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SCREAMING RN

The F-Word

The F word

Poe Dameron X G/N reader

Rating : T+ 

Wordcount : 6500(ish)

Warnings : Angst, FLUFF, canonical style violence, mention of injury, mention of blood, talk of death, near death experience, language, idiots in love, Poe just being adorable

Summary : Poe Dameron often likes to say he's "fine", it's "fine", everything's "fine". But when a mission goes drastically wrong you no longer believe the pilot and his use of the F-Word.

A/N : Softer and fluffier than it sounds I promise…

GIF by the lovely Salome-C

Anon - I know you submitted this request forever ago. I'm sorry it took so long to write. Since I wasn't sure which prompt list you wanted number 45 form I picked number 45 from two lists:

"You're hurt. Please just let me heal it" & "I bought this. It's your favourite colour."

— — — — — —

There were two things you had quickly realised about Poe Dameron since joining the Resistance. 

The first is that the rumours were true. He actually is the best pilot in the galaxy, and much more humble about it than you would have expected. And the second, is that whenever the pilot used the word "fine", things were, in general, very much not fine. 

So listening to him grit out the word through clenched teeth, hammering buttons on the console in front of him as the ship groans and alarms blare around you, you already knew things were bad. Very, very bad. 

Glancing over at him, you can see sweat trickling down his brow, he's breathing hard, one hand pressed tightly against his side, the glistening of red peeking through his fingers. He'd insisted that the glancing blow from a vibro-knife during the fight that had you running back to your ship, had been nothing. He insisted it barely grazed him, and he'd be perfectly fine, but that you needed to leave now. And with the First Order hot on your tails, you hadn't had time to question it. That is, until now.

"Poe, please tell me that's not blood I'm seeing!"

"I said I'm fine," he growls in response, slamming his hand down on the controls before swinging the ship around in a way that has you almost thrown from your seat. 

"You're hurt! I need to patch that!" 

"Now is not the time to play medic when we have the first order busting in our cargo doors!" He shouts, clearly frustrated with your concern.

"Now's not the time for you to bleed out over the kriffin floor, either!" You yell back, redirecting your fire to take out a Tie creeping up on you. 

"I know that!" He snaps, swinging the ship again. "This is not good. Not good."

You can hear him mumbling to himself between stuttered breaths as he tries to get your hyperdrive back online, while simultaneously trying to evade the first order fire. You yourself are barely keeping pace with your shots, there's too many, too quick, and Poe's flying is too erratic. 

"Poe, I'm having some real trouble here," you shout over the noise, taking out another two ties, which are quickly replaced by more.  

"I just need…a few minutes." Something in his voice sounds wrong, it's quiet, barely whispered out above the blaring alarm. It sends fear shooting through you. 

Taking your eyes from the battle in front of you, you look back over at him. His movements are sluggish, and he groans leaning over the console. When he catches you looking, he shakes his head. 

"I'm fine. Just keep shooting."

You want to keep looking at him, to make sure he's still breathing at least, but trying to keep up with the enemy ships surrounding you needs all of your attention, and when the ship judders and groans under another hit, you have no choice but to concentrate on the battle. That is, until a soft series of beeps gets both your attention.

"Ok good. Hyperdrives up, mostly," the pilot nods, taking a deep breath. "It'll do what we need." 

Another round of fire glances off your shields, making the ship give a shudder of protest before you spin to take out the Tie circling you.

"Shields aren't going to…hold...much…l-longer.' His words are slurred and spaced as he tries to breathe through the pain every jolt of the ship must be causing him. Even with the little medical training you have, you know the amount of blood spreading out across his shirt, the amount of pain he's in, is not a good sign. 

"Poe?" 

"Just shoot!" He yells, making you flinch at his tone. 

Shoot. All you had to do was shoot. 

~

With a shudder the ship blips into hyperspace, taking a series of quick timed jumps, designed to throw off anyone who would try to follow you. When you finally come to the last jump, deep in the heart of dead space, you check the tracking console and let out a woot.

"We did it! I don't think they managed to follow us! Poe we-" the words die on your tongue as you glance over at the pilot. He's deathly pale, sweat making his hair curl at the ends, staring at the beeping console display with a frown. "Poe, you're not happy? Why aren't we happy?"

"I don't…it's fine. We'll be fine," his fingers continue tapping away, watching the flickering statistics scroll past. 

"Why aren't we happy?" You ask again quietly, worry creeping into your tone. Bringing your eyes back to the display, you pull up the same information he has, and your stomach drops. The shields were gone, life support was rapidly running out and worse your fuel tank had been hit. The last of your fuel had been burned up with the final jump, rendering the ship dead. 

Poe must see the look of horror on your face, and he constantly tries to reassure you in a soft, confident tone. The one he used on you when you went into your first battle and froze. The one he uses to talk to the new recruits when they get scared.

"Hey, don't worry, ok? I can-I can get a signal…out…everything will be fine."

Drawing your eyes back to the pilot, you watch as he doubles over, red seeping out over his fingers as he clutches his side, gasping in pain. You're out of your seat and at his side in seconds, trying to peel his hands away, so you can assess the situation. 

"Poe, you gotta let me look at it," you beg, kneeling down and placing your hands over his. 

"We don't… have time," he grits out, panting for breath.

"Yeah and I don't have time for you to go dying on me, ok? You're going to bleed out, and I'm not going to be the girl that let the poster boy of the resistance die!" You hold his stubborn gaze steady until he finally drops his hand away from his stomach. Letting out a soft sigh of relief, you carefully lift up his shirt to look at the wound, flinching at his hiss of pain. Your stomach gives a sickening turn as you take in the ragged slice through his side. 

"Ok, ok, so, it probably just looks worse than it is right? Sure, you're about to tell me you're fine." You force a smile to your lips as you press your hand over the wound, attempting to stem the bleeding. 

The fact he's strangely quiet is what makes you look up again. His head lolls on his chest, eyes closed, sweat dripping off his brow, breathing…but barely. 

~

"Keep still, I'm not done." You sigh as he moves for what feels like the thousandth time as you try to stitch his wound.

"It hurts!" The pilot complains, shifting again, which earns a growl of warning from you.

"Yeah, well I'm not a medical droid, so you're gonna have to put up and stop whining about it. Or shall I just let you continue to bleed out all over the cockpit? Besides, the painkillers will kick in soon enough."

He lets out another hiss of pain, and you do feel bad, really you do. If you had a med droid it would have been quicker, easier and Poe probably would have stayed asleep for it. Unfortunately for you, he'd woken with a start, ripping half the stitches out when he tried to jump out of the pilot seat, meaning you had to start over with very little medical equipment. And since then he seemed to do everything possible to make this job harder.

Pausing in your actions, you soften your approach, letting out a sigh and trying to bite down your building fear. 

"You're hurt. Please just let me heal it?"

"I'm fine," he insists with an annoyed huff, but looking him over you can still see the sheen of sweat on his skin and the stuttered way he's breathing through the pain, especially since you had to remove his shirt to patch the wound. 

"Yeah, course you are," you mutter, pushing him back down when he tries to get up. "Please don't move. I'm not a good medic, and the resistance needs you alive."

"Disagree." He lets out a hiss of pain as you put in another stitch. "Actually, bad medic part, I might agree with."

He groans as he tries to get up again, and this time when you press him down you hold your hands against his chest, pinning him in place.

"Poe, stop! I'm serious. Sit your damn ass down and let me finish this." Something in your tone seems to make him stop, gazing up at you and giving you an almost playful smile. 

"Yes ma'am," 

"Remind me never to fly with you again," you mutter to yourself, going back to fixing a medpatch and bandage over the wound. Frowning at the blood still seeping through.

Taking off your scarf, you gently try to clean up some of the blood covering his side, checking for any further injuries. Poe gently catches your wrist, holding you still as his eyebrows pull together. 

"You know that's going to get ruined? It's your favourite one."

You frown at the fact he knows that, but then the rational part of your brain kicks in. Of course he does, you wear it everywhere. It had been a gift from home, the last thing you'd taken with you when you left for the resistance, a reminder of what you would be fighting for. You're home, everyone's homes, families, loved ones.

"Yeah well, it's just material," you shrug, refusing to look up at him, "I can get a new one."

"It's not, though, is it?" He asks softly, letting you go. From the corner of your eye you see him fingering the chain around his neck, and you know he understands. Things are most often never what they appear to be. 

You stay silent, going back to cleaning him up, and he doesn't stop you again or push you for an answer, instead he lets silence settle over you for a long moment. 

"Sorry I've been a bit of a dick. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I know you're trying to help," You pause and lift your eyes to look at him, but Poe is staring at his boots.

"The state of you, I'd say you're in an immense amount of pain. If I was you, I'd have done a lot more yelling. So please don't apologise," you give him a reassuring smile, watching as his eyes flick over your face.

"Still sorry," he sighs softly. Catching your hand, he squeezes your fingers gently. "I just didn't want anything to happen to you. I just want to get you back safely."

Even though both your hands are covered in blood, and you're floating through space waiting to be blasted into stardust by the First Order, or suffocated when the life support runs out, the touch still makes your heart leap. You're fairly sure he has no idea of the crush you've been harbouring since meeting the resistance pilot, and in all honesty you're glad for that. Poe, with his good looks and reputation could have anyone he wanted, and you suspect he did. There was no need to embarrass yourself, or him, when he turned you down. 

You can't find an answer to his words, so you allow the silence to drag out for much longer than it needs to, savouring the feeling of his hand in yours. Of course, Poe wants to get you back safely. He holds himself accountable for too many deaths already, although they aren't his fault. If you died out here he'd only blame himself and that's the last thing you want. 

But you couldn't let yourself think like that. Someone would come for you and everything would be fine. There wouldn't be anymore bodies to add to his conscience today.

Letting go of his hand, you swallow hard and busy yourself clearing up the medical equipment. 

"So, Commander, how are you feeling? Let me guess, fine?" You ask, still unable to look back up at him and trying to lighten the tension threading through the cockpit. His answer is so smooth you could almost think he's had it lined up for a while now.

"Like you're just using this as an excuse to see me shirtless."

You hope he doesn't notice the way your hands fumble on the medkit at his words, or the way the heat rises to your face. Instead, you try to cover them both with a sigh and a roll of your eyes. 

"Not everyone is trying to get you naked, you know."

"I didn't say everyone. I said y-" he cuts off his own words, letting out a low whine of pain as he sits up, leaning over the console. "We gotta try and get some help or get moving before they catch up. Remind me again why we didn't bring an astromec?"

"Easy mission, in and out, non-hostile, won't need one, and BB is busy doing something for the General. I can handle this myself." 

Poe gives a huff of laughter of your impression of him, one that ends in a gasp and has his hands flying to hold his side. Your own hands automatically cover his, as though you could make any difference to the pain he's in by pressing your palm against his knuckles. 

"I'm fine, don't worry. Just don't make me laugh again," he smiles reassuringly, but you can feel his fingers trembling under yours. 

"I'm banning that word as soon as we get back. The next time you use the word fine in my presence I'll-" you pause, not sure what your actual threat would be, and it earns you a lopsided grin. 

"You'll what?"

"I'll do something terrible you won't like," you finish lamely. "Now just sit still while I see what we can do about getting a distress signal out."

~

"Fuck," the curse stutters out quietly, and he tries to cover it with a cough, but you catch the word, and the grimace of pain he tries to mask. It sends a spark of worry through you. He shouldn't still be in this much pain, not after the amount of painkillers you've dosed him with over the past hour. 

His eyes catch yours in the dim emergency lighting and despite the pain, he still manages to give you a cheeky smile. "Caught you staring. Would you rather I put my shit…urgh…shirt back on?"

"You're in pain," is your flat response, no longer even taking any notice of his lack of clothing, "can I do anything to help?"

"You can kiss me?"

The data pad you'd been holding while checking for a rescue, clatters noisily to the floor as your hands forget to work, staring at him in shock. 

"What?"

"I said you can kiss me." He wheezes out a small laugh with a grimace of pain, evidently entertained by your reaction. With a huff, you pick up the data pad, brushing down your clothes in distraction.

"Why would I do that?" 

"Because it would distract me from the pain. It's my dying wish. You have to grant it."

"You are not dying. Don't talk like that," you frown at him, your stomach twisting as you look him over. He's too pale, and all too clearly trembling from the pain.  

"Feels a lot like dying." The absolute lack of humour in his words is what worries you the most. 

Kneeling down next to him, you press the back of your hand to his forehead, fear splintering through you at the burning heat that meets your skin. Glancing down at the wound, you can see blood still slowly seeping through the bandages and your stomach lurches at the sight, well aware he shouldn't still be bleeding this much. Carefully peeling down some of the bandages, you look over the wound, taking in the black threads creeping out under his skin from the cut. It's like nothing you've ever seen before - They run like dark veins, spider webbing out across his skin, spreading further with each passing moment. You have to carefully school your expression in order to not alarm him, but Poe is the most observant person you know, and he notices even the smallest stiffen of your shoulders. 

"It's not looking good, is it?" 

"No, it's not looking good," you admit quietly, noticing he doesn't even look down for himself. 

"You know, I always thought I'd go out in battle? Pulling some heroic stunt in my X-Wing?" He sighs, leaning back in the chair and staring at the darkness through the transparisteel pane, his breathing shallow and laboured. "At least it's still out here, in the stars."

"Poe, listen, you aren't dying here. I forbid it. I order you to make it home and live a long, happy life."

He smiles, rolling his head onto his shoulder and flicking his eyes to you. It's clear the effort of holding it up is becoming too much, which only makes your heart pound harder in fear.

"I'm your boss. You don't make orders," he tries to give you a teasing grin, but he only manages a grimace. 

"I'm staging a mutiny against you. So, now I'm the boss, and I'm ordering you not to die." You hope the words come out more firmly than they feel, desperate more to keep him talking than anything else. 

"I've never been good at following orders," his lips twitch in a small smile as beads of sweat break free from his forehead, rolling down over his cheeks like tears. "I'll try, though, just for you. Need a better offer tho- fuck!" he doubles over, taking a few short shaking breaths. 

Something was wrong. Something was so terribly wrong, and you have no idea what to do, how to help. You can feel tears pricking your eyes, helplessly pressing your hands over his.

Glancing down, your heart drops into your stomach as the SOS signal still pinging away on the datapad shows nothing, no incoming ships, no planets or moons, just the empty vastness of space and the quickly running out life support. 

Poe was going to die out here. And soon after you would too. How poetic to die with the man you fell for, before you ever had the courage to tell him. Far from romantic like in the holovids you only feel a bitter disappointment of time stolen from you, and the sharp tang of fear on your tongue.  

Poe goes quiet so suddenly that you think he's already gone, his eyes drifting shut, sweat dripping off him, his breathing barely there. Jumping into action, you grab his shoulders.

"Hey no, no, no sleeping. Stay awake, ok? Poe, stay awake," you desperately shake him until his eyes open a little, blinking blearily at you as though he can't see you properly. "I'll make you a better deal, ok? How about, you stay awake and make it home alive, and then I'll kiss you. I promise. But you gotta get home alive first," you warn him, reaching up to brush his damp curls away from his forehead.

Poe affords you a small, exhausted smile, his eyes half lidded and glazed. 

"I always liked you, you know? Bit disappointed…I won't…be able to…accept that…deal," his sentence is broken between gasped breaths and fear tightens painfully in your chest. 

You shush him softly, shaking your head. 

"You're going to be fine, ok? You're fine. You're always fine." Grabbing his hand, you hold it tightly in yours, feeling the tears you'd been holding back break free, rolling down your cheeks as you whisper.

Poe doesn't even attempt to squeeze your fingers, his hand stays limp in yours as you desperately bite back sobs of fear. "I promise I'll kiss you when we get back. I promise you can have anything you like. Just don't die on me, ok?"

"Don't cry…I'll…be fine," he chokes out. He lifts as hand, as though he would brush the tears from your cheeks but it never makes it that far up, it drops limp to his side as his eyes roll back in his head, his breathing stutters, and silence engulfs the ship. 

~

You sit back in your chair, stretching out your sore muscles, staring at the words on your report. They told you there was nothing you could have done. The blade had been tipped with poison and it was spreading fast through the pilot's veins, each beat of his heart pushed him closer to death. The medical training you had, the supplies on the ship, none of it was equipped to deal with something like that. No, you did everything you could. You couldn't have done anything more, or at least that's what they tell you. 

It had felt like days sitting in silence, Poe's hand growing colder in yours, the only noise the warning beep of the failing life support. No matter how hard you tried to wake him, he wouldn't even stir. Dizzy from the lack of oxygen, you'd laid your head against his thigh, squeezing his cold hand as you waited for your own demise. You were grateful for the dim lighting then. It meant you didn't have to look, you didn't have to see if his breathing had stopped.

The image of Poe motionless, his head lolling to one side, as they carried him onto the rescue ship, had haunted your dreams for weeks. He was no longer the effervescent pilot, no longer full of life, teasing and commanding. The last image you had of him was a broken doll, limp and lifeless. 

You can kiss me?

His words ring out so clear in the room it's almost as though he was standing beside you, with the playful smirk he always seems to have around you, dancing in his lips. 

Maker, you missed him. 

You'd gotten used to his presence in your life — the easy friendship and banter, the way he never made you feel like less, even though you're the least experienced pilot he's ever had in his squadron. You miss his laughter that happens at the most inappropriate times. You miss him distracting you on purpose when you're trying to concentrate. You even missed him being snappy and grumpy when he was tired. You missed him so much more than you could have imagined. 

With a sniff, you hastily wipe your eyes. It was no good dwelling on what already happened. 

"No point crying over spilt caf. Just get another cup," Poe would often tell you brightly when things went wrong. 

Taking a deep breath, you go back to the report, determined to finish it in the hopes that once it was done, you'd never have to think on that day again. That's the reason you'd come here, all the way at the edge of the base, to the abandoned part, filled with empty rooms full of dust, to finish this damn report in peace. But even as your fingers hover over the keys to start typing, a hesitant knock on the door stops you. 

With a groan of annoyance, you push the chair away from the desk, standing up on stiff legs that have been sitting too long and don't want to move. It’s a surprise that anyone has even come this far down the base, let alone appears to be purposely coming to find you. 

Pressing your hand to the door panel it slides open with a soft woosh, revealing a head of messy curls, an impish grin and a pilot who should, to your knowledge, still be laid up in medical recovering for at least another couple of weeks.

"Poe! You're out!"

"Yeah, I escaped my captors, and I'm on the run! So I probably don't have long before they drag me back. Did you miss me?" He grins in an all too familiar way, as though you haven't been separated for weeks. "I've been looking for you for ages. Why are you here? Nobody uses this room anymore. Meeting up with a secret lover?" He pokes his head into the small room you've been using to work in, confirming that it's empty, as though you might have been hiding someone inside.  

You blink in shock a few times, still surprised he's standing in front of you, when the nurses had exasperatedly told you for the tenth time, that his recovery would take at least a few more weeks. He didn't yet have his full strength, nothing had changed since yesterday and no you were absolutely not allowed to visit him. But the grinning man standing in the doorway, albeit a little less put together than he usually would be with his crumpled untucked shirt, tired eyes and messy hair, seems like he's perfectly fine. 

"So, what are you doing?" He asks again, raising an eyebrow when you fail to answer his questions. 

"Oh, I just needed somewhere quiet to finish some reports, you know, about what happened. And I guess I'm hiding a bit," you shrug, shuffling your feet, suddenly awkward in his presence after weeks of not being allowed to see him. "People keep asking me what happened, how you are, if I've seen you, blah blah. I swear, if I have to hear one more girl simper at the fact you got hurt, I might defect to the First Order just to save my sanity. How are you feeling?"

"Me? I'm fine, and I can't help being popular," he grins with an easy shrug. "Can you tell me who's been asking though? I'm hoping one person in particular might have been enquiring after me?"

You frown at him, trying to bury the spark of hurt at the comment. It isn't Poe's fault you have feelings he doesn't know about. But even so, your answer comes out snappier than you mean. 

"Go ask them yourself instead of bothering me."

Poe raises both eyebrows this time at your tone, but there's still a hint of a smile on his lips as he shrugs. 

"Alright, I will. In fact, I'll go ask them right now." He spins on his heel and walks two steps, barely giving you time to feel the stab of hurt in your chest, before he turns back around to face you. "Oh, hey, there you are! I just wanted to ask if you have been enquiring about me and my wellbeing since I almost died?"

"What are you doing?" You sigh with a shake of your head, your demeanour softening as he walks back to you. 

"Asking the only person on base I care about, at least in a ‘I’ve fallen head over heels for you’ sort of way, if they asked about me while I was recovering?"

You flounder, opening your mouth and closing it again as he grins. Heat floods through every inch of your skin, and you're sure your expression is one of absolute shock.

"No? And here I thought they were upset and worried about me. Frankly, I'm a bit offended now because they made me a promise. And you know, promises made on people's death beds you have to keep. It's the law." He stares at you seriously, his expression almost grave but it's not hard to see him fighting back a smile.

You have to fight to keep your breathing steady, your stomach plunging down to your feet at his words. Part of you had perhaps hoped that he hadn't heard you say that, that maybe he'd be too out of it by then to remember it, that maybe the trauma had wiped it from his mind. Or, at the very least, he would have taken it as a joke. Now you can't tell now if he's using it to tease you, or he's actually serious. 

"If I remember right," he pauses, tapping his chin with his index finger as he pretends to think, "I think you might have said I could have anything I wanted if we got home? Sound about right?" He raises an eyebrow at you as he watches you squirm in embarrassment. 

"I-I…well… it was a stressful situation…" you stutter, heat prickling out across your skin, "I just…wanted to make sure you got home…and…I-I just…you know, said stuff to keep you awake."

His expression softens as you trail off, gesturing wildly and trying to defend your words. 

"Oh, so you don't want to kiss me?" He tilts his head, regarding you standing frozen, still trying to process exactly what he's trying to tell you. "Listen, I'm an idiot. I should have told you this a long time ago. I know you like me. You're terrible at hiding it. But," he pauses with a sigh, running a hand through his hair, "I always thought you would make a move if it's what you wanted. But then out there, when you made that promise, I thought maybe… maybe you do want me as much as I want you?"

You could kiss me?

His words come back from the ship in stark clarity. You had assumed he was joking, trying to lighten the mood and tease you. But now you realise he was serious. He was asking for something he thought he couldn't ever have, because it was his last chance to do it.

A whole storm of emotions rise up quickly and overwhelmingly, the biggest being the regret that you hadn't listened, not truly listened. Not just that day on the ship, but always. The more you think about it, the more opportunities you know he's given you to say something, anything, about your feelings, and you'd let them pass by. 

Taking a deep breath, you meet his questioning gaze. 

"Well…I did promise you anything you wanted if you got home," you finally answer quietly. 

The pilot pauses for just a moment, swallowing almost nervously as though he had expected your rejection, before he nods solemnly, taking a step closer to you. Bringing his hand up to rest against the side of your neck, he rubs his thumb across your cheek before down to softly trace your bottom lip. 

"You did," he replies softly, as your breath catches at his touch.

"And it was your dying wish," you continue, your heart hammering against your ribs in anticipation.

"It was," he whispers, leaning into you and bringing his lips a breath away from yours, allowing his soft curls to brush against your forehead. The blood roars in your ears, deafeningly loud and you wonder if he can feel the heat currently blazing out across your skin. 

"And you're sure you're in your right mind?"

"I am," he answers, and you catch the flicker of a smile before he presses his lips to yours.

It's nothing like what you imagined kissing him to be like. He's sweetly tender — first the slightest brush of his lips against yours before placing gentle kisses to your top and bottom lip. Only when you relax — the tension you hadn't realised you were holding dropping from your shoulders — does he sweep his tongue across your lower lip, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against your own, carefully slow, as though he has all the time in the world to map each part of your mouth. 

You can't help but allow a soft moan to escape as he kisses you, and your reaction seems to be the signal he needs, because he stops holding back. 

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close against him as his tongue battles yours with ravenous desire. Your hands tangle in his hair, kissing him back with as much desperate passion as he was giving you. 

The way he kisses you is all consuming, wiping away thoughts of anything else that exists in the galaxy. You hardly notice the way he backs you up into the room, without ever breaking your kiss. 

He doesn't pause until your legs hit the back of the desk. Only then does he pull away from you, taking your lower lip in his teeth and tugging gently. You let out a somewhat shaky breath, having only a moment to breathe before his mouth crashes into yours again, kissing you as though he's been starved of touch for years, not just a few weeks. 

When you eventually break apart, giddy with excitement and breathing heavily, he continues to steal quick kisses from you, keeping you pressed close against him.  

"Stars," he breathes softly, leaning his forehead against yours, as you bite your lip shyly, still trying to process the fact he kissed you, and like that. "Yeah, that was absolutely worth almost dying for."

"Yeah, maybe take out the near death experience next time though?" You laugh breathlessly, allowing your eyes to flicker closed as you enjoy the moment, trying to calm your heart to a normal speed again. Maker, there's no way you'll survive if he kisses you like that again.

"Do you mind if I sit down for a second?" He asks suddenly. Blinking yourself out of your kiss hazed daze, you notice how pale he's become, and you have a sudden stab of anxiety. It's a stark reminder that he's still not well and should be resting. 

"Yeah, come on."

He doesn't walk like he needs your help, but he allows you to support him as you lead him around the other side of the desk to sit down in the chair. "This is why you were supposed to stay in medical."

"I'm useless sitting there, though," he complains. "They won't let me have visitors, they won't let me do any work. Apparently I'm too likely to tire myself out if I leave. Like they know," he scoffs with a roll of his eyes.

That at least makes your frown soften just a little. Imagining Poe confined to a small corridor of rooms was difficult, given his chaotic nature. 

"You kiss a someone and you go weak at the knees. I think maybe you should be listening to people who know better?"

"I think that was because I had to look everywhere for you while evading capture," He complains, giving you a pointed look as though it's your fault. "I can't be cooped up in there any longer. I'd rather spend as much time as I can with you until they track me down. I've sent BB to tell them I'll be back later anyway," he grins proudly at his own plan to evade medical care, making you roll your eyes. "Let me do something useful, please."

"Poe," you start gently, leaning back on the desk, but he knows what's coming and gives you a pleading look, making you stop your lecture and sigh. "Fine, just tell me honestly how you're feeling now?"

"Really I'm fi-" 

One glare from you stops him in his tracks. He gives you a small nod, remembering that the word is banned between you now.

"I feel like I could sleep for a month and still be tired," he sighs honestly, leaning back in the chair to stare at the ceiling, "I mean I feel like that all the time now. It's getting better but it's taking too long. I feel trapped. I need to be doing something to help. I can't just lie down all day and let everyone else do all the work."

His frustration is evident, and it makes your heart ache for him. You know this is Poe's worst nightmare, having to sit back and watch, unable to do anything to help. Pushing yourself off the desk, you instead stand between his legs, gently brushing your hands through his soft curls as he looks up at you. 

"You did almost die. You just gotta take it easy for a little while. You'll be back in your X-Wing flying circles around everyone in no time." Leaning over, you hug him tightly, feeling his arms slide around your waist as he buries his face in your neck. "They said you'll be better soon. Just be patient with them, they are doing their job."

He sighs softly, squeezing you hard before he lets you go. Sitting back down on the edge of the desk, you look him over as he talks, glad the colour seems to be returning to his cheeks. 

"I know. I'll go back later. But will you please let me stay for a couple of hours? I'll be fi-alright now, I promise. It just comes and goes when I overexert myself."

"Well then I guess kissing is off the cards for the rest of the day," you smile, and he gives you an unimpressed look. "Hey, you said you wanted to help. Kissing me is not helping anyone."

"It helps me," he grins. "Besides, I deserve them. I came bearing gifts!"

He fishes around in his jacket pockets, eventually slowly pulling out a length of material and placing it in your hands, his gaze hopeful and wide as you look it over. You run your fingers across the soft fabric, watching the lights catching the colour as it slips through your fingers.

"I bought this for you. It's your favourite colour, right? I know it doesn't replace the one I ruined, but still. It's a sort of thank you for saving my life. But you know if you don't like it…" he trails off, watching your expression. 

He knew your favourite colour. Your heart swells, and your fingers tighten in the scarf, stopping yourself from throwing your arms around him, purely from fear the sudden movement might hurt him. 

"I love it. It's honestly perfect. Thank you, Poe." Leaning over again you brush your lips sweetly against his as his eyes light up with relief. 

"Wish I could take credit for anything but the colour," he smiles sheepishly. "I had to send Karè out with instructions because they wouldn't let me leave medical."

You lean back against the desk as he stands up holding his hands out for the scarf.

"Can I?" 

Nodding, you hand it back to him, allowing him to carefully wrap it around your neck, his thumbs brushing softly against the edges of your jaw as he does. You wrap your arms around him as he leans into you, brushing his nose against yours, barely allowing his lips to ghost over yours, sweetly teasing you until you pout. With a soft laugh at your reaction he finally kisses you properly, with an intensity that makes your own knees go weak. 

By the time you pull away, you're breathless, and the room is far too warm once more. 

"If you keep kissing me like that, I'll end up in medical with you," you giggle before you pause, pulling back to look at him suspiciously. "Maybe I'm already in medical? This is just a really good dream, isn't it?"

Poe laughs softly and shakes his head.

"I really hope not, but if you do wake up, I'll kiss you again and remind you just how much I like you."

You roll your eyes and shake your head, "Ok being sweet is not going to stop me sending you back to bed."

He grins, knowing he's been caught out. 

"How about we make a new deal? I’ll sit here with you, and I'll be very good and quiet, and then when you’re done with your reports I'll go back to medical for the night?” He gives you a soft kiss, and you're sure its purely in distraction.

“I feel like there’s a but coming,” you raise an eyebrow at him, and there's a look of absolute mischief shining in his eyes. 

"But you have to sit on my lap,”

Maker, he was going to be a nightmare this entire recovery.

----------

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something something your friends howling with laughter when you send “john mactavish — the better john” back to the table he shares with a bunch of wide shouldered sorts with a careless “sorry, i prefer my “johns” with experience” after a cursory up-and-down over his body.

those same friends staring slack-jawed when an absolute bear of a man drops heavily into the seat opposite you with a “heard you like a john with experience, s’that right, sweetheart?”

meanwhile you’re staring at the grey hair in his beard and at his temples with something approaching stars in your eyes

damn i need a fic w these mfs THEY ARE DOING SMT TO ME

more rlly quick sketches of my recom ocs, aka vipers only friends. they’re both snipers and the one w the beanie has a british accent. kobras the more talkative one while boa is just happy to be here. jacques is french and kobra is british. bffs for life

REALLLLL

I just want to read some fluffy (non-smutty) Steve Rogers x Reader fic where he doesn’t abandon her and is not a dark alpha mob boss!!!! I hate the dark! Steve trope with a deadly passion, but the tag is filled with it! Makes me wanna gag.

gaz and the wallflower. 'tis the season for self-indulgence. cw: alcohol

you're not sure why you agreed to come.

parties have never been your thing. the music's always too loud, and the number of strangers is always exhausting. tonight, everyone seems determined to find the holiday spirit at the bottom of a glass. you guess the alternative—sitting in bed with only your cat for company, scrolling aimlessly—would be worse. certainly more pathetic.

your flatmate had begged you. at first, she'd been casual. perched on the edge of the sink, curling her eyelashes, tossing out the invitation like it didn't matter either way. then, when you mentioned starting a new puzzle, she shifted. she lined her words up in a neat row. she had her reasons, and they came fast.

she couldn't go alone. she couldn't leave you alone, either. you'd know people there, she promised, it wouldn't be like the other times she dragged you out. john would be there, obviously, as would simon and soap. and kyle. you liked kyle, didn't you?

the first time you met him was another night at some pub. you'd nearly melted into the floor when she introduced you. "this is my flatmate. she's shy, so be nice." the words hit you squarely in the chest, singed your cheeks, and you'd thought briefly about slipping out the back door. the men barely glanced at you, their attention ricocheting back to their pints and conversation, except kyle. he stayed planted in your periphery, and when you risked looking up, you found him watching you, his mouth lifting in the corner.

"lovely to meet you," he'd said, and you'd managed to eke something out before skittering to the bar to order. you'd stuck close to your flatmate the rest of the night, even as she and john dissolved into their usual nauseating couple routine. if you felt kyle's gaze from down the table, you ignored it.

one drink in, you'd muttered something about a headache, grabbed your coat, and left.

you liked kyle, didn't you?

well...

when you arrived, you floated, half-hidden behind your flatmate, letting her take the reins to usher you through the packed house. you felt more like a prized pony with the way she presented you to people while you mumbled polite hellos and imagined silent commentary. yes, that's right, i'm the mysterious recluse who shares her rent. oh, you know her from pilates? how fascinating. oh, you're old school friends? of course. she seemed to know everyone. why she needed you in attendance, you didn't know.

eventually, she left you on the edges, john having finally arrived. you glanced around and spotted one familiar face—kyle. but he was mid-laugh, mid-conversation, already folded into the room's warmth in a way you couldn't imagine being. 

you slipped away before he could spot you.

historically, you've never done well with the socially gifted. folks who thrive in crowds, extroverts who absorb energy from it all. your flatmate is the exception, and it's a helpful arrangement. she fields deliveries and visits with the landlady. she's good for company, and her occasional night in. she's a better gossip than the cat, who isn't much of a conversationalist, and you're not immune to loneliness.

still, there's an ache to it. you envy her sometimes. her affable nature, her ability to take up space without apology. you've always been quiet, someone who gets spoken over. perpetually torn between wanting to be noticed and dreading the moment someone actually looks too closely.

which is why it feels almost miraculous how kyle doesn't make a show of it. you wouldn't even notice him approaching if you weren't already scanning the room, rehearsing excuses to leave, plotting a french exit. but then he's there, sliding into your orbit. a drink in his hand, an easy smile on his face. like you've known each other for years, not just one brief introduction.

he doesn't ask if you're alright or why you're standing off to the side of things. he seems smart enough to know those questions tend to come off wrong. awkward. a little patronizing. instead, he glances at the empty glass dangling from your fingers.

"need a refill?"

he doesn't wait for more than a nod before taking it and braving the packed kitchen to fetch another.

"not your scene, is it?" he asks, slotting the drink into your hand upon his return.

you laugh nervously, though it's more air than sound. up close, he's almost too much. undeniably handsome, with that easy confidence that feels like it should come with a catch. you half expect someone to slip him cash or for him to crack a joke at your expense, something to break the spell. but he doesn't. he just leans an elbow on the wall beside you and cozies up. god, he even smells good.

"that obvious?"

"since you walked in."your cheeks heat.

"i hoped you'd be here, actually. she's always going on about you."

that's news to you, but it seems sincere. you drum your fingers on your glass and shrug. play it cool. "she tends to exaggerate." you have no idea what she would even say about you. that you like puzzles and single-player games? that you have what's probably an unhealthy codependent relationship with your cat?

he grins. "i don't know, don't think she has. at least not this time. she said you're shy."

"don't remind me."

"a tough nut to crack."

"well, i wouldn't say that." he laughs at that, and you take a sip of your wine, the warmth in your cheeks spreading down to your chest.

it's stupid, the little knot of petulance tightening in your stomach. you want to be annoyed. the music is too loud, the crowd unbearable, the lights too harsh. even the wine tastes off, tart and acidic. there's a dozen reasons to leave, all of them ready to go in your head. but then here's kyle, tilting that all on its head, making your carefully constructed exit strategy feel flimsy and ridiculous.

before you know it, he reels you into an actual conversation. he pokes fun at the music. the way john keeps dragging your friend under the mistletoe. how simon glares daggers at anyone who even looks at soap.

and he makes you smile and laugh properly this time.

"you've got a great smile." he pays the compliment so softly, offhand like it's a simple fact, you almost look around to check again to ensure no one's put him up to it. then he continues, finishing his anecdote, and you realize you're actually enjoying yourself.

it's new. it's…nice. really nice.

you learn more about him—about his mums, how they're in greece for the holidays, and he won't see them until the new year. he tells you he wants to adopt a pet, but he can't, not with his job. you assume, maybe a little too quickly, that he means a dog, but he shakes his head. no, he wants a cat. ideally one that's lazy and less fussy. good for a night in. his life's chaotic enough as it is.

by the time it circles back to you, you're a little stunned. smitten, maybe. and from across the room, you catch your flatmate's eye. over john's shoulder, she gives you a sly thumbs-up and a big, dramatic wink.

oh. that sneak.

oh shittt ITS SO GOOD IM DDAFHDHFHAHSFH

“What will you do, run after me John?”

“If I have to.”

“You don’t have legs.”

“I’ll crawl.”

“The rocks are sharp.”

“Then I’ll bleed.”

(Fan art of the amazing fic from @halcyone-of-the-sea ✨✨💫

ASHDHASJKDSHKFBSHDJGBHJDS THis needs to be a multipart thing cuz oh my dayysss. man if he did that to me i'd just smile and nod THANKS FOR THIS, AUTHOR!!!!!!

sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane. 

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally. 

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

Tsu'tey and my OC Ayluna 💜

He always looks after her, coz the TsahÌk told him to do so! After long time spending together, taking care of her and teaching her, how to life on pandora, he starts to fall for her.

I think, he only realises this, after the fear of losing her kicks in. When he starts to be over protective. Being afraid something happenes to her.

In this artwork I thought about, that he realised her beauty for the first time and his heart jumped a big. His body moved at his own, he goes into the water and pulled Ayluna in his arms. Keep her close, after the fear of maybe losing her one time too kicks in. Disclaimer : Ayluna is an Avatar but she is consciousness like Jake, she doesn't has a controller. She is 50% Human and 50% na'vi DNA she is NOT an albino

✎ LGBT Sanrio Icons ˊˎ-

╰┈➤ Lesbian Pompompurin, Gay Chococat, Bisexual Kuromi, Pansexual Hello Kitty, Transgender Cinnamoroll, Nonbinary Badtz-Maru

like/reblog if you use!