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cr-komi · 9 months

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"All's Fair in Love and War"

Summary: You harbored a deep hatred for Jeon Jungkook, your new roommate at Skyline View Apartments. Despite his outward kindness, the constant noise of his nightly activities with different partners fueled your resentment. Envious and frustrated, you couldn't help but wonder if he truly made those women feel as good as they sounded.

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook X Reader

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 6,061

Warnings: Swearing, angst, oral (m&f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, people), multiple orgasms

Authors Note: This is not proofread. I hope you all enjoy this story, it was fun to write but this is also my first time writing something like this so please be kind!

You hated Jeon Jungkook with every bone in your body.

When given this information, one might ask why you despise a man who has been nothing but nice to you since you became his new roommate at the newly built, Skyline View Apartments, although those who wondered about your dislike for him never had to hear him fucking the daylights of a new girl every single night.

You resented Jeon Jungkook so deeply that it had become an obsession. Day in and day out, the melodic moans and rhythmic thumping from his bedroom invaded your peace, a constant reminder of his promiscuity and your own solitude. Each passionate encounter was like a dagger piercing through the thin walls, leaving you seething with envy and frustration.

I mean, honestly, could he really make all those women feel that good?

---

The apartment was a patchwork of sunlight and shadows, dust motes dancing like tiny fairies in the afternoon glow streaming through the half-closed blinds. You sat on the edge of the secondhand couch that had seen better days, fidgeting with your phone as you checked the time once more.

"Any minute now," You whispered to yourself, the words lost in the quiet expanse of the room.

Your gaze flitted over the ad you'd posted online – 'Roommate Wanted: must be clean, quiet, and okay with late-night baking sessions.' The rent, unyielding in its monthly appearance, had become a specter haunting your bank account. Sharing your space wasn't ideal, but neither was the idea of moving back home to two unsupportive, narcissistic parents.

A knock at the door jolted you from your thoughts. You took a deep breath, smoothing down your shirt as if the gesture could iron out your nerves.

You opened the door to reveal a young man with a bright smile and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"Jungkook?" You asked tentatively.

"That's me, you must be Y/N," he replied, his voice carrying the warmth of a summer breeze. "I hope I'm not too early or anything."

"Right on time, actually." You stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. "Welcome to what might be your new home, I guess."

"Thank you," Jungkook said, stepping past the threshold. He surveyed the room with an appreciative nod. "You've got a great place here. The ad didn't do it justice."

"Photography isn't really my strong suit," You admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Jungkook set his duffel down, careful not to disturb the arrangement of magazines on the coffee table. "I'm pretty easy-going. As long as I have somewhere to sleep and cook some simple meals, I'm set."

"Ah, you cook?" You perked up, interest piqued. "That's definitely a point in your favor."

"Nothing too fancy," Jungkook confessed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "But I can manage well enough not to starve."

You laughed, the sound more relaxed than you felt. "I tend to bake when I'm stressed. So, between your cooking and my baking, we might not be the healthiest household."

"Sounds perfect to me," Jungkook grinned.

"Listen," you started, suddenly serious, "I really need someone to split the rent with. And you seem nice enough. But are you sure you're okay with the rules? My work schedule is kind of erratic, and I need quiet to focus when I'm at home."

"Totally understand," Jungkook assured you.

"I keep odd hours myself sometimes. For the record, I'm clean and respectful of shared spaces. I would want the same if the roles were reversed."

"Guess it's settled then." You extended her hand, feeling the strange mix of relief and trepidation churn within you. "You're welcome to be my roommate, as long as you want to."

"Well I wouldn't be here if I wasn't interested, now, would I?" Jungkook replied, his handshake firm and reassuring.

You nodded, laughing quietly, "I guess you're right. Let me show you around."

---

As the days turned into weeks, your initial reservations about Jeon Jungkook began to dissipate. Contrary to the image you had built up in your mind, he turned out to be an ideal roommate. He was considerate, always cleaning up after himself, and never complained about your late-night baking sessions that sometimes left the kitchen a mess. He was quiet and respectful of your space.

You found yourself growing closer to him, drawn in by his infectious laughter and the genuine interest he showed in your life. It was as if a friendship had blossomed from the ashes of animosity. You began sharing meals together, chatting about everything from work to your dreams for the future. For the first time in a long while, you didn't feel alone.

That is, until about two weeks ago when Jungkook started banging every girl that he found within a 5 mile radius.

---

The clock struck midnight, and you lay in your bed, the moonlight casting ghostly shadows across your room.

You had been trying to fall asleep for the past hour, but the hope of rest was dashed each time a new wave of noise crashed through the walls from Jungkook’s side of the apartment.

"Ugh, not again..." you muttered under your breath, pulling the pillow over your ears as if it could shield you from the cacophony next door.

A rhythmic thumping against the shared wall set a maddening tempo, accompanied by the high-pitched squeal of bedsprings in protest.

You could hear Jungkook's voice, a melodic baritone, now moaning without any hint of restraint or concern for his roommate.

"Seriously, does he have to be so loud?" You grumbled, annoyance simmering as you kicked off your tangled sheets.

It wasn't just the volume; it was the frequency. This had become an all too familiar soundtrack to your nights, and with every encounter audible through the paper-thin walls, your patience wore thinner.

"God, do they ever get tired?" The thought came unbidden, as you sat up, clenching your fists in frustration.

You paced back and forth, considering banging on the wall or maybe even screaming into your pillow. Each stifled cry and laugh from the other side felt like an invasion of your already cramped personal space.

"Okay, think... headphones. Where are my headphones?" You whispered to yourself, fumbling through your nightstand drawer in desperation.

Stressed and sleep deprived, you froze with a sudden realization: your headphones were in Jungkook's room.

You mentally cursed yourself for leaving them there, how could you be so damn forgetful?

"Are you fucking serious?" You groaned, mentally debating on whether you should interrupt Jungkook's late-night escapade or not.

"Tomorrow," you vowed silently, "I'm buying earplugs. Or soundproofing. Or moving to the moon."

As the seconds dragged on, punctuated by the occasional 'Yes!' and 'Right there!' from next door, your initial irritation gave way to a begrudging resignation. You knew this wouldn't be the last night spent battling for sleep against the symphony of Jungkook's indiscretions.

"It's now or never, Y/N. Just get it over with."

Summoning a newfound resolve, you rose from your bed and marched determinedly towards Jungkook's room. The hallway was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a cracked doorway that spilled out a warm, amber glow.

With every step, your anger fueling your actions, you were prepared to confront him about the disruption he was causing.

Clenching your fists tightly, you hesitated for a brief moment before knocking forcefully on his door.

The sounds from within abruptly ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Your heart raced in anticipation as you waited for a response. After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open slowly, revealing a disheveled Jungkook standing on the other side, bare chested with a sheet hanging loosely around his waist. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of you, clearly caught off guard.

As you stood at the threshold of his room, you were met with clothes strewn across the floor. The air was heavy with the scent of passion, mixing with a tinge of regret that hung in the air like an unanswered question.

"What the hell do you want, Y/N? Can't you see I'm busy?"

He gestured with his hand towards the inner parts of his room revealing a girl who seemed to be about your age, wide eyed and clearly uncomfortable with the situation that was playing out before her.

Your anger flared, the frustration of sleepless nights fueling your words. "I want some peace and quiet, Jungkook! This is not the first time this has happened, and I'm tired of being subjected to your...activities." You couldn't help but glare at the girl, her presence only amplifying your annoyance. "And who is she? Another one of your conquests?"

Jungkook's expression hardened, a mixture of annoyance and frustration crossing his features,"Y/N, you shouldn't come barging in like this! The stuff that I do in my time is none of your fucking business. And besides, we were just catching up."

"Catching up?" Your voice dripped with sarcasm. "Is that what you call it? Because I've heard more than enough catching up these past few weeks."

The girl let out a whimper, her eyes wide with fear, as if she was suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation.

Jungkook sighed, running a hand through his hair. Turning to the girl tangled in the covers he stared with apologetic eyes, "Look maybe you should just leave for now. We can finish what we started another time, yeah?"

The girl nodded, hastily gathering her clothes and making a beeline for the door, completely avoiding your gaze.

With a scoff, you turned your attention back to Jungkook, taking in his frustrated expression, "There, are you happy now? She's gone."

Jungkook's eyes narrowed as he took a step closer, his voice low and controlled. "You know, Y/N, you don't have to be so judgmental. Just because my lifestyle doesn't align with yours doesn't give you the right to invade my privacy and shame me for it."

Your anger flared even hotter at his words. "Invade your privacy? You've been invading mine, night after night! This is my home too, Jungkook. I deserve some peace and quiet."

He scoffed, crossing his arms defiantly. "And what about the peace and quiet I deserve? What if I told you that you're not the easiest person to live with either?"

The words stung, but you refused to back down. "I'm not the easiest person to live with!? That's bullshit! This is my apartment, or did you forget?"

He shook his head, frustrated by your accusations. "You act as if this place belongs only to you. Don't forget, Y/N, we agreed to this living arrangement equally. I have just as much right to live here as you do."

You threw your hands in the air, frustration finally starting to boil over, "Of course you fucking do! I don't care whether you have sex or not, or with who for that matter! I just wish you could be a little quieter. Is that too much to ask for?"

Jungkook laughed harshly, "If you don't care who I fuck or when I do it, then why are you standing outside my door right now, getting mad at me for that exact reason?"

If murder wasn't illegal, you would strangle Jeon Jungkook with your bare hands right fucking now, no regrets.

But instead of giving in to the violent urge that bubbled within you, you took a step back, trying to regain your composure. It was clear that this argument was going nowhere, and you knew that escalating the situation further would only make matters worse.

"I came here to address the noise issue, Jungkook," you said through gritted teeth, your voice strained with frustration. "I've been struggling to sleep because of the constant disruptions, and I wanted to talk it out like adults. But clearly, that's not possible."

Jungkook scoffed, "Are you saying I'm not mature enough to handle this situation?"

Oh fuck, someone should restrain you before things get violent.

"What?? When did I say th--" You paused for a moment, thinking before allowing a sly smile to spread across your features, "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

Jungkook's eyebrows shot up in disbelief, his eyes narrowing in anger. "You think you're so high and mighty, don't you? Always acting like you're better than everyone else," he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

You smirked, the tension between the two of you crackling in the air. "Well, at least I have some self-control. Unlike you, who can't seem to keep it in your pants long enough for me to get a good night's sleep."

His face flushed red, a mixture of embarrassment and rage contorting his features. "You don't know anything about me."

"Oh please," you scoffed. "Enlighten me then, Jeon Jungkook. I'd love to hear your story that justifies keeping the whole apartment complex awake every damn night."

Jungkook's jaw clenched, and you could see the anger flickering in his gaze. But instead of retaliating with harsh words or escalating the tension further, he surprised you by exhaling slowly, seemingly calming himself down before suddenly leaning in close enough that you could feel his warm breath fanning across your face.

"Are you sure you're angry because it's too loud for you to sleep?" He whispered, a devilish smirk etched into his features, "are you sure it's not just because you're jealous?"

"Jealous?" You sputtered, taken aback by his change in demeanor, "of what? Of the fact that you're fucking every girl and their mother?"

Jungkook nodded slowly, "Do you want some of the action, Y/N? Do you want me to fuck you so good you see stars?"

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at Jungkook, his words hanging in the air between you, the tension between the two of you reaching its peak. A part of you was shocked, but another part was aroused by his audacity.

"What the hell are you suggesting?" You hissed, your voice barely above a whisper. "You really think I'd let you do that to me?"

Jungkook smirked, a predatory gleam flaring up in his eyes. "Don't tell me you're not curious. You've seen me with other girls, you've heard the noises... do you ever wonder what it's like for them? To be in my arms, to be with me?"

Your breath hitched as you processed his words. Was this really happening? Was he really saying these things to you?

"You know, Y/N, you keep complaining about all the girls I've brought home these past few weeks, but you've never once stopped to ask me why."

"Because you have the same sex drive as a horny teenager?" You retorted, crossing your arms over your chest.

He took a step closer, his body language commanding your attention, "I was home that night." He whispered, eyes sparkling at your retort, a twinkle of mischief in his gaze.

"W-what do you mean? Which night?"

Jungkook's voice lowered, dangerous and seductive, "The night you came home with Taehyung."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," You stammered, feeling your body heat up as his gaze lingered on you.

Jungkook's smirk widened, "Oh, I think you do, Y/N. You came home that night, tipsy and flushed, your hair still wet from the rain that had been pounding on the windows."

You laughed nervously, trying to act innocent despite the fact that you knew exactly what he was talking about, "What...what do you mean?"

"I heard every noise you made that night, Y/N. Every cry, every scream, every moan, every whimper."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low growl, "And I watched you. I watched you give yourself to that boy, your eyes closed tight, your body arching back and forth in rhythmic motions. I saw every flush of color, every quiver of your lips, your nails digging into his back as you came undone."

You froze. If you had known Jungkook was home that day, there was no way in hell you would have left the door open as Taehyung fucked you into oblivion. At least...that's what you want Jungkook to think.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You wanted to deny it, to push him away, but at the same time, a part of you was yearning for more.

"Jungkook what are you--"

You couldn't finish your sentence before he was upon you, his mouth devouring yours in a passionate kiss that left you breathless.

You knew you should stop him, that you should push him away, but the arousal that Jungkook had stirred within you overcame any rational thought. You moaned into his mouth, your body arching into his, desire and want consuming your whole being.

He gently pushed you against the wall, his body caging yours in. Your lips met in a passionate collision that sent sparks flying between the two of you. Jungkook's tongue darted out to taste you, delving deep into your mouth with a groan. You welcomed him eagerly, your hands running through his messy hair before moving to his back, nails scratching lightly against his skin, leaving trails of desire.

He pulled away for a moment to run his nose along your jaw, inhaling deeply. To him, you tasted like cherry lip-gloss and wine, and Jungkook loved it. He captured your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on it softly before whispering hoarsely against it, "You have no fucking clue how long I've wanted this. How long I've wanted you."

His hands slid down your body, caressing your curves, making their way to your hips.

He lifted you up just enough that you wrapped your legs around his waist, arching into him.

Jungkook's free hand found its way under your shirt, tracing circles on your stomach before working its way up to cup your breast.

You moaned into the kiss, your head spinning from the mix of emotions coursing through your body. You've never been this intoxicated by someone before.

The scent of his cologne filled your senses, making you dizzy with want and need. You pressed your body against his hard length, feeling him stir against you. Your heart skipped a beat at his arousal, and in that moment you wanted nothing more than to feel him inside of you.

You pulled away from the kiss, gasping for air as you looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes. "Take me to your room." Your voice came out husky, a mere whisper.

Jungkook didn't need to be asked twice, pulling you closer towards his room. As the two of you moved, he nipped at your neck, causing you to gasp and squirm in his arms.

The sound of his footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, the sound of your passionate breathing filling the air. His room is only a few steps away, and he stumbled through the door, out of breath.

The two of you tumbled onto the bed together, your bodies entwined in a sea of need.

"You're everything I've ever wanted," he murmured against your skin before kissing his way down your neck towards your clothed breasts. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every inch of your softness as his mouth traced a trail of fire across your collarbone. Your bodies moved together sensuously, practically in unison.

You paused for a moment, looking down at the obvious erection he was sporting beneath the sheet that was somehow still wrapped around his waist.

You could feel the warmth of Jungkook's body as you sat next to him, his chest rising and falling rhythmically with his breaths.

You couldn't resist the temptation any longer; You reached your hand out to touch the bulge in the sheet that covered his waist. Boldly, You slid your fingers over the fabric, teasing him as you dragged the seets downwards to reveal a hard, hot shaft.

Jungkook groaned softly, his eyes fluttering shut as you wrapped your hand around it, encasing it within your warm, soft palm. It twitched in response, pulsing slightly under your touch.

Jungkook moaned softly, his lips parting as he watched your every move, hunger burning in his eyes. You had never felt so powerful before, so in control.

"You're going to drive me crazy, Y/N." Jungkook whispered, a hint of warning in his voice.

You grinned, happy to have succeeded in your goal, "But you know I love pushing buttons." you replied, voice thick with desire.

"Keep going." His voice was ragged, broken. He grabbed your hand and laced your fingers together, guiding your hand up and down his length. The fabric of the sheet brushed against your knuckles as it lay draped against his thighs.

You began to stroke him in sync with his movements, your breath hitching slightly at the feel of him. You took in the scent of his skin, warm and slightly salty with arousal, and the sound of your entwined fingers rubbing against the sheet, rustling softly.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his neck as you continued to stroke him. His skin was warm against your mouth, and you savored the taste of his sweat.

You nipped at his earlobe, delighting in the way he shivered beneath your touch. "Jungkook, can I suck your dick? Please?" You asked, your tongue dancing along his jawline.

He nodded against your lips, his hips bucking slightly, seeking more contact. You slid your other hand down to caress his balls, gently cupping them in your palm. They were heavy and full, and you couldn't help but wonder what they'd feel like in your hand when they were covered in your juices. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through your core, and you found yourself growing wetter and wetter by the minute.

"Y/N..." he moaned, his voice hoarse. "Please..."

You slipped the sheet away from him to allow yourself better access, quickly falling to your knees in front of him, and boy, did Jungkook love the sight.

You marvelled at the size of his cock, large and thick, glistening with pre-cum. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you wrapped your lips around the head, feeling his warm skin against your tongue.

Jungkook moaned deeply at the sensation, his fingers tangling in your hair as he felt the hot wetness envelop him. You licked and nuzzled the underside of his shaft with your tongue, teasing the sensitive skin with each flick before taking more of him in your mouth. You pulled back slowly, the head of Jungkook's cock slipping from your lips with an audible sucking sound, and then slid back down, taking him to the root with a loud gulp. Jungkook's hips bucked up off the mattress involuntarily, craving more.

You hummed in approval, cheeks hollowing as you bobbed your head up and down, creating a rhythm that sent shivers down Jungkook's spine. You cupped one of Jungkook's balls in your hand, massaging gently as you continued to deep throat him. Jungkook's taste exploded on your tongue, filling the room with a musky scent that made the both of you shudder. Each time you withdrew, you flicked the sensitive tip with his tongue, driving Jungkook insane with lust.

"Fuck baby...just like that." He moaned, threading his fingers through your hair, pulling you closer to him.

Jungkook's muscles tensed under your touch, his thighs trembling with the effort to hold still. He felt himself growing closer to his peak, his cock throbbing in your mouth. The sounds of your breathing grew louder, faster, and the room was filled with wet, slurping noises as you sucked harder. His eyes fluttered open when he felt your teeth graze against the sensitive skin at the base of his cock, and he cried out, arching into the touch.

"Ahh, shit, that mouth feels so good.”

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, a smirk gracing your lips. "Like that?" You asked, voice rough with desire.

Jungkook nodded, unable to form words as his body was consumed by pleasure. He reached down to stroke your hair, feeling the silky strands between his fingers as you moved faster, taking more of him into your mouth. Jungkook's hips bucked wildly now, meeting the rhythm of your bobbing head. He could feel the familiar tingle spreading through his body, his heart pounding in his ears.

"Fuck, I'm gonna-- shit, I'm close."

With one final thrust forward, Jungkook came, his release hot and thick in your mouth. He groaned loudly, almost giving out as he lost control.

You welcomed every drop, swallowing greedily as you continued to stroke Jungkook's length.

The room fell into silence, the only sound being their ragged breathing. Eventually, you pulled away, a satisfied smile on you face.

"That was amazing," Jungkook whispered, his cheeks flushed with arousal.

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. His hands cupped the back of your head, holding you close as you tasted your own handiwork. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," you whispered, your voice still thick with desire.

Jungkook nodded before fiddling with the hem of your shorts, "Let me make you feel good too, Y/N. I wanna taste you."

You felt a shiver of anticipation run down your spine as he began to run his fingers up and down your thighs, his touch sending shivers coursing through your body.

"Jungkook, I'm all yours," you whispered, your eyes never leaving his as he continued to explore your body.

He smiled softly before slowly kissing his way up your inner thigh, his tongue tracing a path that sent a rush of excitement coursing through your body. He paused for a moment, his knees brushing against your legs as he looked up at you, his eyes filled with desire.

"Just tell me what you want, babe," he rasped, his voice low and full of lust.

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You had never felt this exposed before, never this vulnerable. But you knew that this was what you wanted, this connection with him, and you trusted him implicitly.

"I-I want you, Jungkook. Please, just touch me."

Jungkook nodded moving himself slightly have have better access to your dripping pussy.

Smiling, he slowly pulled your shorts down your legs, revealing your most intimate parts to him.

You part your legs slightly, inviting him in as he pressed his lips to you slit, exploring with soft little licks and kisses. His warm breath bathed you sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Oh fuck..." You let out, arching your back slightly into his touch.

His tongue dove in, tracing your folds and flicking against your clit, lapping at your juices like a hungry animal. Your hips jerked forward involuntarily as he began to suck on your sensitive bud, drawing out a moan from the depths of your throat. "Jungkook..." you panted, gripping onto his hair tightly. He sucked harder, pulling on your clit between his teeth, and you gasped, feeling your whole body tense up.

"You taste so good," he mumbled against your entrance, tongue darting around inside of you.

To him, you tasted both sweet and salty, driving him wild.

Your breath hitched as he started thrusting his tongue in and out, in sync with his fingers that are now rubbing your entrance. His other hand squeezed your ass cheek, pulling you closer, and you whimpered, unable to focus on anything but the sensations coursing through you. Each thrust of his tongue hit your G-spot, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you cried out, throwing your head back, hair falling in front of your face as you lost control.

You tried to push him away, needing a moment to catch your breath, but he didn't budge. His tongue pushed deeper, exploring every inch of you, and you can't help but whimper

"I'm so close!" You warned, voice thin and breaking.

Jungkook smirked, feeling a sense of power in being able to bring you this close so quickly. He quickened his pace, his tongue flicking and thrusting inside of you, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Your hips bucked wildly, your back arched, and you cried out, your whole body trembling with pleasure.

When you could finally take no more, you cried out his name, your body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, your orgasm gripping his tongue and clenching around him. Jungkook continued to lick and suckle at your sensitive folds, drawing out every last drop of pleasure that he could, until you finally collapsed back down onto the bed, spent and breathless.

He gently pulled away, giving you space to recover, his own breath coming out ragged as he stared down at you, awe written across his face.

"Y/N. That was incredible. You're incredible." He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand reaching up to stroke your hair.

You leaned back slightly to meet his eyes, "I want you inside of me, Jungkook. Please."

"But...don't you want to take a break?" He asked, concern clear in his voice as he looked into your eyes. You smiled softly, understanding the concern behind his words.

"No. Please, Jungkook, I need you."

"Fuck..." He lowered his head and you found his dick, hard again after eating you out.

You gave him a few swift strokes, eliciting a moan followed by a string of curses.

You guided him towards your entrance, slowly opening your legs to expose yourself to him. You wanted him, needed him, and began taking him in slowly, inch by inch.

A low growl escaped his throat as you enveloped him fully, the two of you moving in perfect sync. His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you closer, deeper.

"Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good," he groaned, chest heaving.

Jungkook thrust into you with a steady rhythm. His hips slapping against your ass as the two of you moaned in unison. The bed creaked with your movements, filling the air with an erotic melody. Your nails dug into Jungkook's back, leaving red marks visible against his perfect skin. He growled, biting down on your neck as he lifted you up and slammed you down onto him with more force. Your breasts swayed with each movement of his hips, nipples hardening against his chest.

"You feel so damn good," he growled, his hips bucking faster with each thrust, his eyes never leaving yours.

You moaned softly, meeting his thrusts with fervor. His breaths came out ragged, panting as he continued to move inside of you.

Your bodies moved together in perfect sync as he pinned you down, not wanting to lose the feeling of being this close to you. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss that left you gasping for air.

To him, you tasted of both of your combined sweat and his essence as he nipped at your bottom lip before devouring it once more.

Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, urging him to go deeper. He groaned into the kiss and complied, slamming into you harder as he felt your inner walls clench around him.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips, the word lingering there as you both pulled apart to gasp for air. "You're so fucking perfect, Y/N." He slammed into you again, his pace quickening as he lost control. His fingers dug into your hips, marking your flesh with his nails.

The sound of skin hitting skin filled the room, echoing in the silence. Your head hit the headboard with every powerful thrust, eyes rolled back in ecstasy. You whimpered Jungkook's name, voice hoarse from the pleasure coursing through your veins.

You felt everything, each inch of him inside of you, and every touch that sent shivers down your spine.

You gripped onto his hair, pulling him closer for another deep kiss. Your tongues tangled together, hearts racing as the both of you lost yourselves in this moment. With every stroke of his hips, you felt the burning sensation between your legs intensify.

It was as if he was setting you on fire, and you couldn't get enough of it. His cock hit your G-spot over and over again, driving you wild with desire.

"Fuck, Jungkook!" You screamed, "I'm close!"

Your nails dug deeper into his skin, Jungkook hissed but didn't pull away, instead, he growled low in his throat and took your lip between his teeth, marking you.

You responded by biting his neck, hard enough to leave a mark of your own.

"Ah, Jungkook!" As Jungkook slammed into you harder and harder, a familiar coil began to build inside of you, bubbling up until finally waves of pleasure crashed over you, one after the other as you found your release.

Your moans and gasps filled the room, drowning out everything else, and Jungkook followed suit, his orgasm overtaking him not long after yours.

"Holy shit, Y/N, I'm gonna-- fuck!"

With one final thrust, Jungkook groaned and his hips stuttered, his warmth filling you up completely.

Your tongues tangled as the two of you kissed, your hearts beating together.

As you caught your breath and lay there together, your bodies still intertwined, you couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of completion. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sex and sweat, and your skin was slick with a sheen of perspiration.

Jungkook stroked your hair softly, his fingers gentle against your skin, and you could hear the ragged rhythm of his breathing. Your gaze met his, his eyes filled with vulnerability.

You leaned forward, lips brushing against his cheek, and whispered, "So, was all of that earlier...just to make me jealous? So I would give in and take the initiative?"

Jungkook's cheeks tinged a shade of pink, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, "You have no idea how long I've been into you. When I saw you with Taehyung, I just...I don't know. I saw the way you were with him, and I realized that I wanted to be the only one to make you scream like that."

Woah, that was some confession.

You swallowed hard, feeling a mix of surprise, joy, and confusion wash over you. "What do you mean, you've been into me for a long time? For how long?"

Jungkook took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with a blend of fear and love. "Since the first time I saw you. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I just couldn't resist you. You're everything I've ever wanted, and I knew I had to have you, Y/N."

You felt your heart flutter at his words, and you gently caressed his cheek. "I...I've had feelings for you too, Jungkook."

"Although this absolutely fucking pains me to admit, I knew you were home that day. You know, the day with uh, Taehyung. I did that on purpose. I was...I was t-trying to make you jealous."

Jungkook laughed, continuing to stroke your hair, "Well it fucking worked."

You chuckled softly at his admission, your heart swelling with affection as you traced his jawline with your fingers.

"As long as we're honest with each other, it's all good. And honestly, I don't think I would have been able to resist you either," you admitted, a shy smile playing on your lips.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I want to make sure we get this right, Y/N. I don't want to rush into anything, and I want to make sure we're both happy."

You nodded, understanding the importance of taking things slow. "I agree, Jungkook. We can take our time, and we'll figure this out together."

As you lay entwined, your sweaty bodies still glistening from your passionate encounter, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. This was just the beginning of your journey together and you knew that, as long as you had each other, you could face anything that came your way. The world had just opened up in the most unexpected way, and the two of you were ready to explore it together, side by side.

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writefightandflightclub · 7 months

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Five (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: This is SO VERY ANGST. More angst than any other chapter so far. STRAP IN GIRLIES (GN). I'd love it if you feel like sharing what you think - your feedback means the world to me. ILY :-* Reblogs, comments, and asks are literal power-ups in my day and I appreciate every single one!

Word count: 8.3k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

You’re spiralling.

You’re pissed off and you’re hurt and you’re somehow still horny as hell (somehow, perhaps even more horny since Santiago helped you out in that very particular way of his). You feel all in a tizz, like you don’t know which way is up; but even so, you’re pretty sure you’ve simply been going around in circles, and it’s dizzying. Santiago makes it easy to do that when you follow his lead, after all – all the more reason that you’d had to get out finally, all those months ago.

Safe to say, you’re a little bit worked up. Too many thoughts are racing through your head. Resentment that he could get you all riled up like that, have you come undone, and then straight up deny you. Like it was some power play all along and that all he wanted was the satisfaction. On the other hand, a dreadful longing spikes at the thought that maybe he really did just want to protect himself, because he wouldn’t know how to find his way out this time if he got lost in you all over again.

The main thing you’re feeling though – a bitter shard of pain stabbing through any sense of pleasure you may be left with - is a singular fear.

What if he really doesn’t want you anymore?

He wants you, yes, on some level. His admissions in the kitchen about wanting to kiss you confirmed that much. But his desire for you had always felt like an unstoppable force. Like something he couldn’t help or hope to control. Like a raging fire. He had told you that he loved you, wanted you, needed you, all those months ago. And while you are sure that remains true at least in part, you are terrified that all you leaving had achieved was to teach him how to live without you. And, contrary to that, his touch had simply confirmed how hopelessly consumed by him you still are, all your progress - moving on and rebuilding and forgetting - unravelled in mere moments by his fingers.

You resent that too. His power over you, when you always prided yourself on being strong – needing no-one. You have never liked to feel like the one who is compromised, in any situation. You always prefer to be the hunter as, that way, you’re not the one who gets hurt. But Santiago? Santiago is lethal, and he has always known your weak spots.

Maybe that’s why you had stormed angrily to your room, subduing your heavy footsteps reluctantly, only for the sake of your dear buddies sleeping soundly in their beds. Maybe that’s why you had hastily cleaned up, throwing on some fresh clothes from your case – a low cut top and some obscenely tight jeans. A splash of perfume. Some lipstick. All in the hopes of heading out to the local bar and searching for the kind of late-night attention which feels in your control. Seeking a desire which feels manageable. Trivial almost, instead of the kind which burns.

Part of you – a small part of you, at least - recognises you’re being ridiculous, irrational, reactive, even as you zip on your boots. But there is another part of you that simply can’t stay here in this house with him a moment longer, feeling like he doesn’t want you the way you want him.

You feel like, while you’ve been breaking apart for all these months, he was healing. It’s cruel maybe, that you would wish for his desire to burn him as much as it has a hold over you – but perhaps you’re not perfect. Perhaps you’re only human.

Whatever. It doesn’t all need to make sense right now. Your head’s all over the place. You’re not really thinking straight at all. You don’t know whether you want to cry or scream or get your brains fucked out (or maybe all of the above - not in that order). And so, you’re definitely not thinking when you throw open the door to the bathroom, recalling that you’d left your necklace on the counter. If you were -thinking- perhaps you would have heard the rushing of the water. Perhaps you would have heard the muffled, bitten back groans emanating from the shower cubicle.

Fuck.

If you weren’t thinking straight before, every thought falls right out of your head altogether when you swing open that door. Namely, when you see Santiago, his body slanted into the wall as he palms his thick, straining length in something of a frenzy.

You should retreat, probably. In fact, yeah. That's exactly what you should do. But, the sight of him there arrests you, and you can’t help but devour every detail of him. Your eyes skim over him only fleetingly, and yet your memory of his body fills in the gaps, meaning you’re able to see far more of him than you could otherwise in the split second your eyes rove over him.

He is stripped down, his body curled into the tiled wall, his forehead and one shoulder bracing himself as the stream of water thunders down on the back of his neck and his broad, lightly muscled shoulders.

His thighs are slightly spread and his full glutes are clenching as he fucks his hard, veined cock into the circle of his left hand, squeezing tight and showing no mercy, his pace relentless.

From the way his nipples are pebbled and the way you observe the tightness of the muscles coiling in his back, you can guess that the water is cold. Perhaps, that he had attempted to cool off after what had happened downstairs, seemingly to no avail. His need is heavy and urgent and burdening his hand, the veins popping in his slick forearm as water sluices over every contour of him and still, his want is evidently raging.

The most important detail of all, however, is that his eyes are closed, droplets of water beading in his long lashes, and a wracked moan sounding from around his own fingers as he shoves them over his tongue.

Fuck.

He’s licking them clean. He’s tasting you. Tasting your juices from his fingers and pumping himself raw from the thought of it.

Holy shit.

He wants you.

You see it now, clear as day. He wants you to the point of desperation. Helplessness. To the point of coming undone with his need for you. His want rages even beneath the stream of a cold shower, taken in hopes of subduing himself. He works himself urgently in his fist, in hopes of finding his release. You find him here, like this.

Unfinished.

You can see it much more clearly now. You see how he wants you. You see what you do to him. What you still do to him.

You see now that saying no to you likely took every scrap of control he had, and now that is gone, there is nothing left for him but you.

As you enter, Santiago hears the door creak open – you weren’t exactly sneaking- and he immediately tilts his body to the wall. It’s automatic - showing his ass rather than his dick in his hand, likely in case one of the boys had just walked in on him. But, when he sees it’s you stood there, all slack-jawed and honey-eyed, he foregoes the need to hide. He turns towards you instead, his length twitching as it grows even more rigid and more ruddy at the sight of you. Santiago’s eyes hooded and desolate with want as he looks you up and down in your ridiculous, come-fuck-me clothes.

Santiago knows fine well that you only wear red when you want to be shown a good time. You feel like a flare, on display, and maybe you’d feel stupid -like scrubbing this red paint from your mouth – if his need was not blatantly on display too. If his predicament did not seem even more dire than yours.

Finally, though, as you look and he lets you, you register the intrusion, and with a series of stunted vowel noises which barely make it past your teeth, you are dragging your eyes away from his. Your legs like jelly and skin flushed beneath your tight clothes, you are clasping the door handle and turning on your heel. Your only objective is to make it out of there, even if you turn to vapour in the hallway after the fact.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Santiago asks gruffly, and you are not sure what he means. Not sure whether he means to ask where you’re headed out to so late, or to inquire why in the hell you’re leaving the room now that you’re here, but God, you’re not sure anymore that you could answer either question in any way that would make the slightest bit of sense.

You’re just not thinking straight. Can you be blamed? Look at him. Look at this, all for you.

So, you freeze, breath held in your lungs as you grip the handle – your back to him, and about to swing the door open to hasten your exit. Instead, though, against every shred of good sense you have, you push the door closed, ever so gently, with you still on the inside. You turn, preposterously slowly back towards him, and when the sight of him stood there, wet and dripping, face all stern and languidly palming himself in the circle of his hand hits you, you flatten your back to the panelled door. Truth is, your legs feel so weak that you could barely stand without it.

And, as if that wasn’t quite answer enough, Santiago continues to look at you insistently.

Well? The quirk of his thick brow seems to enquire. Where the fuck are you going?

Your voice comes out all breath. “Nowhere.”

You’re going fucking nowhere, apparently. Only ever around and around in circles with Santiago “Pope” Garcia – but suddenly, you could care less.

Your eyes lock then, and it takes less than moments for him to be on you, his wet hands fisting everywhere - in your hair and your clothes - and dragging your mouth onto his in a sudden, consuming crush. Your hands snake into his hair, squeezing cool shocks down your forearms as you wring rivulets of water from his grizzled curls, grabbing handfuls of the length at his crown to pull him deeper into you, his tongue hot and supple and buried in your mouth. Your top sticks to you, wet and sodden in all the places he has grabbed up handfuls of your flesh, or pressed his hot body flush against you.

He drives you back, into the door and the awkward mess of towels hanging there on hooks.

“Fuck,” he bites off into your mouth, and you surge forward with this barrelling want, walking him backward and slamming him against the cool tiles with a thwap and enough force that he grunts. Still, it barely slows him down at all, his hands all over you and his kisses still devouring, ripping the air from your mouth.

There is no romance in this, you think. Only need, raw and animal, and you are surprised that you show enough restraint not to tear each other down to the floor and go at it right on the tiles. Still, you barely show any more restraint than that.

“Shit. Fuck. Turn around. Turn around,” Santiago rasps, entirely wrecked already, barely able to get the words past his mouth. His cock looks almost painfully hard, and entirely insistent against your ass as he spins you and roughly bends you over the counter, pots of toothbrushes knocked into the sink and soap rolling who knows who cares where.

“You want this?” he asks as he presses you into position, little precision or ceremony in it – just a rough, raw urgency, entirely untamed.

You can see yourself reflected in the mirror above the sink, blurry and steamy and bent over, and that’s exactly how it feels. Everything; blurry and steamy and close and tight. He’s as hard as the cool marble surface digging painfully into your hips, and you’re as hot as steam and as wet and slick as this mirror and you’re melding into one another – not single bodies anymore but shapes and a mood and a feeling, and there is nothing else.

“Princesa?” Santiago pleads, even as he tugs your jeans down over your ass, removing the bare minimum of clothing to give him access where he needs, the garment still tight and unforgiving around your thighs, not allowing you to move - barely at all. “You need me?”

“Yes. Fuck me. Need you,” you beg, and you hear him spit unceremoniously into his hand -not that he’d need it- and slather it all over his length, groaning as he makes contact with his sensitive, needy dick as though he might spill over his knuckles with the anticipation of stuffing you full alone.

Still, he holds on -by a thread – and your eyes roll back into your head as you finally feel the blunt tip of him notch clumsily at your need-swollen entrance.

Then – ohhhhhh- then, there is the dull ache shortly after as the girth of him pushes through your wanting folds. You grunt at the initial stretch as he works himself inside of you, but pinned between the counter and his surging hips there is nowhere for you to go, and his need sinks into you inch by inch until he fills you all the way.

You succumb to your ragged breaths and mewl for him, you arms practically giving way beneath you as you press them into the cool surface to keep you standing. He fills you, and God, you’ve missed this. Have missed how full you feel with him inside of you - in every sense of the word. The way his hands grip your hips in that specific spot he likes.

You have missed his girth. Could swear you can feel every inch of him pressing outward against the tight grip of your heat as he fucks his cock into your hole, bottoming out with a delicious, wracked, stuttering moan, the sound alone causing pleasure to bloom around the drag of him deep inside you.

Still, despite this fullness - you also feel the give of your walls to him, your slick and eager heat actively suckering him in. He stutters his hips as you clamp tightly around him and then, so help you, he finally begins to move.

Jesus, this feels even better than his fingers, even better than you remember, and you relish every moment as he fucks into you, bareback and desperate, your pleasure coiling up impossibly quick as the straining mass of him works you open, hitting all of your sweet spots. Your legs tremble beneath you with adrenaline and want, and you feel Santiago’s thighs flush against the back of your legs, his hips snapping against the cushion of your ass as the counter edge bites painfully into your hinged hips.

He's not taking his time with you. Not teasing or planning or thinking. You can tell by the undone grunts and groans he’s submitting to you already, that -for once- he is far too consumed by his own need to contemplate yours. Can tell by the sloppy pace of his thrusts and the lack of attention to your clit or your breasts or anything else but filling you - his hands fisting in the meat of your hips as he takes what he needs, gives what you crave – that he’s not even trying to make you come… but goddamn it if he isn’t going to get you there all the same.

Soon too.

God, the head of him is rubbing exactly where you need, and you can’t remember the last time you felt this good with a dick inside you. Your cunt is primed for him, still sensitive from where his fingers fucked you open and it isn’t going to take you long at all to reach your peak.

Even without seeing him properly, in the misted-up mirror, you can tell that Santiago is going feral behind you. Filling you deeply and haphazardly, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin.

You hear a snarl, and see a pearly flash of teeth as his lip curls up from how good you’re making him feel.

“Fuucckk,” he groans, his head tipped back now, that pretty chin pointing up to the sky and his mouth dropping open – you can vaguely see in the mirror

His broad hand smooths firmly down the middle of your back and over your ass - grabbing handfuls of you- before he retraces his path, sliding his hand up between your shoulder blades and winding his hand in your hair, grabbing and pulling until your spine is curled back for him like a bow, your ass arced up and allowing him a deeper angle of penetration which sends tingles all the way to the tips of your toes when he hits just right.

You practically yowl for him, your whole body trembling and shaking, sweat trickling down the centre of your cleavage as the layers you did not have time to dispense of overheat your skin. As your clit is nudged into the lip of the counter in a way that shouldn’t work for you, probably, but totally does, the intermittent slap of Santiago’s hips against you providing a pleasing rhythm.

It’s uncomfortable, and hot, and cramped, and in some ways painful to be rammed up against the surface like this, but you wouldn’t tell him to stop for the world. You wouldn’t tell him to stop because the way he’s taking you feels divine, Santiago burying his want for you as deep as it will go, releasing his punctuated, abortive gusts of breath in time with his thrusts.

You feel drips land on the small of your back, and whether its water cascading from his dampened curls or beads of sweat from the exertion rolling down his temples you do not know or care.

You only know that you want more.

Determined as ever, you plant your hands firmly on the counter as he fucks you near boneless, driving through your hips until you meet his thrusts, working him up higher, finding the angle which hits just right and-

“Unnnngggg.” A whimper falls from his pretty mouth and his thrusts are suddenly far more shallow, slow, nudging against your nervy, sensitive entrance. His breaths are coming in deeper, heavy gusts now and you might be afraid that he was about to stop - if you weren’t so sure that he was, in fact, gearing up.

“Santiago,” you complain as he blunts the sharp edge of your precipice with the break in rhythm. You urge him to give you more, and he uncurls his fingers from your hair and adjusts position.

Obligingly, he wraps his stronger arm around your chest to guide you closer to standing, pressing his chest to your back, his head hooking over your shoulder. And, with his other arm, he reaches forward towards the steamed mirror, using his palm to clear a window from the condensation.

“I wanna see you,” he rasps, a hoarse, gritty whisper in the shell of your ear. “Wanna watch you.”

God, it’s too much. The way his arm is wrapped around your front, strong and yet tender as his forearm braces across your chest and his fingers dance tenderly over your jaw. The wracked, undone voice of him, whisper soft. The contrast between this and the certainty of his thrusts as he finds a new rhythm. As you find a new rhythm together, entirely in sync.

Slowly, so slowly, he draws out of you, ensuring you can feel every single inch of him, the tantalising drag of him through your folds making your quiver. Then, he snaps back into you all at once, so suddenly shoving himself up into you, balls slapping against your ass, each repetition of this pattern building you up. God, you want him to spill himself inside you, and you think vaguely that it is the only thing which could quench you.

It is your undoing when his eyes find yours in the mirror, and this all becomes real. No longer fantasy like your unreliable recollections of him all these months. No longer shapeless, tangled, blurry bodies, but now so very suddenly, you are looking at you and him, with all that means.

The look in his eyes gives form to this act, as though the love settled in them is the very thing giving form to the way he fills you. He is at once stern - his brow burdened, heavy-lidded with need, his eyes sunk into a pit of desire - yet soft. His strong nose is crushed up against you as his lips caress your neck. His eyes dance over your face, taking you in as you languish up against him.

His eyes are molten when they find you again, dancing with a soft, subtle heat not unlike firelight, long lashes fluttering in disbelief at the sight of you. At the feel of you wrapped around him. No longer just a body or some carnal need, shapeless and intangible.

Instead, Santiago and you, and your bodies moving as one.

His soft lips and rasp of stubble break from the column of your neck as his thrusts become sloppy, and you feel his hot breaths come thick and fast against your skin now.

He missed you.

He missed you, and this is what he’d meant. Had meant he needed to feel you wrapped around his dick. Moaning his name. Needed to see you being his. Missed you being his. God, you missed that too, in so many ways.

A moan rips through you as you approach your peak, and you plead profusely with him.

“Don’t stop. Santi. Please.”

You don’t ever want him to stop.

As you clamp down on him, your fluttering core wrings his own orgasm from him too, and then he’s pulsing his load into you, thick and warm and abundant, his thighs quaking against yours and his arms gripping on to you more tightly – this time for purchase – as though this might be the time his knees finally buckle if he doesn’t hold on to you.

You can feel his racing heartbeat hammer from his chest to yours as he holds you flush to him. Can feel his mouth suck at the column of your neck, his tongue sliding along your pulse point and tasting your perfume.

You come down from your high, thrumming with it. Wet and messy between your legs as Santi drags his softening dick out of you, letting your juices and his seed slip down your inner thighs.

You feel good. Blissed out. But, as ever, with you and Santiago, there’s always a catch. The joy is immense, but, guaranteed that one of you - if not both - will find a way to ensure it is short-lived.

Indeed. All too soon, you begin to feel that creeping sense of regret hollow-out your stomach.

You can see it on his face too. The uncertainty. The lack of understanding of what this all means. About what to do next. It is evident from the way he so quickly moves away from you, picking up his shorts and t-shirt and covering up his body. Similarly, you hike up your jeans without even cleaning up, and as much as you might have hoped for a joyful, intimate moment, you know that it’s already too late for that. The moment that the insecurity, doubt and uncertainty had crept in on each of your faces it had become self-reinforcing. A spiral. Running in circles.

“Shit,” you sound out, in a clear peal of regret, planting a hand over your face in distress - despite everything.

“Sounds about right,” Santiago agrees in a monotone, brows drawn down and his gaze fixing on a spot of tile, unable to look you in the eye, despite having been buried inside you only moments ago.

“No,” you stress, bringing a second hand to your face. There’s something else. Something that makes you feel stupid and sick. “I…. I mean, shit. I changed my birth control up and I… I mean we…” Santiago snaps his eyes back up to you now, alright. You curse when you note the writhing of his taut jaw, set and a little annoyed. Your softly puffed expletive which follows is contrite, but it doesn’t help.

It’s not like you -or him- to make a mistake like that. And yet, you had all the same.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

You bristle at his harsh, accusatory tone. How quickly things sour. “It’s not like you checked!” It is his turn to bristle now, and so you opt to be harsher still. “Besides, I didn’t exactly think you were going to be quite so quick on the trigger, Santi.”

He narrows his eyes at you, his riposte about his stamina not even required. He got you off, didn’t he? So, your attempted distraction is futile, as he manages to stay alarmingly on topic. You fold your arms across your chest as he steps towards you, feeling on the back-foot as his flattened palm nags through the air to punctuate his words. “It didn’t occur to you to mention that before we fucked?”

“I forgot. I switched up my method and I’m not technically covered yet. It’s marginal, you know. Most likely fine. I mean, what’s another 24 hours? Besides, I didn’t exactly plan on this, did I?”

He scoffs, then he purses his mouth until much of the colour drains from his lips. “Oh yeah. Sure you didn’t.”

You raise your eyebrows, and jut a hip out to the side for good measure. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Santiago shakes his head softly. Plants his hands on his wide hips, making himself larger. You don’t shrink back from him, but you note it. “For real?” He flashes his line of teeth now, a lopsided, disbelieving lilt of his lips – no happiness in it. Not at all. “I know you love to pretend like I’m the bad guy, right? That serves your narrative or whatever? Bullshit, honey. You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.” You snort out a huff of air through your nose, your look all steel as you prepare to deny his claims. You falter though, with his next words. “I can’t get off without you, Santiago?” he mimics, and your comeback dies on your lips. “You wanna put this all on me now? Believe me, I gave it everything I had to stay out of-“

“-My vagina? Yeah, great job, Pope.” You throw your hands up in the air and they slump right back down again. ��You’ve had everything up in there except your damn tongue.”

“Let’s go then, sweetie,” he challenges, nodding to the rear of you, his voice taut rather than inviting. “Hop up on the counter and spread your legs, I’ll make it 3 for 3.”

It’s unfamiliar to you, this tone of his. It makes your heartbeat rage. You swear you can even feel the pulse of it in your tongue. “Fuck. Whatever. I’m not having this conversation with you.” Your adrenaline spikes at the prospect of another argument and you turn on your heel, looking for an exit.

However, before you can retreat, Santiago’s broad palm contacts your arm to stop you – open hand, no force applied – and you turn your head over your shoulder. “At least tell me you’re going to take care of this,” he bites off, with a clear attempt to restrain his aggravation, expression sullen.

“Of course I am.”

“How?”

You think. “I’ll go to the pharmacy in the morning. I’ll deal with it.” You pump your brows emphatically. “Okay?”

You shrug his hand off of you then with apparent disdain for his touch, and in spite of his (relative) tolerance of your acerbic tone, that is apparently the move which fractures his composure. “You know what actually blows my mind? The way you can be nice to me just long enough to get yours. Pretty fucking convenient.”

You feel your face twist with the weight of a sour expression, mirroring his. “Why are you always like this?” You don’t wait to hear his answer, the adrenalin propelling you away, down the hall and closer to your room, but his footfalls follow closely behind you, hot on your heels. Your voice is a whispered hiss, as, somewhere in the back of your mind, you are vaguely aware of the need to keep it down – the other boys are lights out by now. “Why can you never just fuck me and be happy about it, huh?” You spin to face him, chest to chest and facing off.

“I knew this was a fucking mistake.”

Your pulse is in your throat. “Right. Maybe it was. That’s all I ever was to you, I guess.”

Your voices raise, slowly creeping up in volume as you each get lost in this intimate bubble of angst. Of resentment. On some level, you know you could stop now - before it gets worse and you say things you will only regret (or worse, hear things you’ll wish you hadn’t). You know that you should stop, but it feels… oddly necessary.

Like it’s inevitable. Like you’ve been waiting all this time to fuck and fight because it’s all you know how to do with him anymore. At least, it’s all you know how to do when loving him heart and soul seems off the table.

The space your bodies create is tight, leaning into each other’s circle of personal space.

Santiago’s fingers bridge like a claw and he taps them against his own chest, his eyes needling you like he could sew this up once and for all. Tie off all those loose threads of blame which sit frayed between you. He’s angry. Angry and riled and pissed and even so, there is still this eerie sense of calm about him.

You’ve seen him really let loose. You’ve seen him kill, for Christ’s sake, and yet he’s still measured and restrained in the face of you. That should make it easier to bear the brunt of his sharp edges, but that’s not quite so. There’s something about the precision of his anger when it’s focussed on you. The fact it feels so considered, so targeted only makes it cut deeper. “You know what? I’m tired as shit of always being the fucking bad guy here. You wanna get into it, huh?” His voice breaks now, splitting like shrapnel, lodging in your chest. “I told you I love you and you fucking left me.”

“That’s fucking bullshit!”

He’s not happy that you said that. He rocks from foot to foot like he’s priming for something. Scoops a hand over his jaw, around his taut mouth. You’re close enough to hear it rasp, the fleck of his stubble bristling against his palm. “Oh, it’s bullshit?”

Your voice comes out hot now, your words bitten off between your teeth, flecks of spit cast from your mouth. “Yes! Because if I hadn’t left you never would have told me! You told me because I left you! You told me to fucking punish me. To try and drag me back in.”

“Wow. Jesus fucking...” He laughs, but it is a cold, brief sound. “That’s fucking rich, cariño.” His eyes glint like knife licks, and he plants his hand indignantly against his chest, jutting up his chin. Puffing up his chest and making his body all angles. Protecting himself. “That’s really what you think of me, huh?” You try to look away from him, but his eyes chase you for an answer.

Is it? Is that what you genuinely think of your best friend? Is that what you think he’s done to you? Tried to do?

If so, no wonder you’re so fucking angry. No wonder your body is trembling with it.

But the truth is, when pushed on it, you have no intelligible retort you can form. No evidence you can offer. So, instead, in your panic over losing ground, you opt to minimise. You throw your hand up dismissively and you turn on your heel, stomping towards your door at the end of the hall. “Fuck this.”

This time, his footsteps do not follow, even if you can still feel his eyes boring into your back. You think that might even be the end of things, until…

“No,” he sounds. A forceful, robust note which fills the whole hallway. A command to wait. This isn’t over.

With you and him, it’s never going to be over, is it?

You turn towards him and he is fixed in position, stance set wide and chin dipped down, eyes blackened half moons as he looks at you. “Just let me get this straight. If I’m the one who drags you back in? What the shit do you call what you just did?”

You scoff. “You were a very willing participant, Pope. Or, I dunno. Why don’t you just consider it payback for all the times you fucked me around?”

He’s biting words back as he listens to you now. You can see them, in the tilt of his head and the flare of his nostrils. In the flip and curl of his tongue settled around his upper lip, dragging back and forth just below his filtrum. “Revenge, then? Really? Is that what this weekend has been about for you? You really that vindictive?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” You dismiss him again, as though not one of his complaints about you can possibly be valid. Or, rather, revealing you are currently unwilling to admit it even if they are. After all, you’re as stubborn as he is. Each of you trying so desperately to palm off the blame for how fucked up this became.

Santiago paces towards you then, footfalls rhythmic and steady as he swallows the space between you in the hall. “Jesus. You don’t even give a shit, do you? Think I deserve to have my heart crushed into fucking dust?”

Hot, angry tears spike at the corner of your eyes as you spit your words, jabbing his shoulder with your pointer finger. “Like you give a shit that I left?”

His dense brows draw down, his whole face a grimace, his voice practically booming throughout the hallway, close enough that the sound of it rumbles in your chest. “I don’t know how else I can say it. I never wanted to lose you.”

“Yeah? Well you never fucking had to!”

Santiago is the one who turns from you now, pacing back in a loop, both hands lifting and dragging backward through his grizzled curls, flattening them to his head in disbelief. He rounds back to you, spittle glistening on his lower lip from his tirade. He’s waving his arms now, everything being thrown upward just like the hideous lurch in your stomach. “You’re the one who ran from this!”

Well, that’s the biggest pile of shit you ever heard. You fold your arms to your chest, becoming guarded and taut where he becomes more frenzied. “Oh ho ho,” you scoff. “Now that’s a grade A delusion, right there.” He mumbles something under his breath, shaking his head from side to side in a long, disbelieving drag. In denial. Still. “You’ve been running, Santiago. You’ve done nothing but run from this. Even the whole time I was right next to you. Especially then.”

He steps towards you, driving your body back into the door without making a scrap of contact with you. From the force of him alone. He leans his face in real close, his movements disconcertingly slow - cautious and deliberate. It’s not threatening – you don’t feel physically unsafe at all - but you can tell from the flare of his nostrils and that gunpowder glint in his eye that while his movements may be constrained, he’s still arming himself with a coming barrage.

You flatten yourself – your back to the shut paneled door- and Santiago lifts his hand, reaching up to you. Pincering your chin deceptively tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, making sure you look at him. “Right. And you’ve been so perfect, huh?” His eyes needle you, making it impossible for you to wheedle out of this one. To dismiss him. He’s making sure you take at least some accountability for your part in this. “Fucking other guys to get back at me? Insisting we keep it a secret? Pissing off to another fucking continent, two days early, by the way, before we’d even put things right?” You break eye contact, your vision of him blurred by wilful tears. He releases your chin from his grip then, but the space between you remains tight. Close, even as you feel a million miles from him. “Christ - it’s like you never fucking wanted this to work. Never believed I was worth it. How am I supposed to work with that?”

Hot, spiking tears spill over onto your cheeks. You scrub them away with a flattened palm but it still doesn’t slow them down.

“Please,” you beg limply, shaking your head from side to side. You want him to stop this. You just want this to be over.

“I was never the guy someone would bring home to their mama, was I? Too fucked up and too broken for that? Hands too bloody, right, to be good enough for you?” You balk audibly in protest at his words, but even so, it sends a hot flash of heat to your cheeks.

Is there some truth in it?

Had you been afraid of what he’d done, even though the blood on his hands matches yours? Or… maybe because of it?

Your lower lip begins to tremble as the ire in Santiago’s eyes burns you, hot like coals. But he has more to say. “I get it. It’s easier to blame me for everything that got fucked up, right?” He beats his palm emphatically against his chest and flattens it there. “I’m hardly a fucking Saint, I’ll admit that much. But do you honestly think that I ever wanted to hurt you? That this doesn’t fucking hurt me?”

No. You want to say “no”. No. That’s not what you believe at all, but instead the words that find their way out are cruel and petty. “Well you did. You hurt me!”

You wish you could get rid of it, this anger in your chest. You only want to love him… but you tried that, and since it didn’t work, it somehow feels like the anger is all you have left to fill this hole in your middle.

His eyes tighten, and Santiago jabs his finger back and forth, his voice hoarse as he pushes the words out from the pit of his chest. “It never mattered, what I did or didn’t do. It was never going to be good enough for you.”

“That’s not true. At all!” You spit back. “It’s you who thought that. Not me. Not me. You wouldn’t even fucking try.”

Santiago scrubs a tear away from his own cheek now. His voice creaks and cracks apart. “I tried. I did. But you only want me under certain conditions right. If I quit. If I get out. Maybe if I’m someone fucking else.”

“That’s not fair, that’s not how it is. For fuck’s sake, Santi.”

You are both entirely undone now with this ugly rage, tears wetting your cheeks, and this resentment and blame twisting your words and your faces into something unrecognisable.

That makes it all the worse when Frankie’s torso pokes out of his door in the hallway. You know that the two of you are not yourselves. Frankie’s face twists with disappointment and concern in equal measure, and you fold your arms across your chest defensively, feeling embarrassed that he is seeing you this way. At your worst. Why do you and Santiago always seem to bring out the worst in each other? You’d swear blind to anyone that he’s the best person you know.

“Guys. What the fuck?” Frankie ventures. His voice is grogged by sleep, and you get the feeling he would step out into the hall if he wasn’t entirely nude behind the door frame.

Feeling suddenly ashamed, with the contrasting softness of Frankie’s eyes on yours, you feel the urge to run from yourself and what you’ve become, all twisted up like this. You push past Santiago in the hallway, storming down the stairs as tears now cascade freely down your cheeks. You don’t even make an attempt to mop them up now, letting them course down and drip from the point of your chin.

Then, with an aggravated sigh, Santiago follows you too, in pursuit, despite Frankie’s barked pleas that he “leave it alone, cabrón”.

You push out of the threshold and into the night, the cooler air a welcome relief. You pace away from the house, wanting to leave it, to leave him entirely, but your body will not let you. Will not carry you far enough away, and your steps quickly run out of steam.

When Santiago finds you, you are stood with your back to him, looking out towards the white crash of waves. He comes and stands next to you, hands gently clenched by his sides.

“Look,” he begins, staring out at the expanse of water. You feel your anger cresting and with it comes a wave of sadness. “I love you. But maybe you’re right. Maybe… we’re not good for each other. Maybe we just… can’t make each other happy.”

You shake your head softly. Tip your eyes to the sky to stave off yet more tears. “I just wish we’d never changed things.” You wish more than anything that you could simply swallow it. Go back to how things were before.

“Don’t,” Santi implores, turning to you with his hands cupped as though in offering, soft and haphazard and trying to catch on your elbow, your shoulder, your hand. “Don’t say that. Please. No matter how fucked this got… You’re the best thing I ever-”

But, your anger is not done. Your palms raise in the air, forming a barrier between your bodies - a defence against his brutal love - and you snatch yourself away from him. Your voice is once again harsh as it rings in accusation, words tearing from your lips like bullets. “-Let go?”

There is a beat.

“Seriously. You’re gonna stand there and tell me I could I have fucking stopped you?”

You raise your palms and plant them to your face, splayed fingers tugging in disbelief from your temples, sliding down to your mouth - drawing your cheeks into a grimace. You look at him and his face is once again taut with blame. His mouth a thin, downturned line. But even now….. Somehow, even now, you want to kiss him. Want to kiss him until he is soft again, like you know he can be.

Why would he never turn soft for you - not all the way? Soft in your arms? Why would he never?

He shifts his weight from foot-to-foot under your scrutiny. He sees the anger melt away from your face, but his is not done. “I mean, fuck. What do you want from me, huh? You want me to come with you? Just drop everything?”

“Just stop, Santi,” you plead, weakly, but there’s no way he heard you over his own tirade.

“My whole career. This shit I’ve got going on with Lorea. Pick-up and move here? Huh? Tell me? What do you want from me?”

You fold your arms across your chest, closing yourself off to him. “Please, just drop it.”

“You want me to have dinners with you and your family on Sundays? Take the nephews to the playpark, huh?”

He won’t stop. He won’t stop talking, stop pushing you, and you can’t take it. You’re going to snap.

“Go fucking grocery shopping? And get married and have babies and-?”

“Yes!” you finally yell, your whole body craning forward as you fire your answer out through your throat, the word coming out scuffed and sudden; but nothing if not truthful. Your eyes go wide, quivering with tears as well as the shock of your revelation. The shock of revealing something you can barely even admit to yourself.

That is what you want. With him.

Santiago is evidently as shocked as you are too. Stunned into silence, in fact. He takes a perceptible step back from you, punching out a breath like he’s just been struck with a body shot. All the tension drops from his limbs, and his arms flop uselessly to his sides.

But, instead of backtracking, from somewhere, somehow, you finally find the courage to stand in your truth. “Yes,” you say shakily. “I want that, you asshole.” And, at those words, you interpret the most repulsive thing you’ve seen in his eyes all night. Pity. “And you, meanwhile? You’d rather get shot in the guts than do that with me, wouldn’t you? Something so mundane as being happy? Something so fucking worthless as loving me?” You tear your head away from him, whip your gaze away as you cannot bear to look at him. Cannot bear to see your true wants rejected. With a final question, you stab your pointer finger against your sternum with enough force that it hurts. “I’m not a mission, so I’m not worth it right? Not important?”

He shoves his hands in his back pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor, to a neutral spot between you. His voice all but cracks apart, small and broken. “I told you that I love you.”

“That wasn’t enough!” You bite your words off before you can even think, and his eyes snap back up to yours then. Wounded. Glassy. You regret the words as soon as you have spoken them, but it is far too late to recall them now. You can see that they cut him - and you can even understand why they would hurt. What an awful thing to have said, you think; that his love wasn’t enough.

It was everything.

Everything.

Wasn’t it?

Even so, here you stand, still waiting and hoping that he can offer you something more than that alone. A solution, perhaps. A way to fix this.

Instead though, Santiago simply nods slowly. Contemplatively. In resignation. He stands eerily still. Eerily quiet. Entirely stoic. “Right. Well.” His hand rasps back and forth over his stubble, and his voice is entirely sunken. Defeated. He’s a soldier. Your friend. Your lover. But most of all, now he’s someone who appears to have stopped fighting for you. He looks you in the eye, all of his anger dissipated. Voice scrubbed clean and entirely dispassionate. “That’s too bad then. Because I don’t have anything else I can give you.”

He turns from you now, and you grab onto his arm. “Believe me. The only thing I ever wanted from you… With you, was a future, Santiago.”

It breaks your heart when he quietly, slowly extricates his arm from your grasp, slipping through your fingers like fine sands. Did you really think that you could do that? That you could keep on pushing him, without eventually pushing him away?

A divot notches in his brow. “Mmm-hmm. Well I guess we fucked any shot at that now, didn’t we?”

You search his ashen eyes - almost in desperation - for some of that all too familiar fire. For any sort of spark for you.

Godammit, as soon as the anger has gone, you want it back. You want something; only because it seems a damn sight better than nothing at all.

You can’t handle it - the thought that any future with him is being taken off of the table once and for all. You know - if you step back from this - that you’ve been far from perfect. That you’ve been bitter, volatile, reactive. Maybe even cruel, at times. You know, in truth, that you shouldn’t be so hung up on the past -on what happened all those months ago and beyond- but it’s the only thing Santiago has ever given you to dwell on. How were you supposed to move on, when he’s never been able to look ahead with you?

Still, all of a sudden, being faced with any and all possibilities of a future with him being ripped away from you, it is all you want to talk about. The past and your grievances and the blame now seem wholly irrelevant. You feel bile rise into your mouth. “Listen. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Just… How do we get past this, Santiago? That’s what matters.”

He stops, halting his retreat back to the house. He turns, slowly. And, Santiago takes your hands into each of his. Looks at you solemnly, as your eyes flit over his face in doubt and fear and regret. He bundles your hands up together, sandwiching them together between his warm, steady palms and he gives them a squeeze - full of finality. “Maybe… Maybe we don’t,” he sounds, flatly, voice scrubbed clean of emotion. And, the only thing worse than hearing his words out loud, is that he looks like he believes them.

For once, Santiago “Pope” Garcia seems cold, and it hurts more than any of his fire has ever burnt you. Maybe the anger, horrible as it feels, is better. Because it is better than nothing. Better than losing him altogether.

After all, what is it that happens when the fire goes out?

Well, you suddenly feel like you’re about to find out.

You suddenly feel like it’s truly about to be over.

And so, you clasp your hands over your mouth and you sob, fleeing towards the interior of the house, because you have no place else left to run but away from him.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #santiago pope garcia #oscar isaac #ride or die series

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huramuna · 6 months

Text

banshee's lament - chapter 8.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.7k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

i've been planning this chapter for months now, i hope you all enjoy! there is a surprise in this chapter 👀

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, talk of chronic pain and illness

story playlist

It was slowly nearing half a year since Shera and Cregan arrived at King’s Landing– she still hadn’t gotten used to the heat but she had finally, somehow, begun to adjust to the people, the looks, the whispers and sneers.

She, albeit slowly, was losing care in such things. She had been spending more and more time with the people she cared about– the ones who made her happy. She still visited Helaena and the children once a day and sometimes would even stay overnight and giggle under the covers with the princess like they would when they were children.

Her mornings started by watching Aemond spar with Ser Cole. She didn’t hide from it anymore– as she felt… somewhat liberated from showing her eye to him. She couldn’t exactly explain, to herself, much less anyone else, why she felt warmer than usual when watching him clash swords with his mentor. Sweat dripping from his face, the little sneer he plastered on when he was particularly concentrating. It felt like butterflies were trapped in her stomach, beating against her skin to get out. It was unfamiliar at first, the feeling– but now it’s become a recognized acquaintance, even if she couldn’t exactly name it.

Aemond, as well, had taken it upon himself to make more effort to spend time with Shera. His days before she returned to King’s Landing were very structured, very planned and scheduled. He would wake up, spar with Cole from morning light until lunch with his mother, then back to sparring until early evening when he would wind down by reading in his chambers, eat dinner, and then go to bed. ‘Going to bed’ didn’t really indicate sleeping, however. He didn’t need much of it to function and found the dreams (and nightmares, to his chagrin) that came with sleep uncouth– so he laid, usually for hours, until his mind drifted into the lightest of sleep cycles. He valued organization and repetition– impromptu changes to such a rigid routine were unwelcome.

Except for Shera– a very impromptu change to his life on her own. Mayhaps unwelcome at first, his outward antagonistic behavior to her was improper and came from a place of, surprisingly, regret. Regret and self-loathing. Usually, he attributed the feeling of self-pity and self flagellation in association with his brother, who was in all rights, a pathetic example of a man (but still his brother and wouldn’t tolerate such talk about him from anyone else) but when Shera came back, walking down that hall– she had looked so small, like she was a fragile heirloom on the verge of breaking at any moment. She could hardly walk without guidance and hid herself.

When his mother said she was returning, as vague as it was, he felt some sort of resentment bubbling up in his gut. What gave her the right to return now? He fully expected her to be the epitome of a Northern lady, hardy and strong, unyielding. The letters ‘she’ (unbeknownst to him at the time, the words were fabrications of Cregan) sent after Driftmark, painted the picture of someone who was fine, who was well adjusted, who didn’t have to go through moons and moons of relearning how to be a person. The image of Shera he had concocted into his mind, and onto paper– an icy woman with fiery hair who would come to blows with someone rather than shed a tear– was not what he saw.

No, what he had seen in that hall, who he had seen– he didn’t recognize her. Then, seeing the small curl of copper hair, the fur stole, the wolf. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, spurring every cell in his body into action, setting them on fire. Blood pumped in his ears and he could hardly hear her (whispering voice aside).

She was broken. Harsh, yes– but it was true. She was a shell, behest to the terrible experience they both suffered.

Regret flooded through him. She was this way because of him, because he dragged her along in the middle of the night to watch him claim Vhagar.

I should have killed them. I should have killed them.

And he retreated from her. He hardly remembers his words to her after she came out from his mother’s chambers– they felt vile in his mouth, like spewing venom. The primal part of him, the dragon, was unruly and restless.

He couldn’t stop lashing out at her–

But what did he really feel?

He fucking missed her. He missed her more than he could ever profess. He wouldn’t admit it outloud, of course, he had to maintain some form of self-preservation.

After their night in her room, after seeing her eye– there was a shift. They spent more time together and she became a fixture of his schedule.

Wake up, spar with Cole and have Shera watch him until noon, they would lunch together three days out of the week with Helaena. He cut his afternoon sparring in half and spent that time with Shera. At first it was awkward, but they melded into one another like their youth quickly.

She begged him to teach her how to draw, to help strengthen her eyesight.

“It… it hurts to focus.” she sniffed, looking up at him. She didn’t wear her veil when they were alone, which he made sure they were when they were drawing. Her blind eye was red rimmed slightly, twitching.

He had set up a vase on a small table for her to draw– it was a simple clay vase with a depiction of two nightingales in flight. They had just moved on from plain objects to something a bit more detailed, albeit only by a little bit.

“Don’t strain, Shera. Just… look at it normally. It’s blurry in some places, right?”

“… yes.”

“Okay. You looked at it up close for a good five minutes. Do you remember what was on the side?”

“The… the nightingale imprint.”

“You can see it in your mind, but it’s not clear to the eye. Use your memory to fill in the blanks.”

“Aemond— this… this is just a test of memory. How is this helping my eyes?”

“Trust me.”

She started off shaky, her first slew of sketches no better than his were when he had first started, but she fell into it quickly. She developed her own style, straying from the charcoal that Aemond used exclusively, and opted for more colorful tools– she had woad paste pastels imported from Dorne. They would sit and depict the same thing and come out with completely different results.

It was so easy to forget that she was betrothed to another. That she was to leave soon.

That she was to be his nephew’s wife. His nephew who didn’t give a shit about her. His nephew who was there. Did no one else think it a bit sick that she was to be the wife of someone who took a part in her mutilation?

Was he the only sane one?

He sighed softly as they finished up their drawings for the day. They had been sketching the coastline of Blackwater Bay– Shera went with a color scheme of blue and green and sparse spots of orange and yellow.

He stuck to his monochromatic charcoal.

“Rhaenyra’s name day gala is… in a fortnight, right?” Shera hummed, using her foot to pet Moongeist, who was at her feet.

“Mm,” Aemond responded, flicking some errant charcoal powder from his doublet. “A mummer’s farce, if you ask me.”

“... I don’t care much for events– but at least… your mother and sister are getting along,” she tilted her head as she wiped her hands off.

Rhaenyra and Alicent had been working together to plan the event and were in high spirits. They were frequently seen chatting lightheartedly.

“Half-sister,” Aemond clarifies, giving her a pointed look.

“Half-sister,” Shera says, brows raised. “I suppose it is a send off, too– since…” her voice trails off slightly, not really wanting to talk about her impending wedding to Jacaerys. She hasn’t spoken much to her betrothed as she didn’t feel the need to– she let him run around with her brother and do what he liked. She imagined it wouldn’t be much different when they were married.

An uneasy silence settled over them. There were many words on the tips of their tongues that they just couldn’t say– it would make it real.

“Shera-,”

“Aemond-,”

They spoke at the same time, standing up simultaneously. Moongeist made a warbling chuff sound that sounded like a laugh.

He must be sick of our antics.

“I should get back to my chambers– before dinner. Cregan wants to… eat with me, for some reason.” she shrugged her shoulders.

“Hm,” Aemond hummed in his usual manner.

—

Shera sat across from Cregan, leg crossed over the other as she fed Moongeist scraps under the table.

“What did you want to speak about?” she broke the silence, glancing up at him. She had put her veil back on– to her dismay, as she had come to like not having it on… around Aemond, at least.

“Do I need a reason to want to dine with my sister?” he asked, clenching his jaw slightly.

“... no,” she mumbled, flicking her nails against one another. “But you don’t usually dine with me.”

He chewed on his piece of mutton slowly, regarding her. “I’m leaving, Shera. I need to go back North.”

“Why?” she blurts out, a bit more emotionally than she wanted to. She and Cregan didn’t have a great relationship, but they were… siblings. There was familiarity.

“I’ve stayed too long already, there is a keep to run, things to do, Shera,” he narrowed his gaze. “Will you be alright… alone?”

Her lip caught between her teeth. “... I suppose so.” she and Cregan had their moments– she thought he was a huge idiot most of the time, but that was her brother. She had been by his side for the last ten years and he nursed her back to some semblance of health when she returned from Driftmark. No matter the choices he made, the ones he made for her– they were all one another had, really.

Her chest ached slightly that he would be going back North and leaving her here. She wouldn’t be alone, per say, but… her blood would be so far away.

“Will you… attend the wedding?” she asked then, drawing little circles on the table with the tip of her nail.

“Yes, I’ll return to Dragonstone for it.”

“Dragonstone?” Shera looked up, slightly alarmed. “I thought the wedding would be in King’s Landing?”

Cregan stopped chewing, suddenly looking sheepish. It was unbecoming of him. “I… yes,” he cleared his throat. “Jacaerys said that after his mother’s name day gala, they will move back to Dragonstone.”

Why does no one tell me anything? “Hm.” she grumbled, sounding much like Aemond– she’s picked up on his little mannerisms and made them her own, it seemed.

“You will be going with them and will be wed soon after.”

She made another noncommittal noise, scraping the remains of her plate to the floor. She’d lost her appetite.

She would be alone sooner than she thought.

—

Returning from a luncheon with Helaena, a few days after Cregan’s departure, she discarded her veil right away as soon as the door was closed behind her.

She waved her hand in front of her face, despairing in the heat of the South. Moongeist agreed, his tongue lolling out in a pant as he lapped at a small tub of water at the foot of the bed.

“It’s too hot for us here, dovey,” she whimpered, wiping sweat from her brow, beginning to strip the various layers of clothing she had on— she did have somewhere to be later in the day, but she would simply have to redress. “I hope Dragonstone is more breezy, lest we melt.”

The layers flew off of her, pooling upon the floor like a puddle of dark ichor. It likely didn’t help that she only wished to wear dark colors, attracting the heat of the sun to her poor constitution. Her cheeks flushed red with the errant warmth and she wondered if this was how those with Targaryen blood felt all of the time— constantly huffing, puffing, warm and sweating. It was terrible.

Finally in nothing but her shift and underclothes, she walked to the bed, hand reached out to peel back the blanket when something shiny caught her eye.

Investigating further, she found a small velvety box, opened to reveal a silver choker, inlaid with three sapphires. Blinking profusely, Shera carefully pried the piece out of its holdings and inspected it. It was, to say the least, flawless. It matched her silver earrings that she always wore almost down to the exact detail, the engravings even the same— long, flowing tendrils into the metal, outlining the gems like garlands. Pearls hung from the bottom of each sapphire. Her thumb roved over the center sapphire, the largest one and the most prominent. It was cool to the touch.

Gently placing the choker down, she dismantled the box looking for a note or any indication of who might have left it. She guessed it to be Jace— did he intend for her to wear it to the gala? She would have to find a garment to match.

Shera descended to her wardrobe, rummaging through until she landed on something that would go swimmingly with her new necklace. It was a dress she hadn’t worn at all, and had been tailored for her shortly before leaving Winterfell. It was a silver and blue dress with intricate embroidery akin to that of a Godswood, but the leaves were a cool toned blue rather than red. She had a pearl-laden head garment, imbued with a silken veil and ringed headdress of sorts, with silver moons hanging down on each side.

Curious.

–

“You… must stay outside, lovey,” Shera murmured to Moongeist. She had received a missive– unclear from who, but either Alicent and Rhaenyra– that they would prefer if her wolf was not in attendance to the gala. She wanted to cry, leaving him outside of the ballroom. Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t really command her companion– their relationship, as impenetrable as others may see it, was the culmination of years of hard work and trust. They were so attuned to each other, Moongeist knowing when she was pushing herself too far, when she was in distress, and when he needed to step into a situation. He was, on all accounts, very polite and well-mannered – for a wolf. He had never bitten anyone who didn’t deserve it. His good conduct thus far and impeccable record was apparently not enough for him to be admitted to the event. He whined as Shera snuffed into his fur, murmuring soft nothings into it. “I’ll return as soon as I can,” she whispered. “I’ll come get you when everyone leaves and you shall have all the scraps you’d like.”

Tearing herself from him, he sat dutifully outside of the glass door that led from the gardens into the ballroom. She willed herself not to cry, not to cry.

She was unsteady on her own feet, hoping to find someone familiar to steady herself on. The last option of familiarity presented itself first. Jacaerys spotted her right away, putting a hand on her waist. “Shera,” he smiled warmly. “You look… wonderful tonight. Mother is going to be so happy to see you in attendance.”

“Jacaerys,” she responded, willing a smile on her face. He was better than no one. She steadied herself by putting a hand on his shoulder. His eyes, usually sparkling with mirth, were a bit dim. He seemed… forlorn. “We don’t have such lavish events like this much– up North… apart from feasts. There usually isn’t much dancing.”

He swallowed, his brow furrowing minutely. “May I interest you in a dance, then?”

“Mm,” she hummed as they descended to the dance floor. She thought about her dance with Helaena and Aemond on the night of her betrothal dinner– it all felt so far away now. She tilted her head slightly as they danced. Jace’s head was looking to the door, as if he was waiting for someone. “As annoying as he is– I miss him as well.”

Jace looked slightly bewildered. “Pardon?”

“I may only be able to see from one eye, but I’m not completely blind,” Shera murmured. “You’ll see him again.”

The prince softened slightly, nodding his head. He was grateful for the words.

They danced a bit more and mingled, more so Jacaerys talking to people and stringing Shera along. Somehow, through it all, she became separated from him, walking on her own through the throngs of people. The heat, even with her less thick layers than usual, was stifling– from all of the bodies.

She suddenly felt… panicked, like when she was lost in the tunnels that one evening. “Excuse me,” she whispered hurriedly as she pushed through people, who didn’t even seem to see her there. “Pardon m–”

Her voice was cut off by a strong arm pulling her around her waist. Her anxiety damped right away as the familiar smell of sandalwood and leather took over her senses. Aemond looked down at her. “Lost again?” he was wearing a black and deep purple button-up doublet, with a long overcoat. It had a flared collar. He looked nice– it wasn’t much different color wise to his usual garb, but it absolutely wasn’t something he would spar in. He was even without his sword– but a brush of Shera’s hand near his waist revealed he did have his dagger strapped to his belt.

“... mayhaps.”

“And where is your guide? It is unlike your dog to abandon his post.”

“He wasn’t invited to the gala,” Shera frowned.

“And you’ve… been left alone?”

“Jacaerys was–”

Aemond held up his hand. “You don’t need to tell me any more,” he rolled his one eye. “He wouldn’t be able to keep track of you if you were the size of a dragon.”

They fell into an easy sway– he was much more relaxed than he was when they first danced. But Shera couldn’t shake what her brother had said– they… Rhaenyra and her brood, which included Shera now, would be leaving a few days after the gala. She hadn’t told Aemond, she didn’t know how.

“You’re worried,” he tilted her chin up to him so their gazes could meet. “I can feel your unease from here.”

“... I…” her mouth felt dry, her hand clutching his inner elbow shakily. “We’re leaving.”

Aemond stayed silent.

“Jacaerys and I… are to be wed upon Dragonstone– and we are to leave… in a few days.”

Aemond still declined to speak.

“Aemond,” she pressed her thumb into his skin.

“You can’t leave again,” he stated. He did not ask, nor plead. He stated it, as if it was a definitive fact. “I won’t let you.” the same moment of rage she had seen before was there, bubbling under the surface. A vein in his neck bulged out and she could feel the control he was trying to keep over himself, over the situation. He gripped her face with both hands now, boring into her with a surprising and sudden placid smile.

–

With a hand over her swollen belly, Rhaenyra scanned the crowd. It’d been so long since she properly enjoyed an event. The planning of it with Alicent had been… more fun than she thought it’d be, and the two women quickly fell back into a rapport, akin to when they were girls together.

It felt right.

Her eyes eventually fell upon two familiar faces— Shera, her veil pulled back slightly by Rhaenyra’s half-brother, Aemond. His hand gripped her face softly, but with intensity as the two locked gazes, lips pursed, brows furrowed, clearly in a heated conversation. It took Rhaenyra all but five seconds to be teleported back to her own wedding to Laenor, all those years ago, where she and Daemon had been in the exact same position— where she had dared Daemon to cleave through her father’s men, steal her away to Dragonstone and make her his wife.

Fuck.

–

“They think you are tame and controlled— but I can see it, the blood welling and boiling just under the surface of your skin. You’re hardly holding it together,” she whispered harshly. “Do you not think I’ve tried to devise everything I could… to stay? To stop any of this?”

“Quell me, then. Let me take you to marriage and let me cut your lip, taste your blood in the ways of old. Dampen my molten blood. I’ll do it in an instant, under the heart tree, in the molten halls of the Dragonmont– anywhere,” his nail pressed into her cheek, angling her head upward to look directly at him. No escape from madness, look me in the eye, he seemed to taunt silently.

It was overwhelming. She was overwhelmed with the warmth in her stomach, the butterflies she felt– they bursted into ash, searing into her like a brand. Shera felt the world around her chill, her extremities cold. “A-Aemond,” she croaked, her hand grasping at his shoulder with all of her might, but it’d only came through as a light tug. “A-Aem—“

Coldness spread through her, her vision fading to white. Then she was warm, extremely so— like she was on fire, panting and spewing hot breaths from her open maw.

Blinking her eyes— she was outside, her heavy wisps fogging the glass pane on the door. Wait. She had full vision, not just the one. It felt odd, so wrong for her to be able to see all around her like she was whole and normal.

Why was she outside? Just let me in, Godsdammit, let me in! She growled low, hands coming up to scratch at the wood and glass, nails digging into it. Her nails were longer than normal and much sharper, a deep black in color.

She wanted in, in, in, in— her hands, no— her paws and claws shredded at the door, eyes peering into the crowd. They were gathered around, shifting slightly to let her see what was going on—

They were gathered around her, eyes rolled back in her head as she laid limp in Aemond’s arms. She saw Jacaerys storming over, already hurling accusations towards Aemond.

No, no, he didn’t do this, stop! She screamed, barking and howling, her teeth biting into the wood and beginning to rip it apart, splintering and cracking the glass.

Shera watched in horror as Jacaerys unsheathed his sword. Aemond was still holding her, loathing to give her up—

Stop, stop, stopstopstop! She bursted through the weakened door, glass and all, feeling it tear at her fur and skin. Patrons gasped around her as she mulled through them towards the center, snapping and snarling.

“Moongeist, calm down!” Jacaerys said, his eyes wide in surprise as she sat between him and Aemond.

So she was Moongeist— that is why it felt so familiar. She, no, they drew their lips back in a growl, hackles raised. Back off, back off, back off! They screamed, snapping at anyone who got too close.

‘That wolf has gone mad!’

‘Is that the prince’s intended?’

‘Yes, but not the prince that’s holding her.’

‘How wanton.’

They panted heavily, still feeling a deep rage within them. Everyone was too close, too close– the sounds of the gala drowned out as they looked to the upper windows of the ballroom. A familiar sight to behold– the cream colored blur and siren’s song of a voice.

A beige and cream colored barn owl sat atop the eave of the window, staring down at them with wide eyes.

‘Now you know, dear Shera.’

–

Shera awoke later, still cold as ice. She was back in her own body but still felt the remnants of itching fervor from being in Moongeist– not ‘in’, it had a word. Warg. She heard children’s tales about it, how a man can enter the mind of a beast and become one with it.

She glanced around the room. Aemond was pacing– she was in… her chambers. Jaw clenched, she sat up from the settee with surprising vigor.

“Shera–” Aemond sputtered, stopping his pacing.

“Hush, come with me,” she grabbed his wrist and strung him along, feeling more lively than she had in ages. Moongeist padded alongside them, hugging to her leg just in case.

She led them down to the weirwood, not letting go of her grip on him.

“You cannot lie to me, Aemond Targaryen, not here. Do you see that?” she gestures to the face etched in the bark of the Great Oak– staring back at the two of them.

How silly they must look.

“Do… not… lie to me,” Shera pleaded. She approached him, her hand skimming the edge of his jaw. He was so warm, always so warm– he permeated through the cold she always felt. “You can lie to everyone else. Keep… those walls up and don’t let anyone in. But not… not to me. Never to me,” she was trembling with the weight of what she was asking, her fingers drumming against his skin. “Did you mean it? Did… you mean it? You want me here with you?”

He stilled her by covering her hand with his own. “I wouldn’t–,” Aemond murmured, his free hand coming up to unhook his eyepatch. Her breath hitched as he discarded it. The moonlight caught the concaves of the gem first, expanding over the flecks of blue, all shades of it.

A sapphire.

She palmed the matching stones on her mysteriously gifted choker. “You… you… your eye…” Shera stumbled slightly, her knees wobbling beneath her.

Aemond held her upright with one arm, slung around her waist. “Hm?” he asked in return, a playful lilt to his voice– something only reserved for her.

“It’s… it’s blue!” she squeaked, pulling his face closer to her, observing with the same scrutiny that she had when they were sketching together. “And… and…” she kept babbling, tugging at her gifted choker. “And this? You… you git! You… cad! Oh, you’re incorrigible.” her words were inflammatory in nature but she… was laughing– as much as she could anyways. It was a quiet giggle, like the soft trill of a small bell.

It made Aemond chuckle in return. The two of them soon devolved into a fit of joviality. “I quite like you in blue, Shera. In my color,” he leaned down to whisper in the shell of her ear. “I had to let Jacaerys know… exactly…” he punctuated each word as his hand made a home on her jaw, inching closer to her lips. “... where and to whom,” his thumb pulled down her bottom lip. “You belong.”

Every nerve in her body was on fire. She’s never felt so warm, so hot in her life. Is this what it felt like to be a Targaryen? Gods, it was fucking stifling.

“And… to be clear,” he continued. “You belong here. With me.”

Her mouth parted, she was barely breathing. She… she wanted… she wanted to kiss him. She wanted him, more than anything she’d wanted before. She was mad; this was mad. Even on shaking legs, she pushed herself on her tippy-toes, pressing their lips together.

She felt… elated. More than elated, it felt like she was flying, skimming the clouds like a dragon, wings spread… free.

Aemond melted into her right away, pulling her closer as they melded together. His tongue swiped against her lower lip as he caressed her so softly, so gently– more gentle than she could ever imagine him being.

This was the first time she ever took something– something she wanted, and she got it. It was selfish, she knew– selfish and dangerous and reckless and just… hers. This was hers. He was hers. “Mine,” she whispered as they caught their respectful breaths. “If… I’m yours, then… you are mine, right?” she clarified, a bit less confident than her previous possessive declaration. “Quite right, little wolf.” he hummed, pressing another kiss to her temple.

In a brazen show of exuberance, she captured his lips once more.

Things were forgotten. Namely, everything that wasn’t them in this moment. Their individual turmoils, their shared despair. All notions of her mysterious collapse, Aemond’s scuffle with Jacaerys, Shera’s impending marriage to the said prince, tensions rising between two sides of a family–

This was for them.

The only time that either of them had taken anything for themselves in the last ten years.

a/n: ART IN THIS CHAPTER BY @lonelymagpies who, as always, was LOVELY to work with! they captured the scene perfectly.

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semicolonsspace · 10 months

Text

Dark! Bodyguard! Mitch Rapp

Warnings: Bodyguard! Mitch, Bratty reader, Diagnosis(Autism, ADHD, anxiety, and depression) Talk of Spiders, Somoniphilia, bondage, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, nicknames(little one, darling, princess, Angel, dollface)

Disclaimer: I'm autistic and this character represents me :>

Yet again, Y/n was trying to escape. She was currently on her balcony trying to climb over her railing. Mitch heard the shuffling and ran into her room searching for her. It was past her assigned bedtime. Her parents repeatedly told him that she needed to stay in her room and NOT go outside and search for Spiders.

His hands find her hips lifting her effortlessly. He walks through the doors, shuts them, and throws her on her bed, reminding her of the numerous smut books she's read. She screams with a smile on her face. Mitch loved it when she smiled like that. She looked angelic. So happy, the girl made her.

He gave her a stern look before it broke into an amused one. "It's passed your bedtime, Little One." She wanted his voice to be innocent, but it didn't sound like it to her. Maybe to others but it was just them, so, was it really innocent?

"Your spiders are sleeping, you can search tomorrow," he scolds her, his hand on his hip. "During the day," Mitch adds.

Y/n pouts and crosses her arms. She moves and sits on her bottom, her knees bent, her legs resting by her sides. "I don't have a bedtime! And my spiders are Nocturnal! I want to see the night spiders! Not the Day spiders!"

Now she was just acting childish. Spoiled even. But she couldn't just get everything she wanted. Mitch should teach her that... Even if it was very tempting to do so. Even tempting to spank her bottom for being such a brat and escaping the previous night. He was infuriated when he heard her successfully escape through the hallway bathroom window. She used that one because the bathroom in her room had no windows.

Her parents, The Hales were smart for that one. He silently thanked them in his mind when he first had a tour of their house. He also thanked him mentally for receiving all her information in a file on a given work phone. He was surprised at her background, to say the least. She had extreme PTSD when it came to being alone, the last time being when her ex-family member broke in and used her as a punching bag because he resented her. Resent her and ruining the family picture with her diagnosis. But really he did that by doing that.

Aside from that, he didn't really wasn't bothered about the other diagnosis that she had. Autism- She would sometimes become upset with certain clothing and tear them off, so he made a mental note to ask if she was comfortable with the clothing before starting the day. Anxiety- he understood and would help if he saw anything that gave him signs of it. Depression- he would make sure she's happy. Lastly, Insomnia- She had a set schedule she liked to abide to- aside from her bedtime. She despised sleeping during the night because that was when she was most vulnerable. So, he reassured her that during the night he would be in her room to keep watch. So she can sleep.

Y/n stumbles to her walk-in closet. He gets the hint so he turns around to give her privacy. Once she saw it was safe she instantly grabbed a sleep shirt which was an oversized shirt that framed her curvy hips.

Y/n thought to him scolding her. She loved it. He looked so hot, the reason why she was so bratty at times... From the constant scolding of Mitch, she still didn't hate him. She knew he was just doing his job. She thought about it logically. She would do the same if she were him.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts she sat on her bed. She shoved her legs under her sheets and sighed with contentment. She spread her legs repeatedly under the covers to feel the nice satin on her skin. She loved her satin sheets. She grabbed her laptop, placed it in her lap, and began typing away on the book she had been working on for a bit.

Mitch stalked toward her and took a peek at her screen. She situated it so he couldn't see. "Privacy! You would not like to know what I'm writing."

It only intrigued Mitch more but he left it that. He took out his phone and checked the time. "It's 11: 47..." He puts his phone into his pocket once more. "Past your bedtime- wrap it up, darling," He gestured to her laptop. She blushed hard at the new nickname and typed a bit more, probably summarizing what she wanted to happen for her future self to write. She snapped it shut and handed it to him. He gracefully took it and put it on her desk across the room and put it on charge for her.

She watched him do so, smiling to herself as he bent don't to grab the cable cord. "You have a nice bottom," Y/n whispers bluntly. Oh, but he heard her. He quickly turned and stared at her with an open mouth.

It took a second to recover. "Go to sleep, Princess," he said as his brows raised emphasizing she needed to sleep. If only she could crawl out of her covers to grab that laptop to write what she just thought of... Then he was standing in front of her, swiping a strand of hair out of her face. It fell back into her face and she blew it out of her face completely. Ironically, it looked like she was from a cartoon. His hand stays in her hair, falling to her face to cup her chin with his thumb, and then he repeats himself.

She leans into his touch, Contrary to popular belief, autistics hate physical contact but she adored it. She loved simple actions like finger-holding, arm clinging, hugging, and cuddling. Kissing freaked her out a bit but she was sure with the right person she would love it just as much.

Then he walked away like nothing happened. Like he hadn't just cupped her face so tenderly. Like he hadn't stared into her doe eyes so lovingly. Like he hadn't glanced at her lips while holding her pretty face.

Then she flips over on her bed, stripping herself from her shirt under the covers, and throws it. She didn't know where. Nor did she care. Mitch watched her and practically choked on his spit when it landed at his feet. "I guess she didn't like the texture," He thought to himself. He grabbed a book from her shelf and began reading. He became shocked when the first page was a full warning page of triggers. He quickly put it back.

"Yeah, don't grab from that shelf. It's filled with smut. Go for the other, it's more educational," She laughed as her eyes found him with a red face in her corner. He nodded and grabbed another book, a book on night crawlers. She smiled at the book choice.

Mitch stares at her sleeping form. He was in the lovesac like he had been for an hour. She's been asleep for about 20 minutes. She was now whimpering in her sleep, she normally did this. But tonight? It sounded a little needier. Her hips proved that by grinding against her body pillow she was cuddling. Her light grey sheets were lower than they were when she started to sleep. They rested on her bottom, only covering her bottom half. His eyes trailed her back, examining the scars he could make out. From what he could make out was a lightning bolt tattoo that littered her back covering joining the scars.

He stayed on the lovesac, his legs manspreading as his hands rested on his knees. He found her resting form so peaceful looking. Like she wasn't scared of anything. But he knew she wasn't that peaceful because even in her sleep she was prone to attempt to escape. She tried on his first night of being her bodyguard. He took immediate action and comforted her on the floor, holding her while she calmed down from a panic attack. Ever since that night, she was benign to him, going easy on him compared to testing him like she had done on the first day.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when she kicked the covers off of her body. Her body snuggled into the pillow, appreciating the cool air against her legs. After a few seconds, her hips wiggled against the pillow, perfectly grinding against her mound.

To him, that sight was impure. Everything he wanted to see and not see. He pulled himself up, going against his urges to not touch her body. And he doesn't. Yet.

He gulps, and covers her back up, silently wishing to himself that she wouldn't kick it back off. And she does, instantly when the sheets touched her arms. He leaned in to look at her, checking if she was awake or not. His hand touched her forehead, then cupped her face and slowly moved to her shoulder. He takes a deep breath, trying his best to control himself over his sleeping client. She looked so sexy lying there... The image of her body grinding against her pillow popped up in my mind. Replaying it over and over. Was she having a wet dream?

Before he could answer himself he was pulled down by her holding his arms. She gruntles in her sleep and tugs on his arm, he falls into her bed but he catches himself. As he falls her legs wrap around his waist, locking him in place. This is wrong. So wrong. But her body against his felt so good. He could feel her breast against his chest, her breath on his neck, her delicate hands on his waist, holding him.

He sighs giving in and wraps his arms around her curvy form. He covers the both of them up, only with the sheets not wanting her to get too warm. "There," he whispers, mostly for himself. This was not what he expected when he took this job- But, at the moment, he was not going to complain. His warm calloused hands roamed her back, his fingertips trailing the scars along her back. Gosh, he could kill that bitch that harmed his little Angel...Did he just say that? His angel? He didn't care- she was his.

She moans in her sleep, breathy and husky with sleep. Her hands tighten around his shirt, grasping it like she wanted him closer. Her hips now ground into his hips and he stilled. He stiffened, his body and his cock. He could feel the blood rushing to it, hardening under her warmth need rubbing against his dick. "Mitchie... Please," she moans, her breathy moan tickling his neck. The hair on the back of his neck raised, goosebumps littering his whole body.

He bit back a satisfied moan and looked down over her shoulder at her hips moving under the sheet. He shouldn't be allowing this. He shouldn't- He didn't care. He wanted this.

His hands fall to her hips, helping her grind against him. His pants were so tight, that every movement caused painful pleasure to strike through him. Like it was intruding every nerve of his body. His mind was blank besides the pleasure and her sinful-looking body.

His lips planted a kiss on her shoulder, testing the waters. She breathily moaned. So, he kissed again, this time on her neck. This time it emits a loud satisfied moan. So loud he thought it woke her up. But it didn't. He was glad that it didn't, he wanted to enjoy this moment more.

Her body shakes as she orgasms against him. He doesn't let her hips stop, forcing them to continue against his clothed-hardened dick. As she finishes, he holds her up by the back of her neck, slowly leaning her back to get a better view. Her mouth was open and her eyes were closed. Her breasts were perky, and resting in front of his face. He leans in, giving one a kiss, his eyes watching her face so he would know if she was about to wake up. His tongue swirls around her hardened nipple, sucking softly as his lips closed around the areolae. His hands now massaged her hip softly, still going along with her movements. He was about to cum in his pants- He hasn't done that since he was a horny teenager. That was a full generation ago.

"Oh my gosh, angel- You feel so good," He moans softly. He couldn't help but praise her, even when she was unconscious. Her body seemed to react to the praise, her hips grinding harder. That was when he realized she was awake. He stammers, attempting to explain himself. But she cuts him off as she kisses his neck, licking and sucking the heated flesh.

"Tell me later," She moans, biting the area she just kissed. He groans hard at her teeth, never expecting her to be so harsh. He loved it.

"Fuck, Princess. You're going to give me a heart attack." He could hear his heart in his head, it was thumping, racing so loud. It almost vibrated his skull.

"You should have thought about earlier," She retorted with a click of her tongue. The click was loud like it was pulled off from the suction.

Y/n palmed his dick under her hips, grabbing it and massaging his length. He doubled over, his head resting on her shoulder. His left hand rested on the small of her back. "Do you want to continue you this, Mr. Rapp?" She asks sheepily. He nods into her shoulder, his right hand stopping hers. He lifts her with ease, placing her down once he stands.

"Since all you do is write... You should write this." He swiftly removed his belt with one hand, quickly maneuvering it around her hands as makeshift handcuffs. He tugged on it, checking if it was secure around her wrist. "Not too tight?" She asks, his eyes landing on her blown-out eyes. She nods, biting her lip with a small smirk.

That smirk was wiped off when he pulled her legs to the edge of the bed. His face was right in front of her mound. "Say you don't want this and I'll stop..." He leaves a few kisses on her inner thigh, slowly trailing to her covered pussy. Once he gets close he goes to the other thigh. "I swear I will." He looks into her eyes, giving her the most mind-numbing sight of the night. "Please let me have a taste, angel," He begged. He fucking need to. He wants to taste her juices. Even tasting her after they've finished. He hasn't eaten since dinner and that was almost 7 hours ago. He's starving for some desert.

She swore her heart stopped when he asked that. This was like straight out of a book... Gosh, when did Mitch get so hot? Her bonded hands attempt to pull her panties down but he smacks her hands lightly. "Let me," He growls, then begins pulling them down with his teeth. Once they were down at her thighs his hands removed them swiftly. Then they spread her apart, the flat of his tongue taking a long slow lick at her cunt. His tongue wiggles into her folds, collecting all of her release from earlier. He groans at it, the vibrations traveling to her clit. "I'm going to need more of this, angel," He murmurs before he continues lapping against her clit. "Taste' like honey." He then rises and pulls her into their first kiss. She groans, not expecting it to be like this. She did taste sweet, his tongue played with hers before he moved back down to play with her little button.

His hands rubbed up and down her thighs, as he ate her out. Her bound hands playing with his hair. The restriction of her hands pulled her breasts together, giving him the best sight ever. He was so hard it was begging to break free, already passed dripping precum.

"Mitch, please," she tried to breathe but her lungs were moving too fast. He got the hint, knowing well enough she was about to release on his face. And she does, she squirted all over his face; The liquid dripped from his face as he continues to tongue fuck her hole as his thumb rubbed her clit. She screams, letting her pleasure take over her form. Her body shakes, her thighs closing on his head like earmuffs.

After a bit, he pulls up and hungrily kisses her. But the kiss was slow somehow, wanting her to feel everything. Wanted her to taste her release more. He didn't want this quick. He wanted to drag it out as long as possible. He wanted a book, not a flimsy page.

His hands roamed her naked body, feeling all the imperfections that were viewed as perfections. It was like she was created by the gods. Hell, she was a goddess to him. He wanted to get on his knees in all different forms when he saw her file. He immediately asked to be her bodyguard. He wanted her to be his. He wanted to take her. And now, after just a few weeks he was able to.

"I need you, angel, I need you to say you're mine." Her hands fumbled with his pants, wanting to free his member. "Say it," he growled.

"I'm yours, Mr. Rapp!" she screams. He then flips her, her ass in the air. She didn't see him when she looked over her shoulder. But he felt her. He was lapping at her pussy again. Just when she thought he was going to eat her out again, she heard shuffling. He stripped himself of his boots first, the thumb being heard when he threw it near the lovesac he sat at earlier. Then quickly removing his clothes, he left his boxers on and pressed his hips against her. His clothed dick rested perfectly between her slit. "Do you feel that," He groans as he grabs her hips and pulls them to his. "Do you feel what you do to me?"

She wiggles her hips. "It's hard not to when your cock is pressed against my minge," She made sure she sounded sarcastic with her tone, wanting to make sure she was talking back.

He gave a dark chuckle as he kicked his boxers off. "I love it when you're bratty." His body leaned, pressing against her as he unbuckled his belt. He rubs her wrists, kissing them before separating them on each side. He held her hands down on the bed as his dick pressed against her entrance. "Do you want this? Do you want my cock to stretch you out?" She nods a yes, whimpering and pushing her hips back.

When it enters, it enters completely. He slowly moved inside her, not caring that the stretch was too much for her. It felt too good. For both of them. His thrust slowly became faster, fucking her with a medium rhythm.

Y/n's moans were all over the place, screaming then needy. Once he angles his cock to hit that delectable spot she was back to screaming. "That's right, dollface; Scream for me," he growls into her ear. He then plants a small kiss under her ear, telling her she is so good for him. "S'good; Taking your bodyguard's cock so well."

His trust get harder, now his hips were slapping her clit with each thrust. Her head shakes from side to side as the pleasure is too much. She wanted more.

Her body from her previous orgasms made her so sensitive. Especially her most recent one. But yet all she wanted was more. More pleasure against her craved sensitive body.

She could do was take his dick repeatedly. Her arms were pinned with one of his hands and the other held her hip to force it down and to stop it from squirming.

"My pretty angel, so pretty," he groans. He kisses her wet cheek. Somewhere along the way she had started crying from the amount of pleasure. This didn't stop him, only turned him on even more.

"Mitch," she gasps loudly. Her back arches due to the upcoming climax and she forcefully belches her orgasm around him. He chuckled darkly and slowed down her thrust to tease her and her eyes rolled back because it felt better for her.

He could sense his release appearing soon. "You want me to cum inside?" He wanted to go inside but her knew better to do that. Y/n shakes her head in a panic. He hums I'm response and kisses her cheek to reassure her. The rubber in his stomach then lets go in his stomach as he pulls out and cums all over her stomach. Some of his elixirs landed on her tits and he just doubles over and licks it off.

"Instead of spiders I think I might want to study this," she hums appreciatively pointing to his semi-hard length. He smirks. "Come here," she purrs. He obeys and leans down. Her hand grasps his cock and starts rubbing it as he hovered over her. She teases the tip, her finger gliding back and forth over the red needy bump. From time to time her finger would play along the slit and he would shudder as he tried to keep his eyes open to stare into her alluring eyes. "Doing s'good for me," she mocks playfully. "My Mr. Rapp is so handsome," she whispers. He shudders again and nods as his dick starts to twitch in her hand. "Love my bodyguard's cock, so fucking big," she moans before he cums again. He cums with a loud primal growl as his cum close and covers hers body once more.

#dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien smut #dylan obrien #dylan obrien smut #mitch rapp x reader #mitch rapp smut #mitch rapp x reader smut #mitch rapp #american assassin #bodyguard #Bodyguard!mitch rapp

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newstedz · 24 days

Note

Hiiiiii can you write something where Jason and the reader have nothing else to do so they sit on the bed all day (smut)

i love him sm oh my godddddd

i find it really funny that despite my acc being named after him I made 2 kirk posts before anything jason related but!! redemption!!!!!! really sorry this took sm longer than it should've i just haven't had time to sit down and WRITE but anyways its mostly just lazy morning sex

light shines through the curtains of your shared bedroom, your heavy lids lifting to the sensation of soft lips against your neck. calloused hands find their way beneath your shirt, lightly brushing against the the underside of your breast.

"mornin'." jason murmurs, his breath warm and ticklish against your neck. you don't have the energy to do anything other than give a tired groan, but you were far from disgruntled. it was rare for the two of you to be able to sleep in together, uninterrupted by the chaos of everything around you. but today was different. no tour bus, no recording, just the two of you in bed, for as long as you wanted. and by the looks of it, neither of you planned on getting up anytime soon.

he continues his soft brushes against your neck as you begin to feel just how hard he was by the way it was pressing against you from behind. it wasn't hard to tell what he wanted, but just climbing on top of him and giving him what he wanted would be far too easy. the least he could do was work for it, to prove to you that somehow, between the shows and the busy schedules, you were still what he wanted.

there was no resentment, though. you knew it wasn't his fault that he was away. you hadn't noticed the long silence that had grown between you as you were lost in your own thoughts. when he finally speaks up again, it's hushed, slightly hoarse.

"you're so pretty, baby" he murmurs against you, slowly beginning to grind against your ass. you hum, almost skeptically, like you couldn't believe him, after all this time. jason doesn't seem to pick up on your insecurity though, providing enough reassurance when he mumbles hungrily. “need you, please?”

you’ve been together long enough to know what he was getting at, and don’t have the patience or energy to tease him. you give a groggy nod of approval. “mhm.”

he grins at this development, followed by him hastily tugging down his boxers and tugging your panties to the side. his hand slides between your thighs, lifting one up for easy access. he presses a kiss to your cheek, accompanied by a silent “thank you.” he teases the head of his cock at your entrance, whispers an array of sweet praises as he slides in. “fuck, baby.. feel so good.”

you moan as he pushes in, eyes briefly fluttering shut. jason’s hand snakes it’s way down to your clit, aiding the stretch with a gentle hand. “i've got you. doin’ so good.” he praises. he starts with slow, languid thrusts accompanied by a moan each time he bottoms out. your head’s already growing fuzzy with pleasure, rewarding each one of his movements with a soft whimper of your own.

normally he would have the self restraint to go so slow, but he's tired, lazy and needs to savor every single moment of this. every slow roll of his hips eliciting another soft mewl from you, the tingling sensation in your core growing with each movement.

but he starts to grow restless, indicative of how close he was getting. his hand continues to toy with your clit, thrusts becoming more purposeful as he feels your walls flutter around him.

"you close?"

you can't focus enough for words, giving him a little "mhm" of approval, followed up by yet another moan. he holds your body flush against his , almost possessively. "fuck, baby, I know. m'gonna cum." he whispers breathily against the shell of your ear. its not long until both of you fall apart, and absolute mess as you come down from the high of your orgasms.

though in the afterglow, the clinging of the sheets to your skin and the shared warmth of your bodies started to become almost suffocating.

"we should get up." you groan.

jason's head perks up. he'd stay right here all day, if you'd let him. "should we? we don't have anywhere to go. could stay here all day, if you want." he replies with a knowing grin, as if he already knew your answer. who were you to turn down an offer like that?

"sounds good."

#also the draft got deleted like 5 times #thanks tumblr #metallica #metallica fanfiction #jason newsted #metallica smut #jason newsted x reader #metallica x reader

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sitkowski · 26 days

Text

this delicate balance ( noah sebastian x nicholas ruffilo )

pairing: nicholas ruffilio x noah sebastian cw: none. a little bit of angst, mentions of post tour burn out. pretty much just fluff. word count: 860 author's note: more soft boys from my riptide verse. this is set in the same time frame as twin skeletons. title comes from "existentialism on prom night" by straylight run. i think i hurt myself a little bit with this one. divider by @saradika-graphics ✨

⇉ masterpost || taglist signups || the riptide verse masterpost

Waking up without an alarm, without someone telling him where he’s got to be and what he’s got on his schedule is a new concept for Noah lately. The band has been going non stop, and he has to remind himself out loud that this break is for the best. That if they didn’t take it, if he didn’t take it, he was going to become resentful of it all. He’d never been more grateful for the band—his family—than when they told him they were basically making the decision for him, all he had to do was agree to it. And now, here he is, sleeping in and waking up with Lydia tucked into the space behind his knees, and the sounds of Nicholas talking out in the hallway, presumably to Jerry since Dave is sleeping on Nicholas’ pillow beside him.

The door’s already half open, but when it opens more, Noah lifts his head to see Nicholas peeking in.

“I’m up,” Noah murmurs, trying to stretch without disturbing the cats. “What time is it?”

He looks around for his phone, but doesn’t see it. And when he looks to the other side of the bed where Nicholas’ alarm clock usually sits, he sees that something’s been tossed over the display so he won’t see the numbers.

“It’s almost one.” Nicholas says as he comes further into the bedroom.

Noah went to sleep around midnight the night before, and his eyes went wide as he does the mental math. “You let me sleep for thirteen hours?”

“I put your phone in the kitchen too. You needed it, you didn’t wake up once in the middle of the night. Trust me, I checked.”

He can usually sleep that much and more after a tour, but normally he’s ready to bounce back after a day or two. It’s been two weeks, and he still feels the burnout. Never ending jet lag. Not wanting to do anything but sleep and usually that’s pretty fitful the first few nights home before he starts to feel normal. Normal isn’t coming so quickly this time.

Nicholas making sure that he slept fully through the night does something to his heart, and he gently extracts himself from the bed and shuffles over, immediately wrapping his arms around his boyfriend. He feels stupidly grateful, and doesn’t know what to say. That's been happening a lot lately. But he doesn’t really need to say anything, Nicholas knows. Reaching up, he pulls Noah’s head down to press his lips to his forehead.

“Why don’t you shower, and then we’ll figure out what we’re gonna do today.”

It’s not lost on Noah that there is no itinerary, no schedule he’s got to follow. If he wanted to turn around and go back to bed, he could. But he takes a shower, which at least helps him feel a little more awake. When he goes downstairs finally, he makes himself a cup of coffee and takes it out onto the back patio, where Nicholas is sitting with his sketchbook.

“Any plans you wanna make?” he asks, not looking up from his drawing.

Noah gets a little distracted just watching him draw, something he hasn’t had an opportunity to do very often. He wants Nicholas to tattoo him again at some point, he’d give up every last inch of bare skin left over for him to fill in. But he doesn’t realize he hasn’t answered the question until Nicholas is looking up at him expectantly.

“I mean, not really? Half the day is already gone and—”

“Do we need to talk about you deserving things again?”

Noah blushes hotly at that, trying to fight off a smile at the memory of just a few days ago. “Not right this second, no?”

Because he knows the whole point of taking this time off, was to actually try to use the break to relax. And the more he thinks about it, the less guilt he feels about it. There’s not some magic fix, but he’s glad to have Nicholas there with him. As if he’d be anywhere else, he knows he wouldn’t make it through any of this without him.

“You’re gonna wait me out if I don’t give you an answer, aren’t you?”

Nicholas puts down his pencil. “If you wanna do nothing today, then do nothing. It’s entirely up to you.”

“Okay. Let’s order burgers from that hole in the wall place down the road, and do absolutely nothing today.”

“Yeah, we can do that.”

Sitting aside his sketchbook, Nicholas starts to get up, probably to go and grab his phone to place the order. But Noah doesn’t let him get far. He sets aside his coffee cup and tugs him down onto his lap.

“One more thing I want today.” Nicholas hums out a questioning noise, smiling. Noah reaches up and pushes his hair behind his ears. “Can I have a kiss?”

Leaning into him, Nicholas loops his arms around Noah’s shoulders, pressing his lips to his cheek. “As many as you want, sunshine.”

Noah pulls his mouth to his, deciding to take him up on that offer. Lunch can wait.

⇉ taglist:

@deathblacksmoke @ladyveronikawrites @circle-with-me @baddestomens

@rumoured-whispers @cookiesupplier @dominuslunae @malice-ov-mercy

if you ’d like to be added to the taglist, you can find the form at the top of this fic! thanks for reading/reblogging 🩷

#nicholas ruffilo x noah sebastian #nicholas ruffilo x noah sebastian fic #bad omens fic #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #nicholas ruffilo fic #.ficbysitkowski #the riptide verse

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struckd0wn · 1 year

Note

Hi I just wanted to say I love your writing! Your Hanzo piece is so good.

I normally don't send requests but I figured I'd do it for once :)

Could you write something with either Ghost or Bruce Wayne with a transmasc reader that just wants to be held and taken care of? Fluff or smut is good <3

AHH THANKS, I'M GLAD YOU LIKED IT <3 !!! I would love to write for you, I hope it lives up to your expectations :3

P.S sorry this took me a bit to respond to :P I had a bit of writers block -_-

In My Arms ── Bruce Wayne

Bruce Wayne x transmasc reader

CW: slur used and some transphobia, Bruce Wayne has 0 relationship ship skills lol, he trying his hardest, body dysphoria and dysmorphia, self worth issues, little mental break down, overall just a shitty day for reader :(, fluff and smut, clit used to describe anatomy, riding ;), lots of kissing too

Your day has been, entirely, incredibly, shitty. You woke up for work late, your lateness extended by the period of time in which you stared at yourself in the mirror. You had to ignore it, dressing in your work shirt that felt too tight around your hips and waste, your thighs feeling suffocated from your pants. Maybe you'd ask your boss for a bigger size, maybe it would hide your figure. Somedays you felt extremely happy with your progress thus far into your transition, but others felt like you hadn't even started. Although flat chested now, you couldn't ignore the feminine curve you swore you saw in the mirror that night.

You worked the night shift at a corner store not far from the Wayne Manor. This schedule is what you preferred for you and Bruce, that way you would both work at night and come home early morning to sleep with one another. He hated it, he insisted you just stay home 24/7, you didn't need a job, he was rich and could take care of you. Bruce didn't want you adapting his horid sleep schedule just for him, let alone working when you really didn't need too.

Things like this reminded you that you and Wayne were entirely different. He was a billionaire, you were just some dude who worked at a corner store for minimum wage. Bruce was Gotham City's vigilante, you were his boyfriend that lived in his extravagant house... for free. To say you were jealous of your boyfriend was an understatement, but he didn't understand that. He is completely clueless. Bruce doesn't understand why you would need to work, but everytime he spend his money on you, you can't help but feel helpless, like he's giving you handouts. You don't want him to feel obligated to spend money on you or to have him feel taken advantage of.

But to be fair, you didn't understand fighting or saving lives like he did. You wish you could, you want to understand, but Bruce has no need to understand working to live. Then you resented yourself for being jealous of him, of your own boyfriend. He was rich with money to spend, with a side gig as savior of the city. You could never amount to that.

The bell to store entrance rings, pulling you from your thoughts. The clock reads 2:30am, this would probably be your last customer before you'd walk home to the manor. Your eyes follow the man that had entered the shop, clearly drunk. He uses the shelves to hold himself up, stumbling all over the place while gigging like an idiot. The man approaches the back where the walls are lined with refrigerators, grabbing an alcoholic beverage you can't name.

You watch as he waddles his way up to your register, looking you up in down with his canned alcohol. "Hey sweetheart," he starts, setting the can down in front of you. You can feel his eyes tracing down your figure. Ignoring him you take the beverage to scan it. "What, trannys can't say hello?" He asks you, leaning over the counter. A lump forms in your throat as you quietly read him his total. He clicks his tongue at you, pulling out a couple of bills to hand over. "You know what, I'll forgive you. What do you say you come to my place after work. I ain't never slept with one of you before, but hey, a pussys a pussy." You tell yourself to just get it over with, you have to deal with drunkies all the time, it's not any different.

"No thank you, have a good night." You tell him, handing him his change before promptly preparing for closing to distract yourself. The man grumbles, taking his drink and change out the door. In the last thirty minutes of your shift you clean up around the store, stock some shelves, and count the cash in the register. As you're collecting your belongs to leave you notice that the drunk man from before is posted up across the street, drinking from his can. You roll your eyes, making a plan to just go for it when he's distracted.

There's a bus just down the road and you wait for it to cross the store front, hoping maybe he wouldn't notice you leave. You turn the lights off and as soon as the bus passes you, you swiftly exist and lock the store up for the night. Speed walking doesn't help you though, hearing the footsteps of the man running to catch up to you. "Hey, wait up!" He calls out, but you just keep walking.

Eventually he reaches you, stepping in front of you to block your path. "Cmon now, my offer still stands," The man holds his arms out, moving with you so you don't get past him. You tell him no again, trying to push past his left arm. This time he grabs you by your waist, smirking down at you with his drunken expression. You push him off of you and before he can grab you again he hits the concrete with a loud thud. You blink down at him before a figure envelops him, throwing punch after punch at the man. It doesn't take you long to realize who it is.

"Hey, knock it off." You tell Bruce but he doesn't hear you, or maybe he does and just doesn't care. "Stop, Bru-... He's drunk, stop it." You grab your boyfriends arms, and with enough strength you pry him of the pervert. You watch his chest heave under his metal chest plate, staring down at the drunk angrily. Bruce holds you by your wrist, dragging you twords his bike, footsteps heavy in his boots.

The ride back home is silent but you can tell he's still upset by the way he speeds twords the manor. Once you make it back home, down in his lab of his tower, he helps you off his bike. Bruce removes his mask, seemingly his anger is replaced with worry as he near smothers you. "Are you ok? Did he hurt you?" He exclaims, holding your face in his gloved hands, but you just push past him.

"Yes Bruce, I'm fine. He was just drunk." You tell him as you make your way to the elevator, ready to just go to bed at this point. He follow you like a little dog, into the elevator, still examining you for injury.

"Him being drunk is not an excuse." He tells you a matter of factly.

"I'm not saying it's an excuse. I'm saying I could have handled it." And he doesn't say anything about that. You walk up the stairs and he's still following you, all his gear rattling and echoing throughout the manor. You make it up to the bedroom, attempting to close the door behind you but he pushes in with ease, not even acknowledging that you were trying to keep him out.

You sigh heavily, setting down your keys and jacket onto the dresser. "I told you you didn't have to work." Bruce starts up again, and by now you want to bang you head against the wall.

"I don't wanna talk about it." You say.

But he persists, pacing around the room in his armor. "I told you, you didn't have to change your schedule to match mine."

"Bruce." You plead, but he again ignores you.

"You shouldn't be up all night, let alone walking home at three in the morning." He continues.

You stand there in awe as he rambles on, alls while taking off his gear. He makes it sound like you can't take care of yourself, like you're his damsel in distress. "Bruce I said-"

"Do you know the things I see at night? What did he say to you, what did he say before I got there?" Bruce exclaims twords you.

By now you can feel the tears welling up in your eyes before you snap. "Bruce, I said I don't wanna talk about it!" You yell over his rambling, this time he turns to look at you. You're too far gone now, tears roll down your cheek as you sob, desperately trying to wipe them away with the back of your hand. He stops what he's doing, during all of that he has managed to get everything off but the pants he wears under his suit. "I don't need your rescuing or money, I just need you to listen!" You tell him through broken sobs. "I know I'm not rich like you, I know I'm not as strong as you but that doesn't mean I'm completely helpless." You feel like you could just crumble, Bruce is almost speechless.

He's on you within a second, large hand hold your face but he can't wipe away the avalanche of tears that stream down your puffy cheeks. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean it to sound like that..." He whispers over your sobs. The build up from everything today has finally set in, and now that it has started it wasn't gonna stop. You allow Bruce to undress you from your work clothes, replacing them with one of his baggy shirts and a pair or your boxers. He sits you down on the edge of your shared bed as he dresses himself in a pair of his sweatpants, quickly returning to your side.

Your boyfriend tucks the two of you into the bed. Your crying has reduced to small sniffles, Bruce continues to wipe your face dry, but it can't get rid of the redness in your eyes. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I was just worried, I should have listened to you the first time." His apology mixes with explanation, and although you understand where's he's coming from you'd wish he'd just do this first before scolding you. You'd wish he'd understand he didn't need to take care of you physically, you could've handled some drunk, you just needed his help emotionally. To tell you it was gonna be ok, it's all over now. Without the "I told you so" in between.

"I know you could've handled it, I just...couldn't stop myself." He admits to you. You stare at him and he stares back as he holds you. You almost laugh at his admission, he wasn't just looking out for you, the guy had seriously just ticked him off. He didn't do it cause he thought you couldn't handle it, he did it because some rando was trying to touch up on his boyfriend. Maybe he was scared to admit that word for word, but you could read him like a book.

Bruce leans into you, pressing a kiss to your lips and you egg him own, pressing further into him. His hands find their way under you shirt as he continues kissing you, gripping at your flesh like he might loose you if he let's go. "I'll ask Alfred to order us some things to eat. We can eat while me watch a movie, hm?" He tells you between kisses, you nod quickly at his suggestion. You move you hands up to to hold his face, kissing him again. His stuble feels nice under you finger as you deepen the kiss. Wayne does not object, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

You part your lips slightly, allowing him access into your mouth. Bruce is still a bit awkward and clumsy when is comes to these things, mostly because this is the first relationship he's ever gotten this far with someone. He's hesitant but eventually his tongue meets yours as they messily collide with each other. His hand are rough compared to the smooth skin of your torso, they almost feel like sand paper as they roam over your sides.

You push in further, until you are fully saddled on top of him, never breaking the kiss. "Help me Bruce." You plead with him, his face is bright red and he just nods at the suggestion. You sit upwards onto you knees, pulling your boxer shorts down in front of him. Bruce is silent but his hand slowly inch down to your fully exposed thighs, his thumb reaches out the brush against you clit. The feeling makes you flinch as your boyfriend works on removing his own pants.

He doesn't even bother removing them all they way before he's pulling you down by your hips. The stretch around his cock is almost painful, but you immediately forgot about everything bad that has happened today, even the part where you snapped at him. Bruce peppers your face with kisses, waiting for you to adjust before moving. You start moving on your own, slowly pulling off of his length. Wayne throws his head back, hitting the headboard with a thud, his hands squeezing at your hips.

When you slam back down your moan is loud and Bruce moves to covers your mouth. He is clearly embarrassed but his smile is wide as you sit there watching each other. "I'd love to hear you but... I don't want to disturb Alfred." You almost slap yourself for it. That would surly be an awkward conversation, although you think Alfred would be entirely understanding. You nod and the two of you continue. Bruce guides you up and down his cock, his groans muffled as he too struggles to keep himself quiet. You face is buried into his shoulder, letting out a small squeek each time he's pushed back deep inside you. You feel like a teenager who's at your boyfriends house, trying to keep quiet because the partners are in the next room over.

Your can feel the build up in your stomach, it's getting more and more difficult to not scream out loud in pleasure. Bruce is starting to fail at it, his breathing rushed and his moans escape his parted lips. He thrusts up into you, desperate for release which comes mere seconds later. You watch his eyebrows furrow as he cums inside of you, his twitching causes you to orgasm soon after, biting down on his shoulder to be as silent as possible. You whimper weekly, pulling yourself off of him slowly. The two of you lay side by side, ignoring the mess that clings to the both of you and the sheets.

You watch his heaving chest settle, noticing the bite marks you left. Your finger reaches out to brush over it with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry..." You whisper, but Bruce doesn't mind, shrugging his shoulder as he pulls you in to cuddle.

──

By now it is early morning, Bruce is awake, finishing the movie the two of you had put on while you ate. The cheap take out containers of the restaurant you had gotten him hooked on littered the coffee table, and the bruise you left on his shoulder aches. It's a lovely reminder. Bruce sat this his back leaned against the arm of the couch, and you had fallen asleep in between is legs with you face resting on his lower abdomen. He watches you sleep, playing with your hair as he did. He would ask you about the his lack of understand once you had woken up, but for now he will hold you here, in his arms.

#ftm reader #smut #trans reader #transmasc reader #fluff #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #the batman #the batman 2022

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thecooler · 5 months

Text

Magnetar

Fandom: Adventure Time

Pairing: Simon/Betty

Additional Tags: POV First Person, POV Second Person, Grief/Mourning, Alternate Universes

Word Count: 3,368

AO3 Mirror

Simon Petrikov

You are a mature student at the University of Ooo. You tell people that you resent the term mature student, because, in your own words, it makes you sound like an “old fart.” People respond by telling you that your whole everything makes you sound like an old fart. Regardless of your linguistic preferences, though, you, Simon Petrikov, are living in a college dorm about thirty years and change after you last expected to be.

It’s just you in the room. Last time you were in dorms, you had this wad of a roommate named David, who left his laundry on your side of the room and ate your ramen packets without asking. You’d often told your fiancée, Betty, about David. She always giggled at the disdainful lilt your voice would take when you said his name— David, like you might say the name of your least favorite grade school teacher, or your weirdest ex. David wasn’t your weirdest ex, though, that was a different guy, though his name was also David, which Betty always had a good laugh over the first time you told her.

Betty is coming over later tonight, after you’re done with classes. You love her very much. You’ve been seeing each other for what feels like forever.

You pull a pair of matched socks out of your drawers and slide them on, then adjust your bow tie. You look in the mirror, and for a moment, you see a flash of blue. You blink, and find it’s just yourself staring back. Your hair’s started to grey. Betty thinks it looks good on you.

Betty Grof

The school library has always been something of a safe haven for me. In elementary school, being weird meant that I didn’t keep friends for long, and the librarians were always terribly fond of me. They’d give me little tasks to do, like wiping down tables with a cloth or putting a book or two back if I was good. I relished in these small favors. I’ve always yearned to be useful.

In high school, I managed to make friends, because high school is when people who are ahead of the game realize that being weird and being cool are basically synonyms. And some people still give you grief, but when you have friends, it’s a hell of a lot easier to ignore those people. I didn’t need to spend time in the library, then, to avoid my own loneliness. But I returned anyway, because I found the scent of books and the old, dusty carpet in my hometown’s old library to be a comfort. When I turned sixteen, the director of the library took pity on me and gave me a job. By the time I made my way to University, I was already well on my way to building myself a decent resume.

I don’t remember how I got this particular gig, and it doesn’t really matter.

All that matters is that in this life, this is the library where I met Simon Petrikov.

He’s inevitable, a cosmic force that I feel myself drawn to in every universe. He was a bit older, when I met him here, in his first semester. He was looking for an old volume from Kant. He’s always stubborn— he paced around for a good hour before he asked me for help. When he did, I looked at him and smiled and said, “Are you saying you kant find it?” and he’d laughed way more than the joke called for. He always laughs like that at my jokes, like he thinks I’m the most brilliant person to ever walk the earth. Like he’s never once looked in a mirror.

Simon Petrikov

Your first class is at eight am and all the way across campus. You often joke about how it’s fine, because you could use the cardio and the regular sleep schedule. But you always end up leaving ten minutes late if no one’s pushing you out the door, and you don’t think you’ve ever once jogged willingly in your life. You walk at a regular pace across campus, and you’ll get there when you get there. You don’t usually miss much in the first five minutes anyway, though you don’t love the glare your professor shoots you when you creak open the old, heavy wood door.

You sit in your usual spot and listen to the lecture, but it all sort of starts to blend together. You’re suddenly quite tired, and you can feel your eyelids drooping when shuffling starts around you. With a start, you realize it’s time to head to your next class. You blink and stand up suddenly, stumbling when vertigo gets the better of you. A young man you don’t recognize rests a steadying hand on your shoulder and says, “Come on, Simon, I’ve got you,” and his blue eyes look rather sad.

He’s young, you think, too young to be here, until he’s not. You blink, and he has a beard and a chest tattoo peeking out from under the collar of his tank top. You swear that wasn’t there before. “Simon?” he says again, his brow furrowing. You don’t remember telling him your name.

You look at this young man, and you find yourself at a loss for words. You recognize in his gaze a familiar sense of prolonged grief. You’ve never met him, but somehow you think you’ve known him your whole life, or at least his.

“Are you okay, man?”

You nod, slowly, and it doesn’t seem to convince him. “Betty’s coming over tonight,” you say, “I must have gotten distracted thinking about it.”

Betty Grof

Once, when we were a lot younger, and before the crown changed everything, Simon and I went hiking together. Usually, when we went on excursions, they were meticulously planned. He had every step of our journey plotted out on a spreadsheet or a numbered list, the creation of which was usually his favorite part of the whole thing. Which wasn’t to say he disliked the excursion— more so that he really liked making lists and spreadsheets.

But we’d gone without this time. I worried it was because I teased him about it, even though he knew it was good-natured, or at least I’m pretty sure he knew. I didn’t think he was actually upset, because Simon always wore his feelings on his sleeve, and when he was worried, he got this crease between his eyebrows. On such occasions, I’d kiss his cheeks until he relented and forgave me, for which I was declared a menace to society. So I don’t know exactly why he decided to forgo the spreadsheet this time, but he refused to make one, even when I tried to nudge him to in the hours before we left.

So we went off into the bush on the outskirts of Seattle, near a farm that some friend of Simon’s owned. We had two backpacks full of trail mix and a sleeping bag, but no tent, because Simon said that he’d been orienteering since he was old enough to walk, and he’d get us out of the bush before we needed to sleep.

Naturally, then, we did not make it out of the forest in time. Instead, we found a nice, open clearing, and we lay down on the grass together and looked at the stars. Simon was fidgeting with his shirt sleeves.

I said, “It’s really okay, Simon. You know I don’t mind a little roughin’ it,” and I waggled my eyebrows. It wasn’t really an innuendo, but I’d never been one to miss an opportunity for a double-entente, no matter how half-baked. I meant it, too. Laying under the stars next to the Simon Petrikov was basically a dream, even after five years of dating. I think it’d been five years. Time is different here, it’s hard to tell. Hard to remember how time moves for mortals.

He turned on his side and he looked at me. Back then, before Evergreen’s crown took root in his mind, his eyes were a deep, thoughtful brown. He said, “You would really tell me when I’ve got a bad idea?”

I turned over and smiled, “Would it stop you if I did?”

And he’d closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and breathed, “No.”

Above, the cosmos shone down, ambivalent to us. It would be hundreds of years yet until we tried to make it ours, and in doing so, fell apart.

Simon Petrikov

You walk to your next class with the unfamiliar old friend. He says he shares the class with you, though you don’t think he seems like the Anthropology type. He pats you on the shoulder and laughs at pretty much everything you say, even when you aren’t making a joke. This feels to you like condescension, but you can’t detect anything other than earnestness in the boy’s face. He looks to be in his early-to-mid twenties, but his eyes are much older.

Your daughter, Marceline, joins you. She has a guitar strapped to her back and you know from experience she isn’t above busting it out in class if she thinks it’ll make the situation funny. Her girlfriend, Bonnie, walks beside her. These are two more people you’ve known for impossibly long, and yet you struggle to pin down any specific memories associated with them. It’s as though your mind is a blank slate, with information slowly being accumulated atop it. Marceline doesn’t look like you, and you don’t think she looks like any of your exes, either. You wonder how the two of you met, then, but you know this is not something you can ask.

She looks back across the hall at you, and you abruptly realize that you’ve stopped walking. You’re staring at her, with her hand in Bonnie’s back pocket, and you feel light— happy. But you don’t have the context for these emotions. Your mind feels like an unorganized mess, as though a cosmic being has reached in and shuffled things around, removed some with the intent to put it back, only she forgot. And now nothing makes sense to you, even things that should be second nature.

Marceline’s brow furrows and her lips tug down into a frown. She presses her palm against the small of Bonnie’s back and whispers something to her, before walking back towards Simon while the other girl makes her way towards class. Somewhere along the way, the boy vanished, like as soon as he was out of your line of sight, he ceased to exist. You tense with the realization that the world around you feels more empty than it ought to be.

Marceline places a hand on your shoulder and meets your eyes. In the reflection of her deep brown irises, you see yourself with ragged white hair, and then one of you blinks, and it’s you again. “Simon,” she says carefully, biting her bottom lip and tapping a finger against your shoulder. She takes what feels like several minutes to decide what she’s going to say, though it can’t be more than thirty seconds.

“Is this about–?”

Betty Grof

There’s a reality where we got the crown (we get it in most of them, one way or another), but it wasn’t you who put it on. Simon took it out and came up behind me and popped it on my head. I remember hearing him say boop and start to laugh, and then the universe exploded around me. This, in my current state, says very little. It’s difficult for me to conceptualize what it would have felt like for my mortal brain, but I think that it was agony. It was, to my best approximation, something like having your skull split open, and then unceremoniously pouring the steaming hot knowledge of the cosmos inside.

Which is to say it was probably about as overwhelming for Simon as it was for me.

But when Simon put on the crown, in that first reality we endured together (for him. There is no first for me, nor a last, they are all as one, but it was the first reality my mortal flesh experiences, and so it is easier to describe it as the first) he only lost me. He thought, at the time, that the madness drove me away, and it took him a thousand years to learn the reality of the situation.

Perhaps it is a mercy, then, that in the reality where I don the crown first, I know immediately what happened to my Simon. The crown slips off my head, and I find him, body entombed in ice, save his head, which lolls lifeless and heavy to one side.

There’s more that happens after that, but I don’t stay long.

Simon Petrikov

Eventually, you’re able to convince Marceline that you’re quite alright, but maybe you could stand to eat soon. The two of you cut class, which makes you momentarily feel like a bit of a wild child. The University has a hall of student-run food outlets, and they vary from quite bad to decent. You are partial to the Greek-themed shop, because the chicken isn’t dry and you’ve always been a fan of tzatziki. You often keep a big tub of it in your fridge, when you aren’t living on campus.

You eat with Marceline, and she tells you that she and Bonnie are doing well, that she thinks Bonnie will graduate at the end of next semester but she’s probably going to take another year. She doesn’t mention what either of them are studying. You think that you should remember that. Why don’t you remember that?

She asks you if you have any plans for tonight, and you tell her you have a date. Something tells you that you shouldn’t mention who it’s with, and she doesn’t pry, but she does give you a look that feels very sad, and you don’t like how it makes you feel.

Betty Grof

Simon always planned what we were going to do. While he did that, I managed time. Those sorts of things tended to get away from him. He’d get all wrapped up in research, in exploring every last inch of our ventures, and suddenly, he’d look up and it’d be night already. I always knew exactly what time it was. I learned to read the stars and the trajectory of the sun when I was young, and I’d always found comfort in the notion that no matter where I was in the world, I’d know when I was.

Now, time bends strangely around me, and there is equally no future to plan nor past to recall. Everything is happening, has happened, and will never happen. It is not something that my mortal mind was born to conceive of, though I suppose I’m well past that now.

I know all our realities, Simon. I know each of our beginnings and our ends. There are worlds where we die with our hands clasped together in the face of nuclear destruction. There are worlds where you go on without me, and others where I go on without you. There are realities where we linger together for decades, until the inevitability of death pulls us slowly and together into her arms. I spend more time than I should ruminating on these realities.

Simon Petrikov

Sometime after lunch, you end up back in your dorm room. You think you like it here, more so than you’ve liked a lot of your apartments. For one thing, you have easy access to a good library, though the University’s fiction section, as is often the case, leaves something to be desired. You have room for an armchair and a nice standing lamp. You often fall asleep in that chair, and your back does not thank you for it.

There will be none of that tonight, though, because again, you have a date.

You already look good— you always look good— but you like to dress up. Betty usually dresses comfortably, though she’ll put on her best if the situation calls for it, but a regular Friday evening date does not. She’ll be here in a sweater and slacks, and you’ll think she’s the most beautiful thing in the universe. You know, at this point, very little about the universe. You think you know quite a bit, but you’re mistaken. It’s better that way. Our mortal brains aren’t designed to comprehend such concepts. I would know.

Regardless of how good you currently look (very), you strip out of your blazer and button-down. Your tie is a clip-on, which you wouldn’t be caught dead with on a date. Betty doesn’t understand why it matters if they basically look the same, and doesn’t seem to get it no matter how many times you emphasize that it’s the principle of the matter. But that’s fine; you’re dressing up for you, and a little bit for Betty, but mostly for you.

In the end, you aren’t ready until two minutes before your date’s supposed to start. You’ve put on another nearly identical button-down which you insist is your nice one, as well as some nice black slacks and a matching suit jacket. Your tie is properly tied and not clipped on, like some sort of amateur. You fiddle with it in the mirror until you hear a knock on the door, right on time.

You glance away, and out of the corner of your eye, you once again see a flash of blue, but it’s gone when you whip your head back around. You inhale deeply, and exhale slowly through your nose.

I knock again.

You answer.

???

We’re in your dorm room. You’re looking at me, in that lovelorn way you always wore on date nights. It’s like warmth found a home in your eyes, like I can see the burning of your heart through them. You invite me inside and tell me you’ve put the kettle on for tea. You got the English breakfast tea I like.

We’re holding hands under the stars. The dewy grass seeps through clothing that’s too thin for the midnight chill as we sleep under the cold and unforgiving night sky. We’ll survive, but our aging bodies won’t thank us, and when we develop colds a week from now, we know who to blame.

We’re old together. Wrinkles tug at your face in a way I think is terribly handsome, but which you often fuss over. Day by day, simple things grow harder, and when your eyesight starts to go, you cup my face in your hands and whisper, “I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t see your beautiful face.” I reassure you that you have lived without the sight before and will again, but this doesn’t soothe you. I wish it would.

We’re a thousand years beyond a time we should have ever been allowed to live, and I’m sacrificing my mind to restore yours. I never have a single doubt that you would do the same.

I know now that this is true, I’ve seen it come to fruition, in another life.

The bomb goes off while we lay, hand in hand.

You die cradled in my arms.

We’re in the dorm again, and you’re looking at me with an expression I cannot comprehend. I’ve known you for countless lifetimes, and yet there are still times where you perplex me.

“I don’t know where you end,” I say, and without missing a beat, you return, “I don’t know where I begin.”

Our realities, everything we are, is a web of entanglement from which neither of us can escape, no matter how powerful we become. My end is your beginning, my beginning your end, and everything in between those times, folding in upon each other in an incomprehensible cacophony of misery. I know all, and yet, at times even I struggle to understand it.

You are there, and then you are not.

I can always reach you, in a way, if I so choose. But we will never be as we once were. I know too much now.

Were I capable, I would weep for the loss.

#adventure time #atimers #simon petrikov #betty grof #petrigrof #golbetty #writing tag

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chainofclovers · 6 months

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a life improver

As someone who works relatively long hours Monday - Friday and has traditional weekends off (and before I write another word in this post, I'll acknowledge that the drudgery of this is also a privilege, albeit a privilege that is wound tightly into the tangled web of late-stage capitalism)........anyway. As someone with weekends off and an intense M-F schedule, I hear a lot about the Sunday Scaries. I empathize, but I have ~~~~basically eradicated them from my psyche.

It's really simple. I avoid scheduling anything social from the dinner hour or later on Sunday, try to make sure all chores and house responsibilities are wrapped up by then too, and make sure I've got something very calm to look forward to on Sunday nights. My default is that I know I can smoke a little weed and do the Sunday crossword puzzle in bed with my wife. What a delight! It could be reading, it could be a phone date with a friend, it could be baking a treat, or doing yoga, or whatever. And sometimes it is those things. But I know that no matter what, a Sunday night will involve a smoke and a crossword, and I genuinely delight in it and anticipate it and look forward to it even as I'm trying to get as much joy out of the rest of the weekend as possible.

The other piece of the equation is Monday morning. I get up early before work to write most days, but Monday mornings are probably my most important writing time because I use it to kinda set the tone for the week. I don't need to dread my Monday alarm. My Monday alarm means "go feed the cats and drink coffee and write pornography about characters from Ted Lasso." Or "feed the cats and drink coffee and work on your novel." Or "feed the cats and drink coffee and do a random writing exercise." Having that buffer between the start of the week and the start of the workweek is key. My job is stressful but I often like it quite a bit, and making sure it isn't the first thing I'm confronted with on a Monday morning makes me resent it so much less than I otherwise would.

(I'll add that not having kids absolutely factors in here, in that I'm able to dictate my own use of my time with a lot more freedom than most parents have.)

I still have trouble sleeping on Sunday nights sometimes, but the reality of my workday is rarely as bad as anything I'm anticipating, and forcing myself to relax on Sunday nights and wake up early on Monday mornings to have time to myself has done sooooo much for just making me feel like it's my own fucking life, which I am the boss of. Work is an essential facet of my existence but it is merely one facet of many.

#about me #personal #sunday scaries

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poxy-domain · 1 year

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big fat May post, my main sve farmer!!! art is May over the years, ive talked about her here before briefly but not much

rest of the post under the cut is essentially her backstory, it ended up being WAY longer than i thought it would be though so be warned lol

basic run down of her life pre-farm, is she was average in every sense of the word essentially. she basically had nothing exceptional going for her. she lived in the suburbs outside of zuzu city for a majority of her childhood before going to a cheap 2 year college and eventually working at joja. however, she knew nobody at zuzu city nor was she good at socializing at all. it basically caused her to become a hermit, she would hardly ever go outside aside to go to work and she had a terrible sleep schedule as well as diet, she was overworked and underpaid at joja so she couldn't afford much good or healthy food (she also picks up sign language as a way to avoid social interaction after a while). after basically 4 years of this, she decides to read her grandpa's letter and boom!!! stardew plot happens

she started off kinda terrible at farming ngl, like may legit grew up in peak urban area and she saw barely any plant life, now you expect bro to be a farmer?? LMFAO funny joke bro. having a hard time breaking out of her former hermit lifestyle, she barely talks to anyone outside of small talk with lewis, marnie, pierre, and robin, and those 4 are only because its essential for her job, and lewis is because he knew her grandfather. yippie!!! she went out to the country to start a new life and it really isn't that different from her lonely, sad, former one!!!! may was initially hoping this move would be a cure for all her problems, but seeing that she's still the same person as before, and doesn't have a magical effortless personality glow up does go thru a sort of arc of resenting herself. other villagers try to talk to her but she doesn't really try to manage anything further than small talk. She does have a sort of mutual understanding with sebastian because of both of their introverted natures, as well as geeky interests that may especially got into over her years of being a social recluse.

This all changes when she gets into the adventurers guild, and i mean actually get into it, when marlon first offered for her to adventure into the caves full of monsters, she initially brushed it off thinking he was exaggerating. “monsters were just some made up story that only existed years and years ago, they’re practically extinct now!” which was basically may’s thought process, as the city intentionally covers up any news coverage related to any magical or monster related topics. may learns this is very much not the truth the hard way. rip bozo, deserved tbh. After this encounter, she starts frequenting the caves much more often for the adrenaline rush, a way to escape the thoughts plaguing her that she really needed to fix herself, not just her environment. She frequents the guild for more supplies and ends up talking (generous term for her nods and hm’s) more to marlon and gil. At first the two of them do wonder about her quietness, but they’re both used to eccentric characters from other guilds so they’re not too bothered by it. marlon even picks up on some sign language for her to use with him when she doesn’t want to talk. The wizard also becomes quite used to her behavior, being even more accustomed to unconventional characters, he even knows sign language so she primarily uses it to talk to him!! may finally finds people more like her in the form of adventurers and mages, it sort of clicks in her head when she starts to learn a bit of magic with rasmodius. her love for the adrenaline rush of adventuring turns to a genuine love of adventuring itself. She also meets krobus and IMMEDIATELY clicks with him, and spends a dubious amount of time in the sewers because of it (the villagers start giving her weird looks for going into the sewers so much so she starts going in through the forest entrance). bro smells terrible. by her second year in stardew, krobus and may end up becoming roommates. he doesn’t mind her silence, though she does become comfortable talking to him more often.

Also i wanted to show in the art of her getting progressively more muscular from her work as well as tanner, if any y’all notice her scars forming over the years kudos to u lol. She also cuts her hair year 4 but decides to grow it out again by year 7.. i should also prooooobably address her relationship with lance, considering she does get married to him later on. but i kiiinnddaaa wanna write a small fic about that ngl. i will work up to it or write another post on this later lol. but this is getting too long so i’ll end it at year 3. also she totally fucks with isaac. she may be quiet and socially inept but she fucks with people sooo much. devious in nature

#stardew valley expanded #stardew valley #sve #sdv #stardew valley farmer #stardew valley art #sdv art #sdv farmer #sve isaac #sve lance #sdv oc #stardew valley oc

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compassionatereminders · 4 months

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hi, i'm sorry if this is bothersome to you but i don't really know where to go anymore

so, my roommate is also my best friend of 4 years. we met because our abusive exes were friends/leaning towards more (it was a whole mess). obviously, we went through it together, built ourselves back up, and got close in a way only two people who were in the same situation together can.

obviously she was still in high school while i was working, which pulled us apart a bit as we weren't on the same schedule and i didn't have time to visit her as much as i could have. however, a tragic accident that happened to our friend group pulled us back together, so we got close again, if not even closer. all along, her boyfriend since 2021 was with us, and he's a friend of mine and i really like him.

now, each of our family situation had us needing to no longer live with our parents, and we got a flat together in september of last year. it's as good as getting a flat with your best friend can be, which means there were laughs and tears and fights but mostly care and happiness.

now, we are moving out and won't be living together anymore. however, and for a few months now, ive noticed something weird in me.

at first i thought i was just much more attached to her than she was, or at the very least that my anxiety was making me believe that. we sleep (actual sleep) together often, i give her massages, we are comfortable being naked around each other, and people sometimes mistake us for a couple. she is the person i lean to the most, and i would be ready to follow her anywhere.

it is indeed not the same on her part (hence the not moving in together next year), and the more time grows the more i realise i feel resentful of her boyfriend, and i genuinely feel i treat her better than him. it just annoys me because she is incredibly beautiful, talented, smart, so interesting, and just is an all around absolute catch and it feels like everyone (including him) overlooks that and wants to push her down. and, in some ways, it feels unfair that people who don't realise that and push her further towards believing these things and building herself up will be the ones who stay in her life and live with her forever etc. (eg. she is thinking of the forever home she'll have with her boyfriend, while i'm just there like 🧍‍♂️)

i do think it is necessary to add that we're both bi so there's no sexuality issue, and that the compliments i gave her here aren't different from how i feel about my two other best friends. it's more my longing for physical contact and this feeling that may be jealousy that is confusing me.

anyway, should i be worried? take a step back? or am i just jealous that she's in a relationship and i'm not? are these normal feelings of friendship and i'm just worrying for nothing? (as i said, i feel the same towards my other best friends, including the 'hmm you don't deserve her' towards their boyfriends, just not as intensely)

thank you so much for your time, and i hope you have a great day

First of all, I'm sure you very genuinely love, respect and appreciate her, but if you involve yourself in the business of deciding what choices she should be making and who she should be dating and what she should be pursuing, you wouldn't be very different from a pushy boyfriend in practice. Like it's perfectly valid to have negative emotions about this development and to want more and to need time to work through these feelings, but you don't get to decide anything on her behalf, and if she wants to commit to that boyfriend of hers, that's her own decision to make

#chat with kat #abuse tw

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writefightandflightclub · 6 months

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Nine (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Shorter chapter this week (be warned, next week's will be the heftiest yet), but I hope you like this next instalment! It's really gearing us up for the FINAL TWO! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. If you've read this far, THANK YOU! ILY :-*

Word count: 3.8k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

Today is a new day. It’s a new day and you’re done crying. You’re done holding on to anger and resentments.

Besides, you feel as though you gave Santiago everything you had last night, and - at least for now - there is nothing else left to give.

So, instead of wallowing, you plod downstairs to where Frankie is stationed in the kitchen, offering up your favourite pastries, coffee, and even pulpy, freshly squeezed orange juice. You pull up to the breakfast bar, hopping up on a stool to survey your extravagant pity platter.

It’s true then. “He’s gone.”

Frankie nods solemnly, leaning into the other side of the island like he’s a sympathetic bartender in some old Western flick. He claps his palm to your shoulder in a supportive gesture. “I’m sorry, chiquita.”

You shrug.

His face twists. That’s not all there is. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but…”

“What, Frankie?”

“He had to bounce but he didn’t want to wake you. Said you looked far too peaceful sleeping for him to come along and fuck that up.”

Your brow notches, absorbing all of that with a contrived neutrality. “How did he… seem?”

Frankie’s eyebrows raise lightly as he ponders, thinking back over prior events. “Calm, actually. Happy, even.”

“Hmm.” You smile softly to yourself. Makes a change from lately to hear that. You get it though. After last night, you can’t feel anything else either. Even if he technically didn’t say goodbye in words, you get it. You aren’t mad. Chances are one or both of you would have fucked it up this morning. This way at least, it leaves the night you spent together untarnished. Makes it feel like holding on to a good dream, before the realities of the day can set in and make things fraught.

Frankie’s face crumples with concern as you gaze wistfully into the middle-distance. “You gonna be alright?”

You pump your eyebrows. Search yourself for feelings. “You know what? Yeah. I am. I’m okay.”

Frankie’s eyes glint playfully then. “Oh. So you won’t need alllll o’ these yummy pastries?”

You laugh as he eyes the pain au chocolat pointedly. “Get stuck in, Morales,” you invite fondly, and he obliges, scraping up a stool and wiggling on his ass until he’s comfy.

“Hey. So,” he says through mouthfuls. “Did you two figure anything out?”

You groan at the sheer complexity of Frankie’s simple question. Did you? Or are you still going around in circles? “We know we love each other. The rest? Uh. I still don’t know.”

“He’ll get there.”

You puff air out from between your teeth.

“You don’t think so?” Frankie interprets.

You wrap your arms around your middle. “It’s not that. It’s… I don’t think it was all on him.” You don’t have any blame or accusations left. No grudges to hold on to - your hands are open. You’ve both made mistakes. Manufactured this distance, in your own ways - sometimes literally, sometimes not. You were both just trying to figure all this out as best as you could.

Frankie’s brows notch and rise with a silent question. How so? What do you mean?

The thoughts form as you speak them. Clumsy yet intrepid. “I guess... It just feels like we were… Both waiting for the other person to get somewhere, you know? But this whole time, we should’ve been heading there together. Otherwise, how the fuck were we supposed to know where to end up?” You slide a palm over your face. “Christ. Does that make any fucking sense?”

Frankie ponders. “I think so. Like trying to meet on the highway without a time or a place or directions?”

You reach out and clasp his hand. “You get me, buddy.”

Frankie blinks, tangling himself up further in your metaphor, but valiantly trying to muddle through. “And so… do you…?” He scratches his chaotic mop of hair. “Do you have a map now? A meeting point? I mean… What happens next? On the highway?” Your mouth lilts into a gentle smile at Frankie’s earnest question. He notes and feeds your amusement, going off the deep-end with this metaphor now. “Are you driving in shifts, chiquita? Grabbing cheez-its for the road?”

You laugh, the musical sound mingling with Frankie’s throaty chuckle. “What happens next?” You repeat the question out loud, carefully, posing it to yourself. Hasn’t that always been the question? However, the very sentiment which used to scare you now feels a lot more like potential. Like possibility.

Still, you feel -for the moment- like leaving that question hanging. You leave a pregnant pause. You let it breathe.

For now; you let it go. You let him go.

“Where are the other guys at, anyway?”

Frankie rides your tangent with ease. “Packing shit up.”

“We should help them.”

“Yeah, we should,” Frankie grins mischievously, and yet neither of you make any effort whatsoever to mobilise.

Instead, Frankie pours you a cup of coffee from the pot.

“You wanna call off the hike today?” he asks hopefully, Frankie increasingly a creature of comfort.

“No. Hell no. I need to move.” You lock your fingers and stretch your arms above your head, a satisfying stretch extending down your spine.

Frankie’s eyes sparkle across at you. “Just not in aid of helping the Millers pack their trunk, huh?”

“Exactly! What did I tell you, bud. You get me.”

You do though. You need to move. You need to move forward. No more standing in place. No more moving in circles, always repeating.

Still, when you think about it. When you think to what is ahead, to what is next, your stomach drops. You feel overcome by a sudden anxiety which you can’t place at first. Like having misplaced something dear to you. Like having done something wrong but not being able to recall exactly what. Then, all of a sudden, you understand it entirely.

“Listen. Tell me about this job, Frankie.”

He immediately tenses up. “What job?”

You take a bite of your pastry. “The one with Lorea’s cash house.”

Frankie simply groans. He always knows more than he lets on, this one. About everything. Everyone.

“Is it true? That you and the boys are in?”

You can plainly see his reticence to respond. But you know for a fact that he’s about to cave.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

“They need a pilot,” Frankie states, looking up at you with guilty, puppy dog eyes.

“Fuck me. He dragged you back in too, huh? You know… Sometimes I wonder if any of us are good for each other.” Your tone grows mildly irate, your heart quickening, but you recognise it for what it is. It’s simply anger veiling worry. You love these boys.

“Come on, don’t say that,” Frankie bargains. “We’ve dragged each other out of hell.”

“And back again.”

Frankie takes a deep breath. His tongue pokes around the meat of his cheek. “He says it’s simple recon. In and out. No mess.”

You jut your chin up. Stare at him levelly, unblinking. You know that Frankie will give it to you straight. Know that he can’t help himself. “And you buy that?”

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

“Not for a fucking second.”

You scoff, shaking your head. Not when it comes from Santiago, no. After all, you’ve fallen for Santiago’s bullshit plenty of times yourself. It’s the fact that Frankie would wander in with his eyes wide open to it that really gets you. It’s something else.

Still, before you can chastise him for being so stupid, Frankie glumly offers up some explanation. “Look. I need the job. I… I got my license revoked.”

Your heart drops - and your face with it. Your hands clamp over your mouth. “Frankie,” you say softly, with empathy. “Fuck.”

He hunches in on himself despondently, his hands disappearing up his sleeves, his fists clenching and his gaze cast downward. “I fucked up, man. Cassie has a baby on the way and I fucked up.” His eyes swim with a deep shame.

“Coke?” you venture, tentatively.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Slowly, he nods.

“Frankie.” Your hand swipes over your face, and your eyes fill with concern for him. His palm waves in the air, however, quickly dismissing any sympathies you may care to bestow.

“I’m back on track. Getting there. I am.” His eyes are nothing but determined. Sincere. “But I need this gig. No matter how fucking hare-brained a scheme that pendejo is cooking.”

“Think of the baby, dude.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Frankie says forcefully, in a harsh tone he rarely uses, and you know in no uncertain terms that the conversation is done. That he’s made his mind up, and that he won’t hear you out any further on the matter.

You swallow. Regroup. You chew on some platitudes, but none of them feel quite right.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Frankie says after a stretched, tense moment. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay,” you jostle his shoulder, and it shakes a little of the tension from him and the room. “I get it. And shit. I’m sorry for putting all of my bullshit on you this weekend. I wish you’d said something, Cat.”

He shrugs. Speaks with finality. “There’s not much to say. It’s done. I just need to make it right. And I will.”

“I believe it. But you do know that I’m… If you need… Anything, Frankie.”

He looks up at you then, the warmth back in his eyes as your voice cracks, searching for the words. But, he already knows everything you could ever say. You’ve said it before, a hundred times. He knows you love him. Knows you’re proud of him. Knows you’d do anything for him. Knows you want the best for him. He knows it already.

In turn, you are sure that he already knows everything you could possibly call him out on. That he’s already thought about it. Weighed it up. Thought about the risks. About the possibility that he’s acting out of desperation. The possibility that he’d probably be better off staying the hell away from Pope’s schemes.

He scrapes his stool back and comes to you, bundling you into a tight, warm, big brother hug. You tug in a deep breath, and you let it go. You’re done trying to control everything around you. It never really got you anywhere.

Still, there’s an undeniably uncomfortable knot in your chest as you think about them all gearing up. Strapping on their tac vests. Shoving clotting pads into their med packs. It makes you feel physically ill. And so, you can’t help yourself. “Do me a favour, Frankie? Don’t take Tom?” You muffle the words into his shirt, half hoping they will get lost there. That maybe he didn’t even hear you. But, you know when he braces his hands on your shoulders to get a good look at you, that your game is up.

“Why not?”

You see it then, in his eyes. That Tom is not a risk Frankie has considered. His presence not something he has weighed up.

You deliver your words as plainly and transparently as possible. “He’s too hungry, Cat.”

Frankie simply locks eyes with you, as though trying to weed out your motives. Shrewdly trying to assess your conclusions. Is this just your petty vendetta talking? Is this intelligence? Is this coming from your gut?

“Please. Just trust me.”

“I do,” he nods eventually, but you should know better than to feel any relief. And next, there it is. “I do but it’s not my call.”

Well. You’ve said your piece. You guess that’s all you’ve got. Absent-mindedly, you tug on Frankie’s lapels. “You’d better come back to me, Cat,” you plead plaintively. “And by God, you’d better bring those other fuckers back with you to boot.”

With a wistful affection, Frankie tugs you to him again and you stand there in silence for a few more moments, the sounds of the other guys evident in the background. In time, you and Frankie release each other and gravitate towards them, tucking yourselves under the porch to survey their efforts packing up the trucks.

“We should probably help,” you repeat again, and, to your side, your hear Frankie’s murmur of agreement. However, when you glance to him you see his long, lean frame stretched out up against the wooden porch post. He looks like a man with nowhere else to be in a hurry.

“Fuck,” he curses at nothing in particular, surveying the animated bodies of his buddies before him with both awe and trepidation. “How did we get here? Years of service and none of us have anything to show for it.”

That’s a Santiago sales pitch, through and through, you reckon. You recognise his propaganda. Funny, since he used to swallow the flag for breakfast. Is that how he got to him then? Convinced Frankie he could finally make bank? Take what he deserved? Ah. Or give his family what they deserved? Frankie is all about family.

A sad smile twitches your mouth. “Well. That’s not entirely true, is it? Not nothing.” You think of what you’ve gained from all of this. “I got a gaggle of weird ass brothers. A suitcase full of trauma. A fucked back. And! An array of unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

Despite the darkness of your statement, Frankie’s eyes crinkle. What else is left to do but laugh, anyway? “Maybe Will should put that in his speech.”

You belly chuckle at that, moving to lean up against the opposite post. “Yeah. Scare those poor recruits off before they can end up like us, huh?”

Frankie looks wistful again. “It hasn’t been all bad.”

No. It hasn’t. He’s not wrong about that.

You ponder on it. If you could go back and change your path - would you? But, despite everything, your squad would be far too much to lose. “Sure. The weird thing is, as shitty as it’s been at times? I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

There is a beat, and Frankie reaches out across the space between you and wordlessly clasps your hand.

“Listen. You gonna be okay, Frankie?” He looks down at his worn sneakers, contemplatively, as though he really doesn’t know the answer yet. You give his hand a squeeze, trying to let him know that’s okay. “We’ll talk more, okay?”

He nods - a subtle, concessionary thing, like maybe he could really do with that.

“I get why you didn’t tell me. But I’m sorry. That I didn’t do a better job of asking.”

“It’s not on you,” he says generously. A little too generously, in your estimation. You’ve been rather wrapped up in your own shit. A little too self-involved. “I know I can talk to you. I just… I, uh. Didn’t want to ruin the weekend.” The irony of that statement causes a throaty chuckle to bounce in Frankie’s neck, and your palm slides over your face in regret even as you laugh in reciprocity.

“Christ. I did a great job of that all by myself.”

“Well,” Frankie says good-naturedly, shifting to bump your hip with his. Wrapping his crooked arm over your shoulder. “You had some help.”

It is your turn now to look wistful, as you contemplate the storm that is Santiago, and all the rubble he left behind. “He’s really gone again.” Frankie simply squeezes you a little tighter. “Hey. Anything else I should know, by the way?” you needle. “You’re not holding out on me?”

Frankie sucks air through his teeth. “Tom and Molly. She finally served him papers.”

You fold forward, hinging to collapse your upper half onto the porch rail. “Fuck. Shit. I really need to start being nicer to that shithead.” Still, from behind, Frankie’s familiar chuckle buoys you, even as you inwardly berate yourself for getting wrapped up in your own business. “We’re all messes, huh, Frankie? Do you think we can fix it?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I do.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

You toss him a soft, grateful smile, which extends as Will makes his way over to your position, greeting you “Hey, slackers!”. You and Frankie share a conspiratorial glance.

“All set for the hike, Captain?”

“No thanks to you.”

“I had an alternate mission. Ranks of pastries to deplete.”

Will feigns tiredness, but his baby blues sparkle even as he rolls them.

“Anyway. Didn’t need you. All set to head out as soon as you slackers get your act together. You wantin’ to do the usual route, hon?”

You brace your arms against the porch rail. Dig your fingers into the wood. “No,” you say, the words a little tight in your chest, but they feel good. “Not today. There’s somewhere else. Somewhere I always wanted to go.”

Somewhere new.

“Fine by me,” Frankie offers. “Just let me grab more pastries.”

***

You relish the hike, when it comes. You relish walking a path that is -to you- entirely untrodden. That he can’t touch. You walked the old, familiar trails for too long, and the only place it ever got you was right back where you started.

The bullshit ends here. You’ve decided.

And so, you turn your attention away from your sun, and to the wider constellation of stars around you. To yourself.

You even do your best to make peace with Tom. To put old grudges to bed.

You relish the hike. Enjoy the undulating landscape. You don’t know for sure what’s next, or where you’re going, but the difference is that for once, that feels okay. Full of potential.

You walk until your legs burn, and when you get to the summit you take a moment to drink in the crisp, clifftop air. To look out across the ocean. To see it from a distance and to know that this time, it cannot break you over and over and over.

Still, when you’re at the top, as if by providence, Santiago texts you.

“Hey. Sorry I had to take off early. I wanna say… Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the best night of my life.”

“Ah. Fuck it,” you whisper to yourself, and you press the button to call him. You immediately call him. He immediately picks up. “Hi.”

”Hi. What’s up? They just announced my gate.”

”That’s okay, I’ll be quick. I, uh. I just needed to tell you too. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For a proper goodbye.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I-”

“-I’m not mad, Santi. I think… I think we said everything we have to say, right? I think it was…”

”…Perfect?”

”Yeah. Yeah, pretty perfect.”

“Listen. It’s selfish, but. With everything coming up. The Lorea job and… I needed it, you know? Needed that image of you sleeping.”

There’s an ache in your chest and it’s bittersweet.

He cares for you in every way he knows how, doesn’t he? In every way he can. He’s not perfect, but hey, neither are you. You’re both a little bit broken, but that doesn’t mean you can’t heal. And most of all, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love while you’re doing it.

One day, he’ll turn up at your door, and he’ll be welcome. Whenever that is. Whenever it happens. But until then, you can’t just wait for him.

Until then, you’ll love him; from a distance.

No longer can you leave him in anger. No longer can he break you.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Maybe one day, that will even be enough.

“Would you promise me something?”

“Sure.”

“Come back and visit soon, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I promise.”

You conclude the call, and you stretch your arms above your head. A pleasant tingle snakes down your back as it cracks. You haven’t felt so relaxed in a long time. You don’t think you’ve ever felt such peace.

The path that you are walking is yours, and you implicitly trust where it’s taking you.

***

You are grateful to slip into the passenger side of Frankie’s car, beginning the drive back to the city and signalling the end of your stay at the beach house. Still, there is something bittersweet there too as you leave behind the site of so many memories from over the years - and now, the site of your most perfect night with Santiago.

It reminds you of all you’ve been through. The ups and the downs and plenty of things which went sideways. You are starting to realise though, that perhaps the landscape of love is undulating. That sometimes the terrain is tough. It shouldn’t have been quite so tough though - so steep and unforgiving; and so, you hope for gentler, easier paths ahead.

It is bittersweet then, as you leave this place behind.

As you look forward, having said goodbye. As you wrestle with your past, future, and present.

Frankie swings the car out and onto the highway, the Millers up ahead and Tom behind, your vehicles forming a convoy through the dark, the glow of headlights illuminating the route ahead.

You sit in silence, eyes and thoughts unfocussed, in abstraction, as you watch vague shapes and colours slipping by the window, your own face occasionally reflected right back at you. You look older than you used to. More tired. But you don’t dislike that.

After a while, Frankie’s robust voice slices through the dark, his eyes on the road and hands threading the wheel. “I don’t know if this will make things better or worse but… Do you want to hear it?”

You swivel your head towards him, fractured, liquid panels of light slipping over the planes of his face as your surroundings pass by in a haze. “Hear what?”

“Pope’s heartbreak playlist?”

Your hands dig into your thighs where they rest. “Do I?”

“Well?” Frankie asks, his finger poised over the button, and evidently not willing to make that decision for you.

“Yeah. Fuck it.”

You brace a little, in all honesty. A tightness takes hold of your chest as you wonder if the first track to befall your ears might be angry. Resentful. Full of blame or sadness that you can’t hope to wrestle with and come out on top. But, as the first notes of the track sound out, you are surprised to find a full, unfettered laugh rises from out of your throat. The tears swell in your eyes next, for it is nothing if not bittersweet.

“That dickhead. I can’t believe…”

You can’t believe it. The fact he has chosen a song which reflects your life together? Which reveals a happy memory?

He loves you, doesn’t he? He has for a long time. And you can’t help but hope that maybe one day, that will even be enough. For tonight though, it will definitely do. You’ll take it. You’ll treasure it.

“Whiskey in the Jar,” Frankie scoffs as he catches on to the song, even if his fingers are drumming against the lip of the wheel involuntarily. “I mean. What the shit’s that all about? He’s a weird kid, I swear.”

“Frankie,” you laugh brightly, turning once again to look wistfully out of the window, as the view of the beach house and the ocean recedes into the distance. You catch another glimpse of yourself in the pane, and this time you look younger, you think. More alive. “Did I ever tell you about that night in Philadelphia?”

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #ride or die series

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