the guy who acted him. and like of course they did. like there he is. how could they do anything else. he's right there and he's perfect
5. Dacryphilia / Overstimulation, morning sex, established relationship, Crosshair is soft asf in this (and lowk a bottom), not as sexually descript; can read for a G/N reader
A breeze passed into the room from the veranda, billowing sheer white chiffon with a soft rustle, carrying with it the salt of the foamy ocean at the foot of the mountain. Past the billowing curtains, you could've heard it if you focused hard enough, the distant roar of the tide crashing into black rocks, a cool spray against your skin under the beating sun. It cascaded into the room in rays, soft and warm like the underbelly of a loth-kit, gently toasting the crumpled sheets and keeping the allure of sleep attractive to you. Your cheek had been pressed into your lover's clavicle, just above his beating breast that rose and fell as he slept with quiet puffs of air from parted lips.
You'd been so reluctant to rouse him, much less leave the bed. He still faintly smelled like the beach from yesterday, his trip to the shore with Omega and Batcher had been an impulsive one on their part, telepathically communicated after they'd all had supper at Shep's. You hung back to help clean up, and you'd gotten out of the 'fresher by the time Cross came back all salty and damp, his shoulders and nose were still tinged pink.
Your insistent fight against consciousness had been moot as soon as Crosshair roused awake and sighed into your hair. His arms went around you as he rolled over, breathing you in deeply before a yawn peeled him away.
"Y'smell like warm laundry," he mumbled sleepily, eyes barely open as he kept his long arms strewn over you. Your fingers found his own, bringing his left hand back around to place a kiss on his knuckles as his right arm strapped across your back and pulled you in close.
Tucking your head into his neck, you breathed in with an open-mouthed kiss to Crosshair's throat, paving a slow path upwards to his pulse as you hummed your agreement. "N' you still taste like the beach," you remarked, kitten-licking the seasalt from his skin as Crosshair turned his head into your hair, untangling his fingers from your own to sweep his hand down your bare arm.
"I'm not getting up to wash," Cross slurred his remark, a smile breaking his features as one of your thighs pressed up between his legs. You'd seldom not give him a reason to wash in the morning.
Crosshair was his most-pliable when he awoke. Delirious and groggy, he was notoriously needy, pawing at you wherever he could reach. Maker knew you took advantage of it -- everyone knew to stay out of your wing of the home until after high-noon for that reason.
"As of right now, I'm not getting up at all," you challenged with snark, earning yourself a swat on your thigh as Crosshair scoffed, bringing your leg over his own as his head ducked to nip the mole on your shoulder.
"Oh, well, good," Crosshair smirked bringing his hand down between you to cup you, humming contentedly when you rolled your hot sex into his palm. "I wasn't planning on it."
You swung your leg the rest of the way over Crosshair's hips, bracing your weight on his chest as his good hand guided you down. Crosshair occupied himself with mapping out your naked form in the golden rays of morning, a glitter of dust in the light only adding an ethereal haze to your weary, tired appearance. As he did, you reached down to take him by the wrist of his right hand, stroking your palm over the tender scars where his right hand used to be.
It was a clean cut through the ligament, not as ugly as the reminder that it bore. Crosshair had grown used to it over time, he'd even gotten around to joking about it now, just last night, he used one of Omega's hairties to fashion a fork to the end of his hand like a hook for a laugh around the table when they all brought up missing Echo.
Despite his coming-around, you knew it still gave him trouble. Phantom-pains and random aches, you'd catch him in your periphery, rubbing away at the old scars with a distant look in his eyes. Prosthetics were out of the question for Crosshair, and he worried about the complications and maintenance that came with an exposed cybernetic limb -- even if you claimed you wouldn't mind helping him out with it.
Even if it made him uncomfortable, you ensured he was taken care of; It was enough to make a vet like him ache under his breast.
"I'd prefer it if you stroked me like that somewhere else," Crosshair snarked from below, replacing his hand on your thigh after adjusting the pillows behind his head. You were as aroused as he was, that much was painfully obvious as you entertained him with a slight cant of your hips into his hardening cock.
You'd sputter a raspberry with a snicker, taking a moment to map out Crosshair's chest and abdomen, lean, dappled in varying scars and the occasional mole or freckle, tracing paths over him with your nails like a harvester raking over a ripened field, leaving white scores that quickly faded. It made him squirm, a seasoned veteran and a former commando, writhing in an attempt to notch his hardening cock against you while blushing like a virgin under your careful attention.
"Don't make this weird," you chastised, rolling your thumbs over his nipples as they hardened against the warm air, goosepimples blooming across his skin in the wake of your feather-like touch.
Crosshair would blow-off your statement with an audible snort, turning the course of his palm over your stomach to your opposite hip, grabbing ahold of you for leverage as he planted his feet and canted his hips up, throwing you off-balance to brace a hand beside his head. "I love waking up to this," he mumbled, nosing between your breasts as his hand splayed across your back, scraping open-mouthed kisses into your sternum. He never would've began to guess that this was his life, now.
Settled on some backwater planet with his brothers and sister, absolved from the Empire's torment for a few years now. He'd only just began to sleep through the whole night without a smoke, or being roused by a night-terror.
That was all courtesy of you.
His routines, his personal maintenance, and just the smallest, most trivial things -- you kept them at the forefront of your mind. You'd only known each other for a few months prior to the beginning of your involvement, starting with casual conversations in passing that you always initiated. Over time, Crosshair got over himself, took Hunter's advice for once, and risked the swan-dive.
It was the best decision he'd made yet.
You were everything he believed he wasn't, in spite of your protests otherwise.
"It's a wonder how you get anything done around here," you deadpanned, bringing a hand up to stroke his short curls away, leaning down to kiss the scarred edge of Crosshair's temple as he mouthed at your breast, seeking out your nipple to pull it between his teeth. The sensation brought a sharp gasp to your lips, pressing your nose to his hairline, "I'm starting to think you don't care to get anything done at all."
Crosshair replied with an affirming hum as he sealed his lips around the areola of your teat, rolling his tongue over you for a few long moments before moving to switch. "Not much else I'd prefer to do all day rather than you," he japed as he caught your other nipple in his mouth, humming as your hand passed over his head again, eyes rolling shut.
"Perv," you chortled. Instead of disputing your claim, Crosshair's hand left your back to swat your ass to make you jolt into his mouth -- the sting coming after the sound of the impact. No, he simply hummed his agreement into your skin as he minutely chafed his dry cock into your thigh.
With a chastising 'tsk,' you moved back in Crosshair's lap before discounting him, batting away his hand when he tried to bring you back up his body. Only when you settled between his thighs did he go slack, understanding your intentions with a soft sigh when your warm hands swept up his thighs to cup his balls.
His legs would part some more as you rolled him in your fingers, taking his shaft in-hand to absentmindedly inspect his velvety skin. It gave him ample time to refuse, but Crosshair only sat up on his elbows to watch with his bleary eyes as you gently stroked him, smearing his pre-cum across his frenulum with a thumb.
You only let your mouth descend when his pleasure began to manifest on his face, pressing the rosy head of his cock against the roof of your mouth with your tongue as you sealed your mouth around him with a hum. Crosshair responded in kind with a resounding groan, his head rolling back on his shoulders while you took him to the back of your throat.
It was a slow, rhythmic motion you'd repeat to avoid gagging like you loathed, stroking the remainder of him in your hand that your mouth couldn't reach. Crosshair wasn't as thick as he was long, and Maker, did he knew how to use it. You gave him adoring attention under the ministrations of your mouth, thinking of all the times Cross had pounded you into the mattress with this cock, fucking you to tears and always kissing them away. He liked you best prone on your stomach, your hips poised over a folded pillow so he could damn-near misplace your fucking insides.
He sagged under his elbows now, letting himself fall back onto the bed as your tongue laved the underside of his cockhead with each stroke. The occasional twitch in your mouth kept you from getting lost in your practiced motions, flicking your eyes up once to check on him, and then settling on Crosshair a second time when he'd met your gaze.
His glassy eyes were half-open, his hand clenching and releasing above his head as he watched you with steadying breaths. As you held his gaze, you'd twirl your tongue over his head, if only to make the stoic sniper gasp and jerk below you.
"Fuck, just like that..." he'd purr, and you'd make an attempt to take him to the curls at his base, effectively punching the air from his lungs. An involuntary buck from Crosshair had him hitting the back of your throat with a gag that normally would've had you retracting to right yourself.
But you kept on.
Your brows screwed together as you doubled down, stealing glances at Crosshair's rakish expression as his head tipped back into the bed, the veins in his neck bared to make your mouth water as you bobbed your head up and down. With a few signifying jumps on your tongue, you knew Crosshair was close --
-- Yet he stopped you all the same, hissing through his teeth as he pushed ypur head up.
"Tss! Not -- no, not like this -- not like this, baby, come up here," he labored, beckoning you up away from his engorged manhood, glistening with your spit as you crawled to assume your position from before. Crosshair pulled you up his body the rest of the way, his eyes still glossy and half-lidded when he got his hand around your nape, pulling you down into his lips for a ravenous kiss.
His hand pawed at your ass as his right arm upon your hip kept you in place, encouraging you to drag yourself over his slick cock as he thrusted his tongue into your mouth, a palpable desperation you'd rarely seen on him.
Crosshair, was otherwise back in his own head.
He watched with rapt attention when you'd descended down the bed to please him first -- he, who hadn't bathed after swimming at the stinking beach, and absolutely hadn't brushed his teeth yet. You did-so earnestly, with a slow passion that was saccharine, your focus entirely on him.
Your adoration never failed to dismantle him entirely, crumbling apart as easily as a corroded pipe. He'd sooner think that he was dead and stuck in some spiritual-realm-limbo before believing he deserved this -- everything -- from you.
Waking up in a cold sweat, fumbling to his feet, believing he was back on Tantiss; The weight of his bones used to be such a burden, the matter in his mind, his slight regard for his own life -- distant memories.
Now, he awoke to the constance of you.
Drooling into your pillows, warm and tousled in the sheets, entangled with his limbs, and sharing his breath. It formed a knot im his chest as he pulled back from your lewd kiss with a string of saliva, Crosshair looked at you with a different kind of tremor overtaking him.
Your face flickered in concern nonetheless; "Cross, you're shaking."
Words failed him, and his heart throbbed too intensely to even dare to speak as Crosshair craned his neck for another kiss, humming into your mouth for the slow swipe of your tongue against his own. He would've been content like this, to just hold you until the morning warmth was chased away by the early-noon breeze off the coast.
He knew you had other plans when you insistently squirmed back in his lap, with trepidation at first, until Crosshair murmured his confirmation against your locked lips. The former sniper would nip your lips to wrench those miniscule noise from your tongue as you brought-up your hips, Crosshair let you do the labor to guide him into place.
Once he'd notched his oversensitive head against your hole, you sank down slowly with a drawn-out hiss, one that your partner parroted before it tapered off into a groan as you fully seated yourself in his lap. For once, Crosshair didn't immediately move. It perplexed you, but you didn't pry, resting the crown of your head to his own as his breathing switched to a slow and manual pace. Still shaky.
You were so damned warm, a hot vice around him compared to the soft cavern of your mouth, your muscles trying to pull him in deeper as your walls adjusted to accommodate his intrusion. The tremor in his voice caught your attention once you began peppering kisses along his hairline;
"I love you so damn much --"
Crosshair began to move, elevating your hips a few inches with his hand cupped under your ass, encouraging you along with him. His eyes were still screwed shut, breathing through the torturous pace that had been set.
" -- Want you..."
You'd meet him in kind, bracing your hands on Crosshair's shoulders for leverage as you rose up. Eventually, he sat himself upright, his wrist steadying you as he leaned back and propped himself up on his hand. The new angle drove into you deeper than before, carving out his space within your clenching walls as you rode him.
"You'll always have me, Cross," you crooned, clasping your hands around his nape to keep his forehead to your own, suffocating on his exhalations as you both panted. Your statement wrenched a moan from his chest like he'd been punched, the jump of his cock a domino effect of his reaction.
You mumbled, "I love you."
"Hng, fuck~~ I love you, too --" Crosshair choked out as he wrapped his arm around your back, rolling you into his hips, grinding into each other at this point, barely letting an inch of space between you both. "Hmng, shab, I'm close, baby," he hissed, ducking into your neck while his arms pressed you flush against him. "Don't stop."
He reached a numbing depth within you, pummeling that tender spot relentlessly, hardly retracting an inch before pressing into you again. You weren't with him quite yet, eagerly rutting against him for some semblance of friction against your most sensitive area until Crosshair's trembling hand found you. Sealing his mouth to yours with a thrust of his tongue, Crosshair repeatedly rolled his thumb over your swollen sex in tandem with the budge of his hips.
"H-ngh, fuck, I'm --" was the only warning you received as Crosshair blew it, gripping you close as his body wracked and shuddered, your walls milking every drop with gusto until he dropped onto his back again.
After that, you would've assumed he was done, but Cross was evidently far from it.
Your world spun as he rolled you both over without hardly waiting for his orgasm to fizzled out, knocking your legs apart with his knees even as he shivered. Agonized groans raked from the former sniper's throat as Crosshair reeled his hips back and slammed into you, his head ducked in the crook of your neck as he labored each haggard breath to pump his cock into you.
The change in angle made you keen, legs hanging at Crosshair's sides until you found sense in them again, interlocking your heels around your lover's back to spur him on. Your wanton cries of pleasure kept Crosshair running on his steam, baring his teeth as he battled the aching heat in his gut to bring you to the end.
He couldn't bite back his own whines for very long, not when your walls began to clench and unclench around his twitching shaft, groaning past the sobs that wrenched themselves from his chest, burying his hand on your hair at your nape. Crosshair was babbling incoherently as he pounded into you, flesh clapping together with each stroke.
His tears wet your neck, and so did his fervent kisses, biting, sucking like a depraved animal past his overwhelmed sobs. Yet he still drew it out, bracing himself on his right arm while keeping pace to stroke over your sex, his shoulders shivering in a feverish manner.
"C'mon, Cross," you encouraged in a puff, angling yourself to accept him deeper, effectively aiding him in pummeling the erogenous patch within your walls while you turned your cheek against his own, lapping up his tears and kissing them away. Crosshair wordlessly acknowledged your approval, choking on his own erratic breaths as his hips stuttered into your own, determined.
Your climax rammed into you like a bullet train, bleaching your vision in white dapples as your spine arched into your partner's chest. When your release triggered his second, Crosshair utterly shattered above you, his face flushed and twisted with anguish as he bottomed out for the last time. He barely remained on his elbows for longer than a few heartbeats before collapsing onto your chest, hiccuping as his oversensitive sobs tapered off into sniffles and the occasional whine when you clamped around his softening cock.
"That was... fuck... shabuir kandosii'la," Crosshair mumbled, defaulting to the tongue he was weaned on as a commando clone.
Your hand came up to card through his damp silver curls as Crosshair found his breath again, tasting the salt on his skin when you kissed across his forehead. He'd melt like a lothcat without fail, letting you stroke away his tears with a proposition. "And about that shower?"
The veteran snorted his amusement, nuzzling his nose against your pulse with a long, drawn-out huff as he nodded, "As soon as my legs work again, sweetheart..."
Footnotes : this one absolutely fried my brain bc I was being overly nit-picky buttt ! we are back lol ! prob wont write cross hair again for a while LOL I had no idea what I wanted to do with this prompt. anyway, thanks for reading !!!
those days where your entire train of thought is just “I CAN’T FUCKING DO THIS I CAN’T DO THIS I’M NOT GONNA MAKE IT PLEASE HELP ME” and whole time ur just like. sitting at your desk completely fine
The great thing about huge declarations is that the most times you're ever going to have to deliver on them is ONCE. And even that is vanishingly unlikely. The dishes happen every day. My feet hurt now. The kids need a lift to piano lessons every week. The grenade is hypothetical.
the irony in how much obi wan hated politicians only for his number one most hated in the senate to be a sith lord...... and he can’t even go “I told u so” to anyone bc anakins on the dark side and all the jedi are dead
obi wan, standing in front of the force ghosts: you’re probably wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today
obi wan, dragging out a chalkboard with a compilation of all the times he said not to trust politicians, direct quotes along the lines of “maybe palpatine should not be allowed council with my underage padawan”, and a big picture of darth sidious in the middle: let’s get started
re-watching the original trilogy is great because you really get a sense for how weird luke skywalker is, just how quickly he becomes that weird AND how quickly he commits to it. Like he's honestly pretty chill in a new hope, but the absolute INSTANT he figures out he can move shit with his mind he goes full send on the cryptic off-putting bullshit. Walking around in full black robes, speaking in riddles, aura farming and backflipping whenever physically possible. He's clearly annoyed when he first meets yoda in empire, but he dismisses that pretty quickly in favour of ALSO becoming an over-dramatic space wizard. The combination of his two teachers being yoda and obi-wan kenobi and him being the son of anakin and padme creates the single most intense and fundamentally kind force sensitive perfectly embodying the heart of the jedi order whilst also serving egregious amounts of cunt and being bizarre to be around. He would have THRIVED as a jedi master during the high republic. he would have been every padawan's favourite and every other master's worst nightmare
Pairing: teacher Steve Harrington x shy female reader
Summary: You are the new teacher at the Hawkins middle school and Steve notices you immediately. He can’t help but falling for you.
Warnings: shy reader. pet names. flirting. mocking (in a sweet kinda way). yearning. no use of y/n.
___________________
The first thing Steve Harrington notices about you is that you look lost.
Not someone call the authorities lost. Just standing in the middle of the darkened hallway at Hawkins Middle School after sundown with a stack of papers in your arms and the expression of someone who took one wrong turn twenty minutes ago and has been too stubborn to admit it ever since.
Honestly? Kind of adorable.
Steve watches through the glass doors for a second after leaving the baseball field, still carrying a crate of sports equipment against his hip.
The school’s mostly dark by now except for scattered classroom lights glowing warm against polished floors.
You disappear around the corner and Steve frowns slightly. Who the hell is still here this late?
He steps inside, letting the door shut behind him with a heavy clunk. The hallway echoes quietly.
Somewhere farther down, papers rustle. Steve follows the sound automatically. And then you suddenly step out of one of the classrooms directly into his path.
Both of you scream, papers fly absolutely everywhere.
“Oh my God!” you gasp, clutching your chest.
Steve nearly drops the equipment crate. “Jesus Christ ... sorry!”
You stare at each other in horrified silence for one beat. Then simultaneously burst into laughter. The tension breaks instantly.
“Oh no,” you groan, crouching quickly to collect your papers. “That was so embarrassing.”
Steve drops beside you automatically to help. “No, no, I think I screamed louder.”
“You absolutely did.”
“That feels false.”
You laugh again. And Steve’s kinda done for already.
Because you’re wearing this oversized university hoodie with your hair thrown into a messy bun that’s definitely halfway collapsed after a long day, and you scrunch your nose while you frantically gather worksheets from the floor.
Cute. Unfairly cute.
“You new here?” he asks, handing you a paper upside down.
You take it with a soft snort. “Yeah. History department.”
“Ohhh.” Steve nods seriously. “So you’re the brave soul replacing Mr. Jenkins.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Was he awful?”
Steve winces dramatically. “He once showed a documentary from 1973 for three straight classes because he forgot where he left his lesson plans.”
You laugh so suddenly and brightly that Steve actually forgets what he was about to say next. It echoes softly through the empty hallway. Warm and easy.
God.
“Good to know the bar’s low,” you say.
Steve grins. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
You tell him your name. And maybe Steve’s imagining it, but he swears something soft shifts in your expression when he repeats it back to you.
The next morning, he sees you again immediately. Mostly because you walk directly into a classroom door. Not hard but just enough to make Steve choke on his coffee trying not to laugh.
You whip around instantly, mortified. “You saw nothing.”
“I saw a tragic betrayal by architecture.”
“You’re annoying already.”
“And yet you’re smiling.”
Your face goes pink immediately. Steve beams for the rest of first period.
After that, it starts happening constantly. Little collisions. Tiny moments. You in the teachers’ lounge muttering furiously at the copy machine while Steve tries very hard not to laugh.
Steve walking into your classroom during lunch only to find you passionately ranting to an entirely empty room about medieval political propaganda.
“You know nobody’s in here, right?”
You nearly launch your yogurt spoon across the room. “Steve!”
“What?” he laughs. “You were waving your arms around like a history wizard.”
You point the spoon at him threateningly. “The Tudor dynasty was deeply fascinating.”
“I believe you,” he says solemnly. “You looked extremely emotional about it.”
And that’s the thing. You’re quiet around most people. Shy in staff meetings. Soft-spoken around parents. Nervous when too many teachers gather in the lounge at once.
But alone with Steve? You talk. And talk. And talk.
About history. About books. About weird historical facts that apparently keep you awake at night. And Steve listens to every single word like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.
Because honestly? When you get excited, your whole face lights up.
You stop fidgeting.
Stop second-guessing yourself.
Stop shrinking.
And Steve thinks it might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
One afternoon he finds you sitting cross-legged on your classroom floor surrounded by papers.
“You alive in here?”
You look up with the exhausted expression of someone three grading assignments away from losing consciousness. “Debatable.”
Steve steps inside holding two vending machine coffees.
Your eyes immediately soften. “Oh, you’re my favourite person.”
His heart does a stupid little somersault. “Oh yeah?”
“You brought caffeine. That’s basically romance.”
Steve almost walks directly into a desk.
And then suddenly it’s the winter ball. The gymnasium glows with cheap fairy lights and crepe paper decorations while middle schoolers scream and sprint around fueled entirely by sugar and chaos.
Steve’s been assigned supervision duty near the snack table. You’re helping chaperone near the dance floor. Which mostly means repeatedly telling twelve-year-olds not to climb things.
“This feels less like education and more like wildlife management,” you mutter as Steve joins you.
“You’re doing great.”
“I just confiscated six Pixy Stix from one child.”
Steve gasps dramatically. “You monster.”
You laugh tiredly. God. There it is again. That warmth blooming in his chest every time he makes you smile.
A slow song starts playing unexpectedly. The kids immediately react with horror.
“EWWWW.”
“THIS IS GROSS.”
“WHY ARE THEY PLAYING OLD PEOPLE MUSIC?”
Steve snorts loudly. You hide your laugh behind your hand. And then without really thinking Steve holds out his hand toward you.
Your eyes widen slightly. “Oh?”
“C’mon,” he says softly. “One dance before someone throws punch at a seventh grader.”
You glance around nervously. The gym is still chaotic. Nobody’s paying attention.
Still ... “You serious?”
Steve smiles gently. “Very.”
Your face turns pink immediately. But after one tiny hesitant second you place your hand in his and Steve swears his heart physically stumbles.
He leads you behind the stage curtain where the lights are softer and the noise dulls into distant muffled music.
Private and hidden. Your hand still rests in his.
“You know,” you murmur shyly as he settles one hand carefully at your waist, “I haven’t danced with someone since high school.”
Steve grins softly. “Lucky me, then.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too hard for it to work properly. Slowly, you start swaying together beneath dim golden light while the song drifts softly through the curtain.
And Steve’s pretty sure this is what hope feels like. A shy history teacher in an oversized cardigan looking up at him like she can’t believe he’s real either.
“You smell like chalk dust,” he murmurs teasingly.
You gasp quietly. “Rude.”
“And mint.”
Your expression softens immediately. Steve’s chest tightens.
“You notice weird things,” you whisper.
“Only about you.”
The words slip out naturally. Honest. And suddenly the space between you changes. The air turns softer somehow. He watches your eyes flick briefly to his mouth. Then back up again.
Nervous an a little hopeful.
“Steve,” you whisper.
Steve’s hand tightens slightly at your waist. “Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. And then you give him the tiniest nod.
That’s all it takes.
Steve kisses you gently beneath the glow of cheap winter-ball lights while kids scream and laugh somewhere on the other side of the curtain. And it feels so sweet it almost hurts.
Your fingers curl softly into the front of his sweater as he kisses you carefully, like he’s scared to rush this. Like he understands that some beautiful things need patience.
When he pulls back, both of you are smiling helplessly.
“You know,” you murmur breathlessly, “this is dangerously close to feeling like an eighties movie.”
Steve grins. “Sweetheart, we literally live in the eighties.”
You laugh so hard you accidentally hide your face against his shoulder. And Steve wraps his arms around you instinctively, holding you close while fairy lights glow warmly through the curtain folds around you.
Outside your little hiding place, the gym is loud and chaotic and messy. But here in this tiny corner of warmth and music and shy laughter ... Something lovely begins.
____________________
Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙
MAKE ME CHOOSE ↳ @cestpasfaux24601 asked: frodo baggins or boromir
"He was a tall man with a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance. His garments were rich, and his cloak was lined with fur and he had a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set; his locks were shorn about his shoulders. On a baldric he wore a great horn tipped with silver that now was laid upon his knees."
ellievsbear
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
origamiaround
