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strang3lov3 · 1 month

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Invisible Line

Summary- Boundary after boundary is crossed when your boss is left with no choice but to share his bed with you.

Roman Roy x F!Reader | 5.8k words

Tags- one bed trope mothafuckas!! mutual masturbation, unprotected piv, cream pie, oral (f receiving), come eating, dirty talk, soft dom!roman, power imbalance, needy and desperate reader, light degradation, manipulative Roman, Roman’s not the nicest but he does let you snuggle him

A/N- This is my first Roman Roy fic, so please be gentle 🫣 I know he’s got his issues with sex, so just play pretend with me. My usual Joel readers, I haven’t forgotten about you, he’s cumming soon 🫡🍆 but if you were feeling so inclined I’d appreciate it if you gave Roman a chance 🥺🩷

I had a fucking team of editors for this fic!! Thank you thank you thank you @noxturnalpascal, @papipascalispunk, @beefrobeefcal and @pinkypromisepascal for polishing this baby up

Fic notifs, Masterlist, Ko-Fi

You’ll never get used to the type of hotels you now stay in. All the lights glittering, floors shining, ceilings so high. You’d call it luxurious, but to your boss, Roman, this is considered modest. You’re always reminded that you and he come from two very different worlds.

As his assistant, you’re accompanying him on his “bullshit amusement park safety meeting in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere,” as Roman had so graciously put it. He’s got such a way with words. He’s exaggerating of course, always so hyperbolic. You’re not in the middle of nowhere, you’re in Nashville, Tennessee. It’s early June and the air is finally beginning to cool for the evening.

“We’re fully booked,” the receptionist says to you after first explaining that no, there’s no mix up of sorts, you had only booked one room and not two adjoining rooms like you’d thought.

Just fifteen minutes earlier, you helped Roman with his bags and such up to his room. Roman carried the heaviest of his own bags to be a gentleman, call it his soft spot for you or whatever, but just to be a dick, still had you carry his briefcase that he was more than capable of carrying on his own. It is your job, after all.

When you arrived with him to the spacious room, decorated with abstract wall art and odd sculptures, Roman wasted no time in flopping on the single king sized bed. After seeing no door to connect to an adjoining room, Roman sent you back to reception. “Well, better figure it out,” he said, waving you away, his eyes never once looking away from his phone screen. “I’m set here, so thanks. You can go fuck off. Have a nice evening and all that. Enjoy masturbating in your crispy white bed sheets, courtesy of Hyatt hospitality.” Always so vulgar. You’re not shocked by it anymore.

“Nothing?” you ask the receptionist. “There’s no way. I just need a single queen, I don’t care what floor it’s on. Isn’t there something?”

“Bonnaroo,” the receptionist explains, once more typing on her keyboard to double check and see if there’s a room for you. “Yeah, I’m sorry, we don’t have any other rooms available. Bonnaroo weekend is always when we’re busiest. People book months in advance. I wish I could help you,” she frowns apologetically.

You’re not upset. It’s your own fault. And you’d seen Bonnaroo posters around the lobby advertising the shuttle that transports people from the hotel to the festival. And you’d seen the headliners, too. Radiohead, Red Hot Chili Peppers, LCD Soundsystem. Friday and Saturday tickets are sold out. You’re not surprised it’s all booked.

“No, I know,” you reply. “It’s my fault.”

You sigh deeply, and the receptionist types into her computer, prints a piece of paper and hands it to you. “This is a list of hotels nearby. Call around, they might have something.” She wishes you good luck, and you pull out your phone to begin making the calls, only then realizing your battery is at 2%. Now you have nowhere to go but back to Roman’s room.

–

You knock on Roman’s door and wait. Nothing. You knock once more, nothing again. You’re about to knock for a third time when Roman finally opens, his shirt a few buttons undone and his belt loosened. “What do you want?”

“Can you let me in?” you ask, “I need to use your phone, please.”

Roman’s taken some getting used to. You never quite know where you stand with him, what exactly he thinks of you. Moment to moment, you never know which Roman you’re gonna get – the flirting Roman, the occasional sweet and tender Roman, or the cold, sarcastic, uncaring and taunting Roman.

“Can you let me in?” Roman mocks, opening his door wider and guiding you into his room with his hand on your lower back. Taunting Roman. His touch makes your tummy flutter. Something about his unpredictability thrills you, excites you. You’re attracted to it, and you don’t know why.

Your phone charges by a nearby outlet as you sit at the desk with the room phone as Roman paces around, rifling through his suitcase to find his pajamas. They’re simple looking clothes, pale blue bottoms and a plain white shirt, but you know the cost of the outfit is equivalent to someone’s rent. He changes in front of you, something he’s always done. You’re not exactly sure why he does that or what he’s trying to do, but you do your best to not steal any glimpses of him as you begin calling the numbers on the paper, though the task proves to be difficult. Flirting Roman?

The first hotel on your list is The Hermitage, which is a bust. The Joseph is also a bust. Conrad Nashville, same deal. You’re keeping your voice as low as possible, hoping Roman doesn’t overhear your conversation. The last thing you want to do is give him more ammo. You sigh as you cross out the names on the paper one by one with one of the hotel’s branded pens.

Roman’s on the bed, smirking, rolling his eyes. You can see it in your peripherals. “You fucked up, didn’t you? Forgot to book yourself a room?”

“Shut up,” you mumble, now calling the fourth and final hotel on your list.

“You shut up,” Roman says. “Told you to double check.”

You wave a hand in his direction to quiet him. After asking your now three times rehearsed ‘Do you have any rooms available?’ and being met with an apology and a no, you reply to the person on the other end of the call with a “Yup, Bonnaroo, understood. Thank you.” Sighing, you hang up the phone and bury your face in your palms. You know what your only option is here, and you’re scared to look at it, to look at Roman. You know that even if you don’t verbally ask, your eyes will say it all.

Roman slides off the bed and makes his way to you, then nudges your foot with his own. “Am I doing you a favor tonight?”

“I uh…”

“Oh, of course I am. Good thing I’m feeling generous, huh?” Roman’s lips are curled into an almost-sweet smile when you finally look at him. “Bed is mine,” he enunciates. “You can take the floor, I don’t care. Or push those chairs together or some shit.” You look at the chairs he’s referring to and nod. Roman goes back to his bed, and you pull your own set of pajamas from your suitcase, then change in the bathroom. Once out of the bathroom, you push together the chairs that Roman was referring to.

“Oh god, I didn’t think you’d actually do that. No, no, I was just joking – we’ll share the fucking bed. Yeah?” Roman pats the other side of the bed. “I’m not cruel like that, Christ. Making me feel like some fuckin’ sort of - sort of sadist. Not gonna bite you.”

“Won’t you?” you tease.

That was the wrong thing to say. Your blood goes cold as Roman glares at you, displeased with your teasing. Reminding you of your place, that even though Roman can joke, make however many unsavory comments as he’d like, you can’t always do the same. Cold Roman. But then Roman cracks a smile, flashing his pretty white teeth and winks, his eyes sparkling. The boss-employee dynamic between you and him is always inconsistent, things going from professional to unprofessional, from friendly to friendlier.

He pulls the covers down the bed, once more patting the space next to him, indicating his invitation for you to join him. You round the bed and slide under the covers, the sheets feeling cool against your bare feet and legs. “You’ve got ulterior motives, don’t you? You fucked up the booking on purpose.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed. “No, Roman.”

“You totally did,” Roman says as you adjust the pillows behind you, “You’re trying to entrap me. You’ve weaseled your way into my bed so you can sue me later for harassment or some shit but I’m telling you, it’s not gonna happen. Trust me when I say that it’s in your best interest to behave yourself.” Roman drags his finger down the center of the bed, bisecting it evenly. “Don’t cross this line. Not even your fuckin’…pinky finger. Got it?”

“Understood, Mr. Roy.”

“Attagirl,” he chirps. “Wait, ew. Jesus Christ, Roman, you call me Roman. Not that Mr. Roy shit. God, that’s gross.”

You’ll take any chance you can to get under his skin after all he does to you. Flipping over on your side, you face the window and watch the city lights dance before pulling out your phone and silently scrolling through Instagram. Roman does similar, though he doesn’t reciprocate the courtesy of doing so quietly. He watches videos at full volume, shaking the bed with his giggles.

You shift to your other side, now facing Roman, who lays on his back. Your phone rests on the bed as you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks. You don’t often see him look relaxed like how he does now – how sexy he looks in those thin pajamas of his, his biceps toned and his bulge protruding from beneath the fabric of his pants. His usually sleek hair is slightly messy, and you wonder how those silky strands would feel between your fingers as you tug on them, with him holding you close in a tight embrace and his lips connected to yours, swallowing your moans.

You tell yourself not to think about it, about him. Don’t think, don’t think, god, do not think about him. Don’t think about his thick bulge or his hands or their wrinkles, the bluish-green veins that climb up his knuckles. Don’t think about his waist, don’t think about his soft tummy, or the thin line of hair leading down his groin and beneath his pants.

Roman’s looking at you, wearing that sly, cocky grin of his, pleased with the knowledge of what he does to you. He shuts his phone off and turns off the light on his nightstand, the faint glow coming from the open curtains now the only light.

He doesn’t take long to drift into a slumber, though you do, still thinking of the things you shouldn’t be. Images of Roman still dance in your mind for hours, you watch the time go by when you check your phone’s lock screen. You hear his voice in your head, that two word instruction from him playing over like a broken record. Behave yourself. And god, you can fucking smell him. He smells clean, like he always does, with notes of Caroline Herrera’s Bad Boy filling your nostrils – a cologne with a truly obnoxious bottle and an even more obnoxious name. Roman picked it out one time you were with him while he was shopping, just to piss you off. You’ve never hated the smell, though, and you love it even more on his skin. But he smells like sweat too, just a bit. So masculine and slightly musky, you can almost taste him.

Your hand has moved on its own accord underneath your shirt and between your breasts. You’re not sure when it happened, but you become acutely aware of it when your knuckles brush against your nipple and you gasp.

Roman stirs in his sleep, but he’s dead to the world. And you’re good at keeping yourself quiet – at least you think you are.

You turn your head to look at Roman, pinching and twisting at your nipples. Alternating between soft and hard, gentle and rough touches. Roman’s got his arm draped over his head, his palm so close to you. You imagine it’s that hand, his hand, squeezing and groping the soft flesh of your breasts, pretending that tingling feeling when you drag your thumbs over your sensitive buds is his tongue, all hot and wet. You let yourself breathe, the quietest moans escaping your lips.

And then you let your fingers dip lower, your fingertips skating down your body, feeling your sides and the soft curve of your tummy, your hips. Your hand goes lower and lower, your thighs parting as you find your core but not moving your legs wide enough to cross Roman’s invisible line. Tracing your lips first, your fingers travel closer to where you need to feel them the most. You’re wet, so fucking wet as you press your middle finger against your hole, collecting your slick and dragging it up to your clit.

You shift in the bed, spreading your legs wider and now circling your clit with your middle and ring fingers, dipping them into your entrance once more to gather your arousal and drag it up through your folds. Massaging yourself, you still pretend it’s Roman’s hand as you take in that sweet feeling that’s quickly beginning to build in the pit of your stomach. You can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with each circle of your fingertips on your clit, fighting yourself to keep your hips as still as can be.

Romans voice startles you. “For a second I wondered if we’re near a fuckin’... earthquake, or uh– fault line or something, but you’re just rubbing one out next to your boss. Wow. Do you always shake the bed this much when you masturbate?”

You gasp, “Roman.”

“Or just when you’re next to me?” You’re not really sure what the right move here is. You could pull your hand from under your pants, but Roman’s already caught you red handed. Leaving your hand between your thighs is not the right move either. “Funny,” he adds, “I thought we just had a conversation about behaving. Didn’t we?”

“I know, I–”

“I mean, you get brownie points for not crossing the line in the bed, I guess,” Roman lifts the covers of the bed, then reaches for your knee and gently pushes it back on your side of the bed. “But you are crossing all sorts of other lines. You must think you’re sneaky. I heard you moaning, you know,” he accuses. He mocks you then, all snark and derision as he lets out exaggerated and breathy moans you’re almost sure you weren’t making. Roman, oh, Roman! Yeah, right there, Roman, please…

“Are you trying to get yourself in trouble?” he asks as he reaches for your jaw with one of his hands, turning you to look at him. He pinches, fingertips digging into the softness of your cheeks. No hiding now. “Is that what gets you off?”

“No,” you stammer.

“Liar.”

The air feels thick and Roman’s hazel eyes are dark, inky black, perhaps from the lack of light or maybe, you think, his own arousal? No, probably not. He looks genuinely pissed and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, his intense gaze making you squirm. But you can’t seem to look away, either. He allows a silence to hang heavily between you both as he stares at you with a look in his eyes you can’t quite read. And that’s when you notice it – with the hand that’s not holding your jaw, he’s stroking his cock underneath his pants. You can see the bulge, the shifting of his hand.

“You’re touching yourself too,” you point out.

“Yeah, now I am. I’m a man. You made blood rush to my penis with your fucking moans and your Roman this and Roman that,” he huffs. Pulling down his pants and letting his cock spring free, he continues, “So my dick is hard. It should be your problem to deal with, but I’m bailing you out yet again. Always cleaning your— fuck,” he stutters, “Your messes.”

You have no clue what’s happening here. Roman lets go of his cock for a moment and he reaches for your arm, guiding you to start moving your hand once again. “Get it out of your system,” he says. “Go on. You didn’t have an issue fucking yourself next to me five minutes ago, did you?”

Cautiously, as with Roman you know full well that this could be a trap, you begin to move your hand with his guidance. “Yeah, good girl,” he whispers in a hushed, almost imperceptible tone, one that you probably weren’t supposed to hear. “God, I can’t believe you,” he says more clearly this time. “You better make it quick. We’re getting this over with, and we’re not looking at each other. Call it your punishment or something, just fuckin’— take care of yourself.”

Roman adjusts so he’s flat on his back and resumes stroking his cock. His eyes are screwed shut and you’re watching his chest rise and fall, fully breaking the rule he just set. But you can’t help yourself, he looks so gorgeous like this. His pubic hair is longer than you would have expected Roman to have, but gorgeous nonetheless. He’s not the longest but his head is wide and round, with thick veins climbing his shaft.

“You’re watching, you fucking creep,” he says in a breathy tone, his words slightly broken. He’s not looking at you, only at the ceiling above. “Breaking the rules. You have a hard time with that, don’t you? Look, I can follow rules. Why can’t you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Roman rolls his eyes at that, then flips on his side to finally look at you. A flicker of what looks to be relief quickly washes over his features, but quickly disappears. He reaches for your shirt, hiking it up your torso and tugging – up, take it off. You do as he asks, taking off your top and exposing your breasts to the chill of the air in the hotel room.

“I hope you know that I’m not gonna touch you,” Roman says.

“I know,” you breathe. “I know you won’t, I just, I just…”

“Just what?” Roman asks, still stroking his cock. You take off the rest of your pajamas and adjust yourself slightly, then spread your legs wide, the invisible line be damned as your knees fall back toward your chest and you rub your swollen clit. God, how you need his fingers inside you. You’d fuck yourself on your own fingers, but it won’t satisfy you in the way you think Roman could. “Spit it out,” Roman demands.

Fuck it. You’ll deal with whatever consequences later. In the boldest of moves, you reach for the hand that strokes his cock and bring it to your pussy, guiding Roman’s middle and ring fingers to your entrance and pushing them inside.

Roman wears a twisted sort of smile as he curls his fingers inside you, now playing his own game with you. He taunted you with an accusation of ulterior motives, but it was all talk, like how most of Roman is. He suspected this before, but now he's certain: you have nothing but need for him. Amused by it, he’s now playing his game with you. As you moan for him he wonders, how much can he toy with you, drag this out? How much will you beg for him? Your hand is wrapped around his cock now by your own choice, he wonders how low will you sink, and how high will he feel by the end of whatever this is?

You’re inching closer to him. Desperate.

“Your hand is wrapped around my cock,” he whispers. “And you buried my fingers inside your cunt. Is something not clicking in that head of yours?”

“So good,” you breathe. You work his shaft, twisting your hand up and down. He’s thick, veiny, his head feels smooth in your palm. Roman’s touch is firm as removes your hand from his cock to hover it beneath your chin. “Spit,” he tells you. You’re so pliant, and do as you’re told, spitting into your own palm, Roman putting it back where he wants it. “Wow. I pull my cock out and you’ll do anything for me, won’t you?”

All you do is nod.

“God you’re soaked. Are you always this soaked for me? Just walking around all day, panties fuckin’ ruined?”

“Sh– shut up.”

Oh, you’ve still got some bite left. Roman wonders how quickly he can make that diminish. “Poor thing, did I hit a nerve? You wanna fuck me that badly? Are you really that desperate for your boss?” You say nothing, just inch even closer to Roman now. You hook a leg over his hip, moving your cunt towards what you need most from him, slowly guiding him in your hand ever closer to your entrance and hoping he’ll remove his fingers from you and replace them with his cock. And thank god, he does it. He pushes your hand away, gripping his member and notching the tip in your entrance. Fucking finally.

But he only collects your wetness on his tip, then spreads it down his shaft. He pushes his pelvis forward, rubbing his cock against your hooded clit and making you shiver.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” he taunts, now dragging his cockhead down your dripping seam.

“Roman,” you whine.

��Roman,” he says, mimicking your whine, exaggerating how pathetic you sound. “Is that all you can say?”

“Fuck me,” you gasp. “Just fuck me, Roman.”

“Yeah, I know. You know my name and how to nag me to fuck you. I get it. What you’re not getting is that I don’t care. It’s not gonna happen tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that… Just gonna fuckin’ play with you like this,” he hums, now pushing his cock up against your clit again, tapping you. “Yeah, you’re good. This is… this is good. I’ve been so bored recently, you know? Wonder what happens when I do this,” Roman stops tapping his head against your sensitive clit, now sliding himself left and right across your sex. He bites his bottom lip when you gasp and squirm.

“I wonder if I could make you come just doing this,” he muses, continuing to tease you. “I know I could. I could blow my load on your pussy right now and make you clean up a mess for once. Is that what you need? For me to show you what you’re meant for?”

Maybe, you think. Maybe not. You don’t know what you think. You need his cock. Roman pushes himself forward, fitting just his head into your hole again. And you think it’s coming, the fullness, the pressure, the ache and the stretch and the burn. He’s bent on his two prior rules, but compromise never comes. He doesn’t give in to you. Roman’s grinning, giggling to himself as he draws his hips backward, denying you. Watching how you struggle for him, how you whine and squirm and push your hips towards him. “Is it?” he asks.

“Fuck, is what?”

“Is that what you need?”

“Yeah, I need you to fuck me. Roman, please. Need it – need you inside.”

Roman pushes out an exhale somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh, that’s funny. That’s not what I asked at all. Is listening really that hard for you? What do they call that, tunnel vision but for hearing. Tunnel hearing? I don’t think that’s right.”

“I’m sorry–”

“Google it for me.”

“Roman.”

“What the fuck do you think I hired you for? Google it. For me. Thanks.”

Roman lifts his dick again, rubbing it against your clit and then lining himself up again, all as you scramble for your phone and quickly open Safari. ‘Funnel visipn bur for hearin g’ is what you type, the combined sensations of Roman’s teasing and the too-bright screen making your task difficult. “Audi-auditory exclusion,” you manage to tell him.

“Lemme see it,” Roman takes your phone from your hand, squinting at the screen. “Auditory exclusion is a form of temporary loss of hearing occurring under high stress,” he reads in his phony serious tone, still teasing you, bumping into your clit and then notching himself at your entrance, again and again and again. Giving you just a taste of what you know he could offer you instead. He’s opening Wikipedia now. “Auditory exclusion happens as a result of the physiological effects of the acute stress response, specifically an increased heart rate.”

“Fuck me, Roman, fuck me, please, I’m begging, please, please…”

“Begging’s nice, good. Very good. Very cute. But uh–” Roman points to your phone, “I’m busy reading here, so maybe quiet down. I really don’t want to hear it,” he laughs breathlessly, but nothing about this is funny to you. You’re in tears now. Tears of anger, frustration, shock. Roman lines up with your slick hole, just as he’s done repeatedly before. He notices your tears, “My god, you’re crying for it. So desperate, aren’t you?” he mocks your pout, wiping away your tears. You tell him you need him. “Need me? What a strong word. Yeah, I know that you need me. Message clear. God, you repeat yourself a lot. Fucking annoying.”

Fuck this. Roman’s still on Wikipedia and down some rabbit-hole not even related to auditory exclusion. He’s stopped teasing you, his cock just resting, nestled at your entrance as he scrolls. And you take your chance.

You reach for his shoulders and flip yourself so you’re above him, then sink down on his cock. Roman’s startled but he moans as he disappears into you and you sigh, finally feeling that stretch of his cock you’ve been craving since you don’t even know when – long before tonight. Roman watches where your body connects to his, seemingly shocked. He scoffs. “Oh, fuck you.”

Roman pushes your body off of his, he’s small but stronger than he looks. He flips you on your tummy and his touch is harsh but just what you need when he finally grabs your hips, placing his palm between your shoulder blades and forcing your chest down to the mattress. He was somewhat gentle when he was teasing you before, but all of that is gone now, as he lines up with your entrance and slams his hips into you, rocking you forward. He pulls out almost all the way before doing it again, harder. So many noises. You – gushing on his cock, moaning, crying out for him. Roman – his thighs slapping against yours, his grunts and his curses and breathy groans. The bed creaking with each of his thrusts. Roman fills you up better than you could imagine – fucking perfectly –hitting your walls, that sweet spot inside you.

“So fucking wet for your boss. What’s that say about you, huh?”

Roman grips your hips tight – too tight. He’s denting his nails into your skin and it hurts, his thumbs are digging into your lower back. There’s no fluidity to his thrusts, no steady roll of his hips. Just Roman, parting your insides with the harsh rutting of his hips. His heavy balls swinging, bouncing against your clit, his soft tummy warm against your back.

He sets a steady rhythm, a rhythm for his pleasure alone. Fucking you seemingly in two, exactly how you want it. Of course you want it this way. He can hear it in your muffled whimpers and cries, he wonders if the sheets are stained under your face, soaked with your tears. Roman holds your waist, forcing you up with your back against his chest. “Fuck,” you cry, and Roman wraps a hand over your mouth, the other is groping your breasts. Not that he doesn’t love the sounds you’re making for him, he just wants to give you another reminder of who’s in charge here – of how this is gonna go down, according to Roman.

He tugs your earlobe between his teeth, his nose nudging your cheek. His mouth travels lower then, he bites at your neck where it meets your shoulders, the stubble on his cheeks scratching your skin. He’s sucking at your flesh hard enough to leave a mark – for what reason, he’s not entirely sure. To punish and to hurt you, humiliate you, maybe even mark you as his. It’s possessive and primal in essence, how the way you need him so fervently makes him feel powerful in a way he often does not. And you’re not helping your case at all, with your squirming and your whimpers only egging him on. You tried to take what you need from him, but he’ll drill into your head that you’ll only receive what he’s willing to give to you.

He wonders what comes after this. If you’ll turn on your side in bed, leaking with his come and hiding yourself from him, or if maybe you’ll cling to him instead. He knows that he’ll lay next to you after this and wonder what you’ll be like for the rest of this trip. Will you be shyer, about the same as usual, or maybe even bold? He’ll experiment with you, see how you react to a cold shoulder or a shower of attention. See what you’ll do when he squeezes your ass, or when sitting next to him in the car, the helicopter, or at dinner when his hand finds your thigh and inches closer to your sex. Will you lean into it? Will you squirm and push his hand away?

His hands travel along your sides and down your torso, he can tell you’re loving his touch. You’re shameless in your reaction to him, your pussy squeezing him, your wanton moans. Curious, Roman reaches for your clit just to see how you’ll respond. He teases you, tries to write his name with his fingertips into you. Lewd sounds of skin slapping skin, the obscenity of your pussy’s slick noises. He’s not going to last much longer, that is quite clear.

He doesn’t care to try to make you finish first, as a gentleman should, although Roman nor anyone else would describe himself as such. You’re on his time. He knows how desperate you are to come, but he doesn’t care. He’ll get his first, something he doesn’t often get otherwise. And so his pace quickens, still biting and nipping at the flesh of your neck and shoulders. He bets that in all those late-night fantasies of yours about this moment, touching yourself in the dark, you didn't picture him being a biter. This much is evident with your pussy clenching on him and your short gasps showing your surprise.

He savors that feeling in every inch of himself – the power he holds knowing you’re aching not only to come on his cock, but to feel his touch, to experience him. It’s still just a game to Roman. Maybe it’ll always be a game. He’s not sure yet.

His cock twitches inside you, that warm and sticky feeling in his balls is beginning to crescendo. “I need to come,” you beg. “Roman, please make me come, I need-.”

“Shut up. I don’t care.” Roman fucks you with frenzied thrusts, and he doesn’t pull out to stroke himself above you, doesn’t ask you if you’re on the pill or if you want him to come on your ass or your tits or in your mouth. Roman shamelessly lets himself go and fills you with his hot spend. His noises are like music as he comes inside you, melodic grunts and moans coming from deep within him. And you take it all, everything he gives you because that’s what you’re meant for.

Roman takes heaving breaths above you, pulling out and his spend spills onto the comforter. He doesn’t give a shit. And as you collapse down onto your hands and knees you think that’s that, that he really doesn’t care. That all of this was probably about Roman savoring the feeling of having control over another person, and that dangling pleasure over her head is how he’ll get it.

Roman climbs off the bed and you’re trembling. He flips you onto your back, pulls you forward by your legs so that your sex is centered with his face as he kneels at the edge of the bed. His mind has changed quickly – first he wanted to know what would happen if he didn’t make you come. He thought next about eating you out from behind, denying you connection as he tastes you, buries himself in your most intimate place. But you’ve done well for him, and it’s clear that you’ll take what he gives you at any cost. Roman watches you with hooded eyelids, offering you that connection as he brings his face to your center, licking a thick stripe up your cunt. Call it his soft spot.

“Don’t say I don’t do anything for you.”

Roman dives back into you, and you hesitate before reaching for his scalp. Tentatively, you do it anyway, just to see if he’ll react. He might smack your hands away, maybe he’ll place them down on the bed. You’re sure he won’t hold them.

He lets your hands linger. Your fingers tug on those sleek strands of hair as he eats you, his scruff chafing your thighs. His eyes alternate between fluttering shut and peering up at you as dips his tongue into your entrance, licking his spend from your folds. He brings a hand to your cunt, two of his fingers pushing into your heat as his tongue dances circles around your clit. He’ll never tell you how sweet you taste on his lips.

“Yes, oh god, Roman.” He’s kissing your cunt, lapping at your folds, his tongue teasing all of that sensitive flesh. His fingers curl inside you at the same time he sucks your clit between his lips, making you writhe for him. “Right there, Roman.”

You’re not sure if he’s indulging himself or you at this moment. He eats you like a man starved, he eats you like it's his artwork. Nipping at your folds, his fingers inside you never once faltering their movements. You grind against his mouth as his tongue flicks and swirls. After all that’s taken place tonight, it doesn’t take you long to come. You bite down on your moans as pleasure washes over you, and you come on Roman’s tongue, gushing into the palm of his hand. When he’s ensured that he’s milked you entirely, he pulls away and takes his place back on his side of the invisible line.

Roman had wondered if - once in bed - would you cling to him or turn away, but he doesn’t allow you that choice. Instead, he takes your wrist between his fingers as he turns away, curling on his side, effectively wrapping your body to spoon around his. He keeps your arm secured firm under his, tucked around his torso. Tender Roman. You’re on edge, he’s been relatively quiet this whole time, and you’re expecting some snarky comment or a vulgar insult. “I swear to god, I will smother you with my fucking pillow if you snore,” is all he says. His threat, albeit baseless, comforts you.

Tagging some folks I think may be interested? I posted a few weeks ago about writing Roman and he’s finally here!Those of you that engaged with that post plus some other friends, I hope you check this out. If you want me to remove your tag, lmk 🩷 @ievutebebe @notjustjavierpena @dorims @molt3ngold @sweetenerobert @tightjeansjavi @i-smoke-chapstick @w73n @lilipads @annoyingtheoristcloud @meyelowe @I-ange-maudit @val1821 @ladygrey03 @mommymilkers0526 @motions1ckness @wellthisisjustridiculous @marytudorr @yangyangsbitch @trexwithwings-blog @ay3mily @brooklynb8by @cru3lfools @apocolyqse @foreverasleep717 @anyukadfasza @clocksonthewall79 @dumb--blonde @littlevenicebitch69 @mads198-9 @yazsos @smokietaylor

#roman roy smut #roman roy #roman roy x reader #roman roy x you #succession #succession fic #succession x reader #strang3lov3

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imaginedisish · 2 years

Text

Home (Din Djarin x fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey everybody! Here is a new Din Djarin fic! I don’t know if I’ve done this trope already...there’s a good chance I did. I had a version of this fic in my WIPs for a while, and I don’t think it ever made it out of the doc, so here it is. I hope you guys like it! It’s heavily based on “Home” by LCD Soundsystem.

Summary: Din learns the truth about your past...

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ fingering, unprotected PIV (wrap it up), praise kink for sure, hurt to comfort, friends/idiots to lovers, Jedi!reader (implied conflict/is training Grogu), implied kidnapping (Inquisitors kidnap reader as child), cursing, Crest still exists because I’m lazy, probably grammar mistakes because again, I’m lazy.

Word Count: 3,661

Your lungs burn painfully as you sprint through the forest, dodging trees, maneuvering through the thicket. You swear Grogu is giggling in his little carrier strapped carefully onto your chest. “This is not funny, little guy,” You mumble in between breaths. Grogu babbles and giggles some more in response.

This was not how this training session with Grogu was supposed to go.

BANG! You flinch a bit to the left as a blaster shot whirls by, smashing violently into a tree, leaving a burning gaping hole in its wake. You make a sharp turn to avoid the tree as it crashes down in front of you. The dark troopers were closing in on you and Grogu; you could feel it. It was only a matter of time until they circled around you, blasters pressing at your back.

Another. BANG! The tree to your right comes crashing down a few feet away. You turn around for just a split second, searching for Din, for something, for a way out. They were gaining on you, you could see them coming from over the hill.

You press a button on your comlink. “Hey Mando?” You practically shout into it. “Things are getting a little messy over here.” Your words are panicked, jumbled.

“I’m almost there,” He reassures. “What’s going on?”

“Well, they’re-,” BANG! That answers his question.

“Just hold on, okay?” You can hear the fear in his voice; it wasn’t something you were used to. Din was normally confident, but this time there was a sense of insecurity, as if this time was going to end differently than all the others. As if he was afraid you weren’t going to make it.

You take a deep breath and navigate away from the now burning, fallen over trees. You turn around; the troopers were even closer than they were before. You swear there weren’t this many a few minutes ago. You turn to the left, trying to find another way out, but it’s too late. You were surrounded. You weren’t fast enough. Maybe this was the end.

“I am not getting killed by a bunch of droids,” You huff, raising your hands above your head. But the troopers don’t stop, they continue to creep closer towards you and Grogu, raising their blasters, readying to shoot, aiming to kill. “We are not going down like this kid,” You whisper, Grogu’s ears picking up as the words slip from your tongue.

The troopers finally stop, their metal joints freezing in place. Their blasters are still pointed towards you and Grogu. You swallow harshly, staring at your reflection in the metallic armor of the dark trooper directly in front of you. You watch closely as their robotic fingers hover over the trigger. You had one shot, one chance to get this right. You shut your eyes, waiting for it.

All at once. CLICK. BANG.

Your hands extend out. You can feel the energy pulsing through you. It’s controlled and stable. You slowly open your eyes, and hovering in the air are at least twenty violently shivering blaster rays, threatening to finish the job if you let go. You can feel the rays dancing under your fingertips, struggling against your grasp. You shut your eyes again, the tension of each one growing. You couldn’t hold this forever.

A new feeling abruptly shocks your system. It’s a certain power you haven’t felt in years. It rattles your bones, sending shockwaves throughout every inch of your body. There’s something delicious about it, tempting even. It’s powerful, yet intrusive, quickly invading your senses and taking over. You allow it to course through you fully. You can almost hear something calling out to you. Let go.

And so you do.

With a swift motion, you release the energy building up inside of you. It’s a radical feeling, but still somehow familiar. The shocks flow through the palms of your hands and out of your fingers. There’s a slight sting. It’s almost painful. And that’s when you remember exactly what this feeling is. Your eyes open wide, and you watch as electricity, and the blaster rays, shoot out towards the dark troopers, decimating them immediately.

Fire consumes the trees around you, embers quickly filling the air. You’re not sure if the electricity you just shot out of your hands caused this, or the blaster shots, or the dark troopers themselves. Most likely, it was some sort of messy combination of all three, which meant that you were in part to blame.

“Cyare?”

And Din saw the whole thing.

He’s standing just a few feet away from you. You can see the flames and carnage reflecting against his armor, and in the center of it all is you. This wasn’t a side of yourself that you wanted him to see, or even know about in the first place.

But it was too late for that now. “Din, I can expl-,”

He cuts you off, curt, emotionless. “We need to go.” You nod, taking slow strides towards the ramp of the Crest. You pass Din along the way. You want him to say something, to look at you, to move at the very least. But he doesn’t. He’s motionless, frozen in the aftermath of what you had done, of the secret you had tried so very hard to cover up.

You reluctantly step into the Crest, taking Grogu and his carrier off your shoulders, placing him in his crib. You throw the carrier to the ground. He gurgles something entirely unintelligible. There’s a tiredness in his grumblings. Good, you think to yourself. At least he’ll be asleep when you and Din have it out.

Din’s steps echo against the walls of the Crest. You know he’s disappointed. You can feel it. You should’ve told him the truth, told him who you were, told him that person isn’t who you are anymore. It’s certainly not the person you are with him. Din makes your past seem like some non-existent, intangible, fictional far-off tale. It was like he made you forget. No. He changed you, altered your brain chemistry, made you feel like you mattered. And not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

You needed him, and it scared you. You were almost afraid of the connection, of the dependency.

But he needs you too, you just don’t know it yet.

You wait a minute, trembling a bit in the hull, watching as Grogu’s eyes struggle to stay open. Within a few seconds, they’re closed. Din’s figure finally appears in the doorway. He’s apprehensive, tentative, as if he hasn’t made up his mind about coming inside. Your stomach knots, twinging as he finally steps all the way inside, pressing a button as the ramp shuts behind him.

He looks over at Grogu, fast asleep in his crib. A modulated breath escapes from under his helmet. It’s a sigh of defeat, of dejection. You build up the courage to stare into his visor, half expecting to get an indication of how he’s feeling. But there’s nothing, no sign of life save the shallow breaths slipping through his vocoder.

“Din, just let me explain.” It’s a plea, a solicitation for forgiveness.

But he isn’t buying it. “Did you lie to me?” There’s no anger in his voice, no agitation, not even an ounce of annoyance. It’s hurt, pain, possibly even betrayal, and that feels far worse than any vexation or outrage ever could. “Last time I checked, Jedi don’t use the force like that.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes breaking away from his glare. You know he’s staring at you under his helmet, searching for answers, trying to convince himself that what had just happened was a figment of his imagination. But it wasn’t. It was you. The past had caught up with your present, and now they’d fight for control.

“No, they don’t,” You pause, breathing deeply before continuing. “The Inquisitors kidnapped me when I was a kid. I was saved just a few months after the first Death Star was destroyed.” There’s a moment of relief before the fear of waiting for his response kicks in. You had told him the truth, and he wasn’t running away. Din was still in front of you, listening to every word you had to say.

He takes a few steps toward you, slowly closing the distance between you and him. “You could’ve told me that,” He whispers. “You should’ve told me.” He’s more assertive the second time around.

“I didn’t want you to think that I-I was still like that.” You can feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, begging to be blinked away. “I d-didn’t want you to t-think I was some monster.”

“What are you talking about?” He finds himself being drawn even closer towards you, his gloved hands gravitating to yours, his fingertips brushing against your wrists as he presses his palms into your own. Home. The word flashes in your mind in big bright lights, your hands fitting perfectly into his. “How could you think I’d ever see you like that?”

“I could tell you were scared, when you saw what I did…” You trail off, your heart beating wildly out of your chest. “Maybe I shouldn’t be training the kid. Maybe I’m not…” Din shakes his head. “Not what?”

“Not good enough,” You mumble, fighting back sobs. “If I can’t let go of my past, let go of those feelings…”

“No.” There’s no hesitance in his statement, no question, no consideration. Din means it. “Don’t think like that, mesh’la. You’re more than enough, more than the kid and I could’ve ever asked for.”

“But I-,”

He cuts you off again. “You protected Grogu. You protected me.”

“I lied to you, Din,” Your voice is soft, quiet, timid. “I did something I’d promise myself I’d never do again.” You blink a few times, letting the inevitable tears stream down your cheeks.

Din squeezes your hands lightly and lets go. Before you can internally grieve the loss of contact, he pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you. He had never been so gentle with you, so kind, so soft. This was so unlike him.

You sob into his beskar covered chest. The cold metal feels good against your burning cheeks. “I-I’m sorry.” You croak out, your voice reverberating through his armor.

“It’s alright,” He mutters, the top of his helmet coming down to rest on your head. “I’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay.” You sniffle as he whispers sweet reassurances in your ears, reminding you that you’re good enough, that he’s right next to you, that nothing bad is going to happen. “You should get some rest.”

You nod, and Din pulls you from his chest, stepping away from you and into the cockpit. You wish he was still next to you, his body pressed against yours. The closer you get to Din, the more dangerous things become. Luke and Ahsoka had told you the dangers of maintaining connections, building relationships. Ahsoka had been more forgiving, given that she believed in a more balanced way than the Jedi did. But Luke…Luke had been warning you for years.

Honestly, you didn’t care anymore. You wanted to forget Luke’s grating voice, to dispel each ideal he forced into your head. You wanted Din, needed Din. He was all that mattered now.

Forget your past This is your last chance now And we can break the rules Like nothing will last

Luke’s warnings fade away as you search through your clothes for something more comfortable to wear. Naturally, there’s nothing clean, nothing that Grogu hadn’t spit up on.

There’s one shirt of Din’s that you had borrowed a few nights ago when he was out on a hunt by himself. It still smells like him, feels like him too. You like how you look in it, the way it hangs too long on you. You like that it’s his and not yours. You slip it on and walk out into the hull and towards the cockpit as the Crest takes off.

You can’t see it, but his eyes settle on your reflection in the viewport. He turns around to get a better look. His shirt is massive on you, falling just above your knees. He hadn’t expected to see you in his clothes, but fuck did you look good. He couldn’t hold back anymore, not after today, not after you had sobbed in his arms.

He needed to remind you of who you are. He needed to tell you what you meant to him. Maker, he needed you to know everything, how he wants every inch of you, how much he cares about you, how much he loves you.

You can tell he’s looking at you now. You’re suddenly incredibly self-conscious. “I-I’m sorry,” You stutter. “I took i-it the other day without asking…should’ve told you I had it.”

He clutches his fists as the Crest comes out of the planet’s atmosphere. He presses a button, putting the ship on autopilot. “You need to stop apologizing,” He says, pushing his palms into the arms of the pilot’s chair and standing up.

You tilt your head to the side, confused and somehow even more apologetic than you were before. “I-I didn’t mean to offend you-,” “You’re not offending me, you never could.” He closes the gap between the two of you with one small step. “So stop saying sorry.” There’s an urgency in his voice, and an undeniable sense of certainty, like he had thought hard about what he was going to say, as if he had wanted to say this for an incredibly long time.

“Sorr-,” You cut yourself off, a smirk spreading across your face.

Din’s hands hover over your waist, softly settling down, waiting for you to protest. But you don’t. “Is this alright?” He asks.

“Y-yes,” You stutter. Din’s grip becomes firm against your hips. You hum at the contact, slowly pushing your body closer to his until your chests are flush against one another’s.

The tension is palpable. This is no longer him simply trying to comfort you; this is much, much more than that.

He makes the first move, taking a step in between your spread-out legs so that your back presses into the wall behind you. You can feel a pulse of heat shoot down to your core. “You need to know what you mean to me,” He whispers, his knee pressing lightly into your clothed cunt. You hold yourself back from grinding against him. “Need to show you how I feel about you, how you make me feel…” He trails off, letting himself get lost in the moment

Your hands snake up to the base of his neck, where his flight suit and his helmet meet. Your fingers slip under the fabric, exploring the exposed skin there. You’ve always wanted to feel him, to let him feel you. But this was never the deal, this was never something you expected. These were uncharted waters, a feeling that was so far shoved to the back of your head that you were positive this would never happen.

But this is happening.

He tugs the shirt up so that his hands can slip underneath. “Take off your gloves.” Your voice is breathy as the plea slips out. “Wanna feel you.” Din nods, quickly pulling them off before gluing his palms back to your skin. His calloused fingertips graze over your stomach, sending chills down your spine. “Din,” You whisper as he trails towards your bra, dipping underneath. His thumb brushes over your peaked nipple. You shut your eyes, letting your head fall back against the wall.

“What is it, pretty girl?” He asks, teasing you, his fingers pinching your nipple lightly. “Tell me what you want, need to hear you.”

He was going to be the death of you. “I-I want you to f-fuck me,” You beg, shamelessly grinding against his knee, searching for some sort of relief. You can feel your wetness pooling in between your legs. “N-need you to touch me Din, please.”

Din nods, his hands slipping out from under your shirt and down to the waistline of your panties. He drops to his knees as he slips them down your legs, practically tearing them off of you in the process. His fingers glide up your inner thigh as he stands. His palm finally settles against your cunt, the heel of his hand pushing into your clit, his fingers teasing at your opening.

“Fuck, you’re so wet, such a good girl,” He praises, moving a bit so that his fingers find their way to your clit. You moan out at the sudden pressure. “You like that? Like my fingers there?”

You hum a yes, unable to pull any sort of coherent thought together as Din’s fingers swirl around your clit. “N-need more,” You mumble. “W-wanna feel you, please.” You can feel his erection against your leg, throbbing in his flight suit. But Din doesn’t stop, his fingers continue their unrelenting circles at your core.

He moves his hand ever so slightly, shifting the angle so that his thumb brushes against your clit, and his fingers begin to tease your folds. Your head falls against his shoulder at the feeling. His fingers suddenly thrust into you, pumping in and out.

“You’re so perfect,” His honeyed, modulated voice rasps. He watches as your chest heaves against his shirt, your back limp against the wall of his ship, your head pressed against his shoulder. Fuck you looked so good like this, taking him, letting him make you his. And Maker, you felt good doing it. Nothing would ever compare to this, to the feeling of having him this close to you. “Doing so good for me.”

“Din,” You whimper. “I-I’m so close.”

He smirks under his helmet. He was going to make you come on his fingers. You clench around him, his fingers hitting the spot you need him in most every time. “That’s it sweet girl, just like that,” Din whispers, his thumb mercilessly toying with your core. You can feel yourself coming undone around him, like a wire snapping in two, heat spreading fervently across every inch of your body.

“D-Din,” You stutter, pulling him against you, his fingers still buried inside you, his thumb still drawing gentle circles. You needed more, you needed him closer than humanly possible. You bring a hand down to his erection, jerking him off through his pants. “N-need you inside me, Din.”

He doesn’t waste any time undoing his belt, shoving his pants off. He’s so fast you’re not even sure any of it happened in the first place. He lines himself up with your entrance. “Are you sure you want this?” He asks.

There’s no question. “I’ve always wanted this, Din, always wanted you.”

He rests his forehead against yours. “…‘always wanted you too, mesh’la.” You gasp as he buries himself inside of you with one thrust, splitting you open. “So fucking tight, so perfect,” He praises you again, your eyes rolling to the back of your head at his words. He gives you a minute to adjust to him before pulling out and shoving himself back in. You’ve never felt so full, so whole, like he’s tearing you apart just to put you back together.

“Feels s’good,” You murmur as Din sets his pace. It starts slow, his hips rolling against yours with each thrust. He’s taking his time, exploring every inch of you. His thumb finds your clit again. The sensation is almost overwhelming. You’re already on the borderline of being fucked out.

You can feel your core pulsing as he works at you, toying with you. His thrusts become quicker, needier. “So perfect for me,” He soothes, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, brushing away a tear you didn’t know had escaped your eye. “Taking me so well, wanted to do this for so long.”

You were already practically there. Every pump, every praise, every swirl pushes you closer to the edge, threatening to throw you over, to split you in two, and Maker, you wanted it.

“Din I-I-,” You can’t even get the words out.

“I know, pretty girl, I’ve got you,” He coos, fucking you into the wall, his thumb still beating away at your heat, his other hand still holding your cheek. Your legs are hooked around his waist, your fingers digging into the beskar that dawns his shoulders.

Your walls flutter around him, and you can feel yourself falling apart around his cock. Searing white heat floods your vision. You can feel a few cool tears against your hot cheeks. You look into his visor as you come. You want him to see you, to know how he makes you feel. “F-fuck, Din, I-I love you.” The confession doesn’t bother you as it slips out. It’s natural, like you had said it countless times before.

And you’ll say it countless times after.

It’s what sends Din over the edge. “S-shit,” His voice is shaky, breathy, broken, his cock twitching inside of you. You can feel him fill you up, pumping in and out a few more times before stopping, still buried deep inside you. His forehead rests on yours, your body limp against his. “I love you,” He confesses back. “So fucking much.” You shut your eyes, letting yourself melt around him. “Can we stay like this, for just a little while? Don’t wanna leave you yet.” You hum a soft yes in response. You didn’t want him to go anywhere either.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you in, keeping you held against his chest. There it is, that same feeling from before, the one you felt the very second you joined this little clan of three.

Home.

If you're afraid of what you need If you're afraid of what you need Look around you, you're surrounded It won't get any better

And so, goodnight

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pennyserenade · 1 year

Text

ONLY BACKWARDS

pairing: dieter bravo x you, dieter bravo x reader rating: explicit (oral sex (female receiving), pinv, references to unprotected sex, hate sex, light dirty talk (not degrading) tags: angst, age gap (reader is 34 and bravo is 48), hurt/comfort word count: 2.8k+ summary: it has been 6 months since you last heard from dieter bravo. this time he comes back to you with a black eye and he asks for too much. it is just like always. a/n: i wrote this in about a day so if its a little funky, that’s probably why. unbeta’d. songs i recommend you listen to while you read (if that’s something you enjoy): american dream by lcd soundsystem, sculptures of anything goes by arctic monkeys, californication by red hot chili peppers, and conversation 16 by the national

Fourteen years and two days. Depending on the way you look at it, that’s either a long time or too little of it.

As you take a good look at the man who you share this age gap with, you aren’t sure where you fall on the spectrum.

Dieter looks like shit. Beneath his right eye is purplish yellow, no doubt the reward he got for committing one of his heavily repeated mistakes. His eyes are reddish, bloodshot and he looks like he made some attempt at looking nice a day or two ago, but what he’s left with is stubble on his cheeks and hair gone greasy from too much product. You used to want to nurse him in these states, to hold his head between your hands and speak to him tenderly.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own age for once?” you say to him, pushing your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose. Your voice doesn’t possess the vitriol a sentence like that needs to really land. He squints against the sun, waiting. Your fingers press into the steering wheel. Be good, do good, you tell yourself. You can’t pick up a grown man’s baggage for the rest of your life. You don’t want to.

He doesn’t attempt to charm you. “I just want to take a shower and a nap and then I’ll never bother you again.”

“Why can’t you do that at your own house?”

Dieter pouts out his lips, looking above the hood of the car. In the other corner of the studio lot, there are people making a ruckus, laughing, talking too loudly. He looks back at you, brown eyes devoid of any real emotion. “I don’t like my own home.”

You think of all you’ve got to do. A script to write, a meeting in the morning, a date at 9. You really think you could like the guy too—a salaried television writer who lives in a sizable house and graduated from somewhere like Princeton. Your friend who set you up says he’s the perfect match for you: handsome, sweet, smart. Reliable.

“One shower and a hour nap, Bravo, and then you’re out.” He nods his head gratefully. “I mean it,” you say, voice serious. “No silly business this time. I’m doing this because I’m feeling charitable today.”

He makes his way to the passenger side and you take the time to glance down at the car clock. It’s two o’clock.A familiar pang of regret hits you. Seven hours seems like an eternity to you now.

You decide it then: fourteen years is too much, even if you are thirty-four and he is forty-eight. It matters to you today, because you know if you don’t let it, you will be picking up his baggage forever. It is an entire ocean separating the both of you today, because it has to be.

———

Dieter’s hair is still soaking wet, the towel you set out for him abandoned at the head of your bed. It hasn’t even touched him, didn’t get the chance before he settled between your legs. As he presses his warm tongue to your cunt, cold droplets fall from his head onto your thighs. You are keenly aware of the way they make their slow descent down, onto your freshly washed bed spread.

You don't know why you let these things happen. It’s as if something takes hold of you when he’s around, makes you foolish.

The worst part is that you know it’s your fault. For once in his goddamn life, Dieter was being good. He didn’t make any passes, didn’t even say much aside from a few pleasant “Thank you”s. You couldn’t stand it, which makes you on par with him, foolish and reckless and self absorbed—and oh God, his tongue feels good.

Your legs are draped over his shoulders and his fingers grip into your hips, pinning them down before they even get the chance to lift. Because he knows they will, knows because he’s made them do that before, many times. As he parts you with his tongue, lapping up your juices and making more of them, you watch him. His long nose barely grazes your sensitive clit and you moan openly siri want—too giving for so little effort.

Dieter works with patience. You will give him this: he is a good pussy eater. He licks you open and leaves you wanting, pressing into every part of you except the parts you desperately need him to. He works you for so long, his warm tongue pressing hard against your lips, the place above your entrance, the place just below your clit. You are so sensitive beneath him that you feel like you might explode from the anticipation. You feel everything: the coldness of his wet hair as it presses against your thighs, your lower stomach, where he’s moved one of his hands, the fabric of the bra on top of your pebbled nipples.

Dieter knows how to overwhelm you so well that it’s the center of most of your fantasies when you’re alone. You’d never tell him that, God forbid the ego it’d give him, but you relish the fact now. You’ve touched yourself so many times thinking about his tongue, the way it drinks you up and splits you apart, and here is he, doing it better than you remember. It’s like hearing a favorite song live after only listening to it on a scratched, over-loved vinyl for too long: exactly how intended, and better than it should be. Your toes curl and he doesn’t even come close to what aches the most.

You’re not going to make your date. It’s the fate he writes out with his precise tongue. He watches you as he spears the tip of it inside of you and he draws out the show he wants: that open mouthed, silent moaning that comes from feeling too much pleasure all at once. It’s the type that makes you tip your head back, flooded with a pulsing desire that causes your knees to try to draw together. He does it again and again, swirling around inside of one. You clench around nothing when he abandons it to run his tongue through your lips again, with no real destination.

“Don’t make me beg,” you whine, voice low, tugging at his hair. Water drips out into your hands but you don’t care. He listens, attaching his mouth to your sensitive clit and he presses his tongue down, making you struggle, trying to lift the hips he’s got pinned. He takes it into his mouth, sucking at the tender flesh. You feel split open all the sudden, not vulnerable - not really - but laid out just for him, your body craving only what he can give. It is an embarrassing amount of desire that covers the entirety of you, and yet you aren’t embarrassed by it at all.

For a moment, it is better than all the love in the world, which is exactly why you end up like this. You know that. You shouldn’t lie to yourself about it. That one second where he is enough - more than enough - can sustain you until the next time he will inevitably fail you.

He draws the orgasm out of you quickly this way. The heels of your feet dig into his back, unable to stop the way you grow stiff with ecstasy of it coursing through you. He doesn’t stop when it hits, his tongue lapping up all your juices until you’re tugging at his hair, almost raw with oversensitivity.

His lips glisten with your slick. You urge him forward, tugging at his forearm, letting him kiss you on the mouth before he has the chance to wipe you off of himself. He likes that, you know. You’re so blissed out for a moment, you forget the seas that part the two of you. Suddenly he is not Dieter Bravo, the man you have to rescue every six months, but Dieter, the one who knows you better than you do yourself sometimes.

As his eager tongue meets yours, you allow him to position his hips between your legs, opening them up wide to fit his body.

His weeping cock presses against you as he kisses you, hard and desperate to be touched. As his fingers gently skim over your jaw, down your neck, you think about how easy it would be for him to slip inside of you. How in one fluid motion, he and you could be so close, the thickness of him satisfying a greedy desire you have to take all of him. Fucking him all of the sudden seems like the very simplest solution to all your problems. It’s a primal thing that he inspires in you. His soft tongue drew out desires hidden in you and now that they’re out, you can’t put them back.

You wrap your legs around him, pressing him closer. You want him to flirt with the idea in the same way you do, to crave it so badly he stutters asking for it. He freezes against your lips, overcome with the way you press against one another. Everything, everywhere, is warm. Tense. Taut.

He kisses down your neck but is careful not to move his body, perceptive of the fact he is pressed to your cunt and with one accidental motion, will rub against it. He is wanting, sensitive. You want him to beg.

“You’re so good, Dieter,” you tell him, hands intertwining in his drying overgrown locks. “I’ve missed this. Missed you,” you add, your breath against his ear.

He pants against your neck, unwillingly pressing himself into you, rubbing slightly. He stops kissing you, focuses fully on not doing what he shouldn’t. He is being good, telling you to take the parts of him you want, saying sorry in the only way he really knows how: by clumsily handing himself over to you.

You lift your hips into his, forgoing your need to hear him beg. His eagerness is akin to soft pleas. It is enough just to be wanted, and you know he does: he can hardly contain himself, pressing down when you finally press up. You wet his cock this way, letting him rub up and down, up and down, gathering you up and relishing what warmth of you you’ll give him as the mattress groans beneath you.

“I could cum like this,” he pants, bringing his lips back to yours. He kisses you hard, enough to make your lips swollen, red.

You shake your head. “Don’t cum,” you tell him, panicked. You stop moving and he stops too, eyebrows knitting together. “Fuck me, Dieter. I need you to fuck me.”

There is a vulnerability in his gaze as he takes those words in. You are pinned between his arms, beneath his solid body, surrounded entirely by him, and yet it is this look that makes you feel the closest to him. You share a feeling, not an agreement but an understanding: this is it. It is everything you are to each other, and perhaps all you ever will be.

You hate him for that. You need him to tear you up, split you in half, make you feel the residuals of his affection through the quick snap of his hips and guttural moans you will feel in your bones. You don’t want understanding.

Because you are angry or perhaps because you’ve gotten a little wiser since you last saw him, you tell him, “Condom,” evenly. It’s a barrier, some precaution you don’t usually make him take. He had told you once that he had never fucked anyone without one, that in all of his recklessness, he had never failed to do that. So of course you gave it to him, let yourself be his first. Now you’re taking it away.��

The purplish yellow of his under eye reassures you that this is right. He didn’t get that being good, being kind. Probably, he fucked someone’s wife, someone’s husband. He hadn’t called you for two months before today. He isn’t kind. Not always. The bruise is the violence he tears through life with. A marking of his wreckage.

Dieter doesn’t protest about the condom, but you can tell he is wounded. He moves almost dutifully as he opens your bedside table and takes one out.

You don’t watch him put it on. You look up at the dark of your ceiling, your heart in your stomach.

“Okay,” he says with finality, wrapping a hand around your ankle. Your eyes soften as you look at him; he is blotted with desire, patchy with remorse. When his dark eyes gaze upon you with open tenderness, you feel your anger dissipate.

When you open your legs wider for him, he crawls back on the bed, nestles between your thighs. His hands slide beneath you, groping your ass, lifting you to himself. When your bodies connect, his cock sliding into you, you feel all of it. The thickness of his head, the shake of his body as he eases in slowly, the way he settles in you as he bottoms out, trying not to lose control. It is tender, soft. It curls up in your chest and softens a resolve you need to survive on scraps. You don’t want it.

You dig crescent-shaped moons in his ass, urge his hips forward as they begin to find a rhythm that is quick, angry. Your lips find each other clumsily, teeth clacking against teeth like inexperienced teenagers. When you move your head away, he kisses the side of your mouth by accident, and then stops trying altogether, burying himself in your neck. He’s never faulted you for not wanting his affection and won’t now. Calloused fingers continue to grip at your ass, pushing you up to meet his hips; it is hip to hip, his cock pushing into the deepest part of yourself, filling you to the hilt with a shared frustration.

You moan his name, a quick succession of Dieter, Dieter, Dieter, and he grunts helplessly, his body no longer his own, overtaken by desire and anger and disappointment. You are angry with yourself, angry you told him to put on the condom. You want him to fill you with it now—want the sticky substance of his desire to run down your legs and outlast the bitterness.

He eases you into the mattress, fucks into you with the slow, lazy roll of his hips again. His hands slip away from your ass, travel up to your hands. He interwines your fingers together, pins them above your head.

You whine, ache. “Harder,” you urge, your hips rising to make up for the lack of speed. You expected him to speed back up once he repositioned and the idea that he won’t fills you with dread. Fuck me, you echo again, hoping he understands.

He pushes into you, more focused, like that is what you mean when you say harder: more focused. It isn’t. You mean harder. You paw at his hips, shake your head. “Dieter,” you plead.

He draws back, snaps his hips into you. You gasp. Yes. You whisper it against his hot skin, and he does it again and again and again. Does it even when you sputter, voice straining, hips rising, rubbing against the patch of his body that meets your clit. He fucks you as you cum around his cock, lets your sensitive body feel the fury with which he takes you. With which you asked him to.

He continues this pace even after he fills the condom, lingers over this spot in time and allows your cunt to suck him dry, to take pieces of him until he is gripping tightly to your hands and overdone with pleasure. He exits you quick, draws back like he’s going to snap forth but doesn’t. You miss the feel of him immediately and you understand the craving you’ve got has to do with far more than sex.

Your eyes roll back, look at the clock on your nightstand. 3:30. You have time, but you won’t take it.

Dieter discards the condom in the bathroom and comes back out wearing his underwear and a t-shirt. He offers you a towel and you take it, wiping your connection away.

He helps you put your underwear back on and you let him climb back into your bed, lay yourself on top of him. He rubs your back as you listen to his heart thud in his chest.

“Dieter?” you say, voice quiet.

“Hm?”

“What happened to your eye?”

When he doesn’t respond, you tilt your head up. His eyes are closed but he’s not pretending to sleep.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs, not opening them.

“It’ll make me mad to know?”

He nods, wrapping his arms around you.

“Why can’t you just be good?” Your voice is so quiet - timid - nearly inaudible. But he hears it, winces.

“I don’t know,” he tells you honestly. You’ve touched upon an open wound; he shifts beneath you, moving you to his side. But he still wraps himself around you, holds you close. “Let’s sleep.”

“Are you going to be here when I wake up?”

He holds your head to his chest. “If you want me to be.”

“Please,” you manage, before closing your eyes.

#dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #the bubble #the bubble fanfic

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lemonlyman-dotcom · 4 months

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Nice ask! Do you have any frivolous lone star headcanons? (ie, something that doesn’t matter to the plot and maybe there’s no real evidence for but you believe it anyway)

Hello! Thank you for this very nice ass(k) 🍑

I do!!

Paul lived with Owen and TK for the first couple months when he moved down to Austin. That’s why he’s got such a close easy-going relationship with TK and why he’s not phased by any of Owen’s idiosyncrasies.

Paul is a diehard Michigan football fan. This is because his father went to University of Michigan, and would drive 3.5 hours from Chicago to Ann Arbor for every home game. When Paul was a kid, his dad would bring him to games sometimes. He has very fond memories of those long drives with his dad, listening to music and chatting. If they won his dad would stop at a roadside diner and get him a blackberry milkshake. (He would if they lost too, but then they’d also split a piece of pie). He and TK drove over to Houston on Monday to watch them win the National Championship. On the way home they stopped for pie and blackberry milkshakes, and Paul told TK stories about games his dad took him to.

TK loves spicy food. Carlos was teasing in that pho scene in S3. He grew up eating all kinds of international cuisines in NYC, he loves chicken feet with his dim sum, and habanero hot sauce on his tacos and jerk chicken and egusi with scotch bonnet.

Paul & Carlos have eaten at all the West African restaurants in Austin, and they are on first-name basis with all the staff at this point.

Paul has been trying to recreate/perfect his grandma’s goat curry for years, and Carlos is his most eager taste tester.

In episode 3, after the police station scene & Carlos’s chat with Michelle, he’s still hesitant to reach out to TK. But then they have that scene where the woman falls on the car. And TK is so sweet, talking to her and rubbing her arm. I always kinda headcanon that Carlos saw him being all sweet with her and he was like “damn, okay worth it to put myself on the line for another shot with him.”

TK learned to drive when he moved to Austin, and he’s a very good driver, but he doesn’t particularly enjoy it. He’d much rather catch a ride or even take public transportation or walk if it’s not too hot. Carlos, on the other hand, spent a lot of money on his car and he does like to drive. So he’s usually the driver. But! He knows TK’s a good driver, and absolutely lets him drive the Camaro.

TK & Marjan have a ritual where they meet for pie & coffee at a diner in East Austin whenever one of them has had a tough day and they need someone to talk to, or even just to sit and be sad with. They have an unspoken pact that, no matter what they’re doing, if one of them calls or texts with a pie emergency they drop everything and show up for pie.

TK is a music nerd. He grew up immersed in the NYC indie music scene, he’s seen LCD Soundsystem play like 20 times, Gwyn took him to see Prince when he was 12, he’s got an extensive vinyl collection and also a box of old band T-shirts in Owen’s garage. Also he could wire any speaker system.

Paul’s sister has visited several times since we first met her. The Catan crew has adopted her, she thinks TK and Carlos are really weird but she loves them. She’s obsessed with Marjan and Nancy.

Paul has an extensive record collection ranging from 70s afrobeats to disco to classic rock n roll.

Marjan’s father was diagnosed with a rare, treatable but incurable cancer a couple years ago. When she found out she was devastated, and TK insisted on flying to Miami with her and staying with her family for a while to help out. One night he tried to make Andea’s chili relleno, because it always make him feel better when he’s sad, but he destroyed Marjan’s mom’s kitchen. He called Carlos out of desperation, and Carlos laughed and told him to toss everything and then ordered them all his favorite comfort foods to be delivered to the house. Carlos and Marjan now regularly make “fold in the cheese” jokes when TK cooks. Which is often!

Sorry this was very long!

🍋<3

#nice ask week

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reptilia2003 · 1 year

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why do you hate pitchfork?

why do I hate pitchfork?

first off, I think music criticism as a whole is kind of odd. I do like being able to hear what other people thought of albums! But the way most criticism is constructed takes something that’s mostly subjective (taste) and tries to make it objective. I understand that ratings make for an easy way to categorize music, but theirs are confusing.

Take for instance this review of the latest little simz album—if you read it, you’ll find they criticize basically nothing. https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/little-simz-no-thank-you/

It gets a 7.7. You can read pitchfork reviews that lavish similar amounts of praise and get 9+, and you can find ones that get 6.5. (Many have noted that they tend to knock female artists for things they don’t knock male artists for.)

taste is subjective, rating albums numerically is hard, and makes no sense a lot of times (looking at you, 5.7 rating for grammy winning album the new abnormal. not that grammys mean anything either but i think this shows that two different groups of “experts” can have wildly different opinions)

I’d say my biggest beef with pitchfork is that it seems to pride itself on being pretentious and inaccessible. (I say this as someone who is kind of pretentious about music! I look at my Last.fm and collect vinyls and listen to a lot of things that people who are Pretentious Music Enjoyers listen to!) I have no problem with big and complicated words being used in criticism—I think it’s actually good, it can help describe things in a way that simpler language can’t. But theirs ends up coming off as arrogant and almost masturbatory. We get it pitchfork—you’re Cool and Smart and Know Things and you’re therefore the Authority about music.

Take the first paragraph from their review of Alvvays’ Blue Rev. what is the point of this meandering treatise on the genre of power pop, besides to assert that they Know Things?

They follow this up with this line. So it turns out that all that stuff they just said about genre is actually unimportant! Great! Thanks for wasting a paragraph on showing off your Understanding of genre.

This attitude also tends to attract a certain type of reader. When they polled readers for their favorite 200 albums of the last 25 years, here’s what they came up with

Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of fantastic albums in this list. But three radiohead albums in the top five says something about your audience. (And I own two of those three on vinyl, so I fully realize I’m also the type of person I’m talking about here. but I think that also makes me more qualified to criticize it.) We go through neutral milk hotel’s in the aeroplane over the sea, sufjan stevens’ illinois, Kanye’s yeezus, Frank ocean’s channel orange, lcd soundsystem’s sound of silver (another one I own), and madvillain’s madvillainy before we get to any album made by a woman (lana del Rey’s Norman fucking rockwell, coming in at #17). This is pitchfork’s audience, and it’s who they cater to and this greatly influences how they think about music.

tldr halsey was right.

#also sometimes they give albums that I like bad ratings and it makes me mad 😌#retract your 5.9 for Sam’s town RIGHT NOW

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dhampling · 1 month

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i was tagged in a five favourite songs at the moment thing by @thelittleastarion and @starryjuicebox - and obviously i will indulge!

Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan

scintillating. beautiful. voice of an angel.

Do Your Best by John Maus

summer is this song for me. breezy lilt in some late gloaming spell. i love john maus so much.

Bad Man by Nicole Dollanganger

nicole dollanganger’s vibe is unmatched - eerie and adoring - and this song exemplifies why i love her. it’s big time on rotation atm.

oh baby by LCD Soundsystem

similar vibe to do your best. just so pretty.

family tree by ethel cain

dead dove ascended astarion territory and i’m oh-so tempted to dip my toe in

i shall tag @bhaalism, @lipstickghoulie, @brabblesblog, @mutualcombat and @sniickerdoodlies!!!

#dal talks #tag game

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sillyname30 · 5 months

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I just listened to the lastest episode of and that's what you really missed on Glee. The biggest surprise of this episode was that Kevin and Jenna talked about the box scene. I never expected them to talk about Klaine. That's what happened: The episode was teased with an important Klaine scene, but when it aired their scene was not in it and the fans went crazy. The script of the episode appeared in an auction for Project Angel Food and 2 fans organized a fundraiser to bit on the script. Ryan heard of it and he released the scene on YouTube. Kevin said that you can see why it was cut. It is not a very good scene. Jenna said it's a little lackluster. (Of course that had to talk Klaine down.) Artie as a director: Kevin was trying to do a nod to Ryan. Where his hands were placed, how he was talking. He had to tone it down though. The Christmas special: Jenna said it was a multi-camera shot like they did back then. During the filming of All I Want for Christmas someone took a photo of the girls on a phone and it was used for press. Kevin said that the ratings were down and they started a rumour to get them back up. Kevin took a picture of Jenna with Lea and Cory in the background being extra snuggly. He posted it and when the first person reacted to it, he took it down like he was doing something wrong. The rumour got picked up and spread to all the entertainment sides. A couple of weeks later Lea told Kevin that she and Cory really started dating around that time. Kevin told another story about something he did over the soundsystem, but I didn't really get. I guess my English isn't good enough for that. cringe moment: the homeless jokes (Kevin), Do They Know It's Christmas at the homeless shelter (Jenna) best dance move: Christmas Wrapping best song: Christmas Wrapping (Kevin), All I Want For Christmas Is You (Jenna) performance mvp: Lea and Cory

#and that's what you really missed on glee #extraordinary merry christmas

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lucyvsky · 1 year

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literall y so sad right now thinking about how they cancelled the paper girls tv show like i am going to kill amazon

#IT WAS SO FUCKING GOOD. going to explode and cry forever #literally . like. THEY PUT LCD SOUNDSYSTEM IN IT. THEY PUT SO MANY GOOD SONGS IN IT #and the acting was so great i am so miserable #paper girls is my favorite comic series of all time . like.#it was so good

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churchandstateofbeing · 2 months

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anyone who ever loved unsleeping city ever NEEDS to listen to rainbow connection from the fucking. muppet movie (trust me) and new york i love you but you’re bringing me down by LCD Soundsystem (this one works best if you’ve seen chapter 2 but it works well w just season 1)

sometimes i turn on one of these two songs to just Think about unsleeping city because as someone who was also born and raised in a massive city that i love with my whole heart and soul it just makes me so full of emotion and i recommend this experience wholeheartedly. my thoughts and feelings about my city are so complicated and the unsleeping city is genuinely the only piece of media ive ever seen that really Got it. cities can feel so heartless and massive but also so magical and fantastic and full of life and hope. possibilities. big cities are about dreams and people and communities, but that means that they can’t stop themselves from changing, for better or for worse. ricky and iga and alejandro and the immigrant experience, the joy and beauty and family and community that a city can be for those who dare to dream. when puck tells misty to remember who her people are, he doesn’t understand that fairy was never hers, that the city is where she feels safe and free and alive. kingston’s elderly mother making him breakfast each morning and sneaking tupperwares into his pockets. it is a beautiful thing.

and sometimes you have to watch that beautiful this killing itself so slow as things and people change, watching the places you love close and the people in power steal them away from under you, when the city feels hostile and too big and lonely. kingston and iga walking around as the new york that they love feels like it’s getting stolen out from underneath them, as stores close or family becomes distant, being confused and hurt and sad as what they remember becomes fainter and the people around them forget what it once was. kingston being willing to kill pete if it means the city will be safe, leaving liz behind, choosing new york over the individual people around him ten times out of ten because it isn’t even a question; the betrayal he feels when epona attacks him in the subway. cody throwing ninja stars at billboards and yelling at construction workers because his mall is going to be destroyed and that’s his world. pete scrolling through his phone with a slice of pizza. sofia doing anything she can to invite people over or avoid going home, because her home is empty. sofia failing to fight the angels to get her husband back because he needs to watch the deer, cutting off her family because they’ve betrayed her so deeply. kugrash reading the letter in david’s office. cities really are easy to hate sometimes, because not every person and community is kind or good or noble, but there’s an illogical and impossible loyalty you feel even when it feels like the buildings will fall down and crush you, covered in this sick oppressive system on a hallowed holy ground, artificial and dirty and so big it’ll swallow you whole. and sometimes you have to accept that things are how they are, but you know that somewhere in here is the ability to fight and change and grow and be together and support one another- pete and nod at the diner and the museum, kingston opening his apartment so pete can get back on his feet, pete saving priya from the burning building and forgiving kingston on the train, ricky refusing to be anything but a good person even when things suck; kugrash traveling around nod on wally’s shoulders and saying it’s okay that you don’t forgive me and driving with esther to see her mother in the park and eating the bagel because even though he was horrible before he wants to be better and he believes he can be; everyone giving their spells to help alejandro catch the train and save nod; saving santa and willy and em and the art show guests and the bodega customers and la gran gata not because they have to but because they can. and while there are never easy solutions, justice can be served and your dreams can become reality- pete taking control of his reality, making his body and his magic his own; rowan talking to the american dream, you are my love and my only true love; sofia at the empire state building- there really is something up there if you go up to look for it, there are people who will fight with you, it is what it is and it is what it could be- the city is almost impossible to love if you aren’t aware that it loves you back, and it does, it does, it does.

#dimension 20 #d20 #the unsleeping city #tried to keep it light on the season 2 content since i’m not everyone has watched it but you could get it just having watched s1 #ok so this started as a music rec thing and somehow became a whole ass essay about the unsleeping city and cities and what cities can be #and while im not from nyc i am from an american city that’s just as big and famous and just as full of heartache and love and people #so tuc and its characters resonated with me so deeply and i need to talk about it i am insane i need help #sometimes a dnd campaign starring improv comedians can be so personal

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imaginedisish · 1 year

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how do you sleep? (Ben Solo x fem!reader)

Part 1: We'll Never Have Sex

A/N: Hey guys!! So here is the first part of my Ben Solo x fem!reader fic. It is going to be told in non-chronological order, and every single part can be read as a one-shot! The overall series is based on "how do you sleep?" by LCD Soundsystem, but this particular part is based on "We'll Never Have Sex" by Leith Ross. I hope you guys enjoy!!!

Summary: After a lifetime of pining and yearning between you and Ben while training with Luke, things finally come to a head. (Series takes place over the year before Ben turns to the dark side, and then the aftermath of that).

Warnings: SMUT, fingering (f!receiving), so 18+, obviously canon divergence, all chapters can be read as a one shot with no context, series warning for canon typical violence, cursing, probably poorly proofread bc I only proofread once, praise kink...

Word Count: 2,511

Rain ruthlessly patters against the roof of the tent, threatening to leak through with each drop that came crashing down. You and Ben lay across from each other, a fire separating you, crackling in the center. You silently wish you were closer to him. You wish you could feel his calloused fingertips threading softly with your own. Maybe his hands would find their way to your waist, gently exploring your-

No. You can’t think like this, you’re not allowed to, never have been and never will be. You weren’t meant to get to have sex, married, to settle down, to have attachments of any kind. You were a Jedi, first, foremost, and only.

But could love be that bad? Would being with Ben be so insurmountably terrible that it would corrupt both of you and bring disorder to the galaxy? Master Skywalker had told you it would, that an attachment of any kind would disrupt your training and your entire way of being. That notion had lost its meaning for you, and seemingly contradicted itself time and time again. If loving Ben was so horrific, why was it the only thing that made sense?

“You okay?” He mutters, noticing that your eyes are glued to the fire, that stupid fire that stood in the way of being close to him.

You mumble a yes in response, your mind far too clouded and nervous to say anything else. You were too busy convincing yourself that whatever bond you had with Ben defined the word yearn. You had known him your entire life, both having been trained by Luke practically since birth. And for as long as you could remember, you loved Ben Solo.

And he loved you.

But you held back, at least for as long as you could. As teenagers he had slipped up, kissed you while you had been sparring in the woods, far, far away from Luke. He had won the sparring match with your back to a tree, and he kissed you.

Oh, you kissed me just to kiss me

Not to take me home

It was simple, it was sweetness

It was good to know

You talked about it once, and never again. You decided to hide it, to stuff the memory down, deep down where no one would ever be able to find it. Hiding wasn’t enough, it never was. You couldn’t forget it. Even now you dream of the taste of his lips on yours. You wish you could taste them now.

“You sure you’re okay?” His voice cuts through your thoughts, forcing you back to reality. He’s sat up now, looking down at you over the fire.

You sit up too, forcing your gaze into the flames. “Yeah, I’ll be alright.” It was Master Skywalker’s fault for putting you and Ben on missions together, for keeping you two so close. He had to know how the two of you felt about each other. It was like some soul crushing test, some obstacle he expected you two to jump over and come out the other side stronger Jedi.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. And it certainly wouldn’t be the last mistake a Skywalker made.

“Do you…” He paused, waiting for your gaze to meet his. Your heart skips a beat when your eyes lock. “Do you wanna come over here?” He asks. He tilts his head to the side, searching for your response in your face before you can think of something to say.

Say no, You think to yourself. Bad idea. Bad, terrible, awful idea. But your thoughts don’t seem to communicate with the rest of your body. You’re already standing up, walking around the fire, and sitting down on the edge of his cot, facing away from him.

Ben rests a warm hand on your lower back, his thumb tracing circles and stars along your spine. It feels good, comforting – so it can’t be bad. You didn’t feel any evil bubbling up in your stomach, no pull into the darkness like had been foretold and prophesied.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Ben asks, there’s a smirk in his voice. You could hear it from a mile away. You turn your head to look down at him, and there it was, the cocky smirk. The second he sees the pain contorting your face, it slips away. You want it to come back.

You smile softly, reassuring him that everything was fine. “It’s just the nightmares.” It wasn’t a lie. They had certainly come back. You had dozed off a few minutes ago, and there they were. You weren’t going to fall back to sleep, not without him.

Ben responds by wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you down onto the cot. You stretch out a bit, letting yourself get pulled under the current of whatever was about to happen. The loneliness was too much; being without him was too much. And those – of course – were the real issues, the real sickness that was plaguing you.

You and Ben knew loneliness too well, far better than any being ever should.

Having someone this close kept that sinking alone feeling at bay; trapped it in some deep, dark, unintelligible, inaccessible corner far out of your mind’s reach. The feeling of his arms holding you tightly in place dispersed it, decimated it, fragmented it into pieces that simply could not be put back together, as if they had never been part of a whole to begin with.

You’ve never had someone this close for this long. You’ve never gone this long without that alone feeling nipping at your skin and cursing in your face. And yet, it had been silenced. It wasn’t just because of a someone. He silenced it. And you knew that he was the only one who could. No, this couldn’t have just been anyone. It had to be him.

And only him.

“Ben,” You whisper. He squeezes your hip lightly in response. The feeling sends a ripple of chills down your spine.

You don’t know exactly how long it’s been like this, standing on the ledge of a building neither of you should jump off from. You lost track of the time a few years ago. But you certainly never lost track of him.

He squeezes your hip again, his lips suddenly sinking against your neck. You swallow the heavy lump in your throat as his hips push against yours. You jump, I jump, You think to yourself as he presses open-mouthed kisses up to your jaw, his body slowly shifting so that he’s above you. You let yourself fall onto your back, staring up at him.

It was so quick, so easy to melt under his touch. It was too easy, for both of you, to give into the thing that had connected you for years. It was too simple to get to where you are now for it to ever be bad, to be the start of another war.

The words slip from your lips. “I think I love you…” But you didn’t think. There was no thinking about this sort of thing, especially with Ben. That think came from your nerves, from that part of you adroitly trained to push him and everything else away. You didn’t want this to go past think. Think sits in limbo, unsure of its position, suspended in fluidity and nonsense.

“Think?” Ben enunciates each letter, as if to question each sign’s meaning. But the smirk on his face tells you he’s much less serious than that, and that he knows your intention is far more serious than that think.

You clear your throat, but the anxious feeling continues climbing up your esophagus. “Yeah…” You trail off, failing to seem aloof. “I think I-,”

“I know.” The thunder outside attempts to rudely interrupt the crackle of the fire and the finality of his words, but you hear them all the same.

“Know what?” You question as the tips of his fingers graze the sides of your neck, slowly and gently wrapping around, as if to hold you in place.

There’s no nervousness etched across his forehead as those perfect lips of his part. His brows aren’t furrowed, he doesn’t clear his throat. That smirk still tugs on his lips, even more so in his eyes, begging to be stretched into a smile. He’s cocky – but sweet – because he knows you’re terrified beyond belief. He’s more comfortable crossing this line than you are.

He was made to cross lines. “I know I love you.” And he means it. He means it in a way that speaks for you too, in a way that takes your think and transforms it into something greater. It was permanent, static, steadfast. A know, not a think.

Rain pounds violently against the roof and you’re almost thankful for it. It keeps your words from leaking outside and into unaccepting ears. The ears that you and Ben had sworn your life to, your being to, your duty to. You were consciously breaking that oath, that code, that order that you had lived by for as long as you could remember.

Part of you wants to scream, How dare you? How dare you cross the man who taught you everything, gave you everything? But what if that everything wasn’t as important as what Ben was, as that know had suddenly become?

You know the answer, you’ve known it for years, before this moment, before he kissed you against that tree. You know the answer every time you see his smile, those eyes. You know when you hear his voice, when you feel his hand at your back when you’re being reprimanded by Skywalker. And he knows it too. He’s known longer than you have.

Never mind crossing the line, it’s gone now, as if it was never there to begin with.

His lips press fervently against yours, already begging for more. He fits perfectly there, above you, your bottom lip skimming against his teeth, being bruised and imprinted with each hungry kiss.

He pulls away for a second, his chest rising and falling somehow faster than your own. You wonder if he can hear your heart beating out of your chest, the sound drumming violently against your own ears. His hands unclasp your throat, roaming down your body, exploring each curve and corner before resting at the hem of your shorts.

“Wanted you,” He pauses, his fingers hooking under the waistband. “For so long.” He finishes, his lips finding yours again. “So fucking long.”

“B-Ben,” You’re stumbling around your words, and yet your mind has never felt more clear, more free. “Need you, please.” It’s a beg, a whine.

His lips part from yours for just a second to pull your shorts and panties down. “Always needed you,” He says as his right hand drifts slowly down your stomach and in between your thighs. He spreads your legs and finds your clit before two of his fingers move further down. “So wet for me,” He says in between the gasps that echoed in the air.

“B-Ben,” You whimper, suddenly remembering once again that you quite literally have never had anyone this close before. “I-I’ve nev-,”

“I know,” He whispers, his voice filled with lust, even deeper than normal. His dark hair falls against your forehead. “I’ve got you.” His fingers move back to your clit, circling slowly at first, gradually getting faster until all you can do is dig your nails into his shoulders.

“F-fuck,” You curse. He presses harder against your core. “Need you, Ben,” You beg, all breathy and carelessly loud.

Ben rests his forehead against yours, his fingers flicking at your clit, his other hand coming up and under your tank top. You have no bra underneath, something he couldn’t help noticing before. He gently rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, reveling in the way you feel against him.

He wanted you, needed you, just as much as you wanted and needed him.

His palm glides across your chest, making sure to do the same to the other side before swiftly pulling your top up and over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. You don’t care if it lands in the fire. You wanted it to burn.

“Doing so good for me,” He whispers, his lips sucking against your neck now. “Such a good girl.”

You feel yourself clench around nothing, fluttering as Ben’s fingers refuse to let up. “I’m s-so close,” You choke, struggling to catch your breath. You could feel that familiar feeling building up in your stomach, heat spreading like a wildfire across your skin and every inch of your body. “Ben,” You recklessly call out. “I’m gonna-,”

“That’s it,” He coos, his fingers still working at your core. “Come on my fingers.” And just like that, white heat, stars, the cliché tension snapping, all of it was true. With him, that’s exactly what it felt like.

He doesn’t stop right away, his fingers slowing down a bit before dipping down to your entrance, collecting your slick bringing them up to his lips. His fingers disappear into his mouth, sucking gently before he pulls them out. The feeling at your core immediately sparks again. You want more, need more.

“Ben!” Your heart pangs in your chest at the shout of a familiar voice. FUCK. “Ben!” The voice yells again, outside the tent. Your eyes widen in fear. Panic fills your chest, and Ben springs up and out of the cot, hoping to get outside the tent before the voice found its way inside.

Ben smiles at you as he stands at the entrance of the tent. You smile back, but you’re freaking out on the inside. What if Luke hadn’t called Ben’s name? What would’ve happened if he had simply come in and caught you? Ben can tell that you’re uneasy by the way your nose scrunches up, eyebrows furrowed tightly. And yet, you don’t regret a thing. How could you?

“It’s okay, don’t worry,” He whispers, grabbing the cloth door to the tent with his hand. “We’ll figure it out…” He trails off, looking towards the door for a second before his gaze finds yours again. “I’d do anything for you, I mean it.” His words are so final, so permanent, the exact thing you had been afraid of.

But not anymore.

“I know I love you.” The words fall from your mouth with ease this time. You can hear Master Skywalker’s footsteps growing closer to the tent.

Ben smiles, his cheeks flushing just a touch, like someone had pinched his cheeks ever-so-slightly to remind him of how handsome he was. “I know I love you,” He says back before squeezing out of the tent so his uncle wouldn’t see the evidence of creed that had been broken and the attachment that had been consummated.

What the fuck were you going to do?

Depollute me, gentle angel

And I'll feel the sickness less and less

Come and kiss me, pretty baby

Like we'll never have sex

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