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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year

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I Never Missed You 3/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. Angst and smut and fluff (the holy trinity!) in this last part.

Part 1 Part 2

Juice spills all over the table from the oranges you press, but you don't mind. There has been a soft smile on your face all morning.

Simon's still sleeping, and you want to surprise him with a special breakfast today: scrambled eggs, freshly pressed orange juice, berries, and…

"You took my shirt."

You flinch when you hear his familiar rumble not a few feet away. The staircase wailed like a widow last night, but obviously, this man has learned to avoid the creaky spots when he wants. A goddamn heavyweight ninja...

"I'm sorry." You lick your fingers from the juice and try to feign innocence. The sleeves of his black tee reach your elbows, but you're not sorry. Nor do you feel bad about seeing him in your kitchen without a shirt.

"It was not an accusation," he says, the corner of his mouth curving a little, the dark eyes that made love to you last night giving you an approving once-over.

You approach him with a glass full of sun, but it's you he grabs in his hold. Your fingers find the scars on his back as you two embrace, and you feel an odd churn in your stomach.

"What's this…?"

Your hand floats across the embossed, white ridges that crisscross his back. The collection forms an entire mountain range, and it's chilling because you've only brushed the space between his shoulder blades.

"A reminder. To trust no one."

"No one…?"

"No one."

You remain a coward and refrain from asking for more details. You doubt he would even share them.

"I made you breakfast," you lower your gaze to the colorful palette you've gathered on the plates. Is it some sort of an instinct to want to feed a man after they've fucked you so good?

"So I see," he says, ever more approvingly. Then you're lifted on the table, next to the plates, like you're the breakfast.

Soon you're only wearing his shirt and your tiny socks, which Simon decides to leave on, too busy with getting his face between your legs.

No one has done anything like that before… No one has chosen you over breakfast; an entire abundance of delicacies laid out.

He licks you until your legs are trembling on that tortured back. You're pure, you're untouched by evil, and he carries your naivety on his shoulders like it weighs nothing. He flattens his tongue on you, sucks your flesh, tortures you on that table and doesn't even mind his teeth all too much. The peak stubble he hasn't yet shaved stings and burns as he moves across your folds.

Saying that the coarse chin on your silk feels good would be an understatement. You come undone next to the breakfast, clad in golden light shining through the small window left uncovered.

You feel alive, and raw, and stellar. A shooting star, a comet high above the sky, although the space through which you ignite consists of golden rays of sunlight and the scent of orange juice.

He takes the shirt back after he's done. After you're done and try your best to return back to earth with shaking legs. The only thing you're wearing is your socks, but you feel completely naked before him, dopey and dumb before the day has even started. Simon only licks his lips, throws that shirt on, and grabs his plate.

He dares to comment that there's no hot water. You put the kettle on with a wobble, feeling hotness on your cheeks while he sits down to eat his second breakfast like it's the most natural thing in the world: to wreck you first thing in the morning.

…............................

Simon.

He fixes the door on your fridge. He helps you clean your garage and fucks you on the table. Oily, dusty, filthy table. You go to shower after, together. You're giggling; he's smiling. Fully, now.

You want to ask him, Is this free of charge too…? Not just his cock... But his smiles. His assistance and support. The looks he grants you when you come out of the shower, ready to be licked to ruin.

He calls you his Princess to tease you just right. To get you in a state where your eyes flash with half-rage, half-lust, just before he slips inside you. He knows exactly which strings to pull – and then calls you love just when you're about to give him a piece of your mind.

You end up on the table, on the counter, on the floor. He takes you while your jaw slowly falls open from his audacity and his cock, splitting you apart with slow love. The first time he takes you in a missionary, you squirt. It's like his cock was made for you. And he dares to tease you about that, too.

"Did ya just squirt all over my cock?"

You have tears in your eyes, shame on your cheeks, and he's wetter than a wet dog down there… then he makes you squirt again, high on the lewd, obscene praise you just gave him with your pussy.

Your cunt can't lie; he knows it by now. So it's futile to keep your lips sealed either.

Kiss me.

That's what you would've usually ordered. But after an exceptionally quiet and passionate and desperate fuck that leaves you both catching your breath, leaves him hovering only inches from your sweaty upper lip, you whisper…

"I want to kiss you."

You expect him to laugh or mock you, at least crack a stupid joke or two. But he doesn't. Instead, his eyes drop to your lips, and he swallows with a heavy roll, then closes the gap between you two. Covers your mouth with his, uses that strong jaw to open you for devouring.

The kiss lasts long enough for you to begin breathing through your nose. Your inner walls grip him, still buried deep inside, and the gusts of exhales passing through his nostrils hit your face with pure bliss. He’s a little breathless when he parts – withdraws just enough to look into your eyes.

“Will that do...?”

There is a drunken vigor in his eyes of crushed amber, but to your shock, you hear your own question laid out before you. The one you asked when you were going to that party.

Will I do…?

Your hands find his jaw and cup his face from both sides, drawing him back to your lips.

“Yes."

You will more than just do.

And then you say…

"I want more.”

He chuckles a soft scoff on your face.

"Greedy little thing."

Then he swallows you again. You kiss for a good few minutes while he grows half-hard inside you. It's the most romantic kiss you have shared with anyone, ever. He tells you how spoiled you are between the breaths you both catch, then spoils you some more with his mouth and tongue and cock.

You start to curl together in the evening. Just to watch a comedy. He massages your feet and smiles more every day. It's kind of domestic, how he wrinkles his nose at your fine white wine and asks what it is in that decanter you have in your study. When you say it's just some old bourbon, he goes and gets himself a glass like he's finally made himself at home.

It makes your heart grow thick from love. You almost forget why he's here in the first place.

When you ask him about the plan, he explains it to you in detail while kissing his way down your ribs and navel. He takes his sweet time while doing it, kissing the inside of your thigh, the hollow place below the knee, the tender skin under the knee. He kisses your calf and the ankle bone while holding your leg up for his lips with just one hand. Then he does the same to your other leg, but this time, kisses his way from ankle to thigh until he reaches…

You.

You've forgotten half the plan by then because you realize Simon hasn't looked at you like you're a steak or garbage in a long, long time.

He looks at you like you're a queen. You could say he worships you, but the thought alone makes your heart flutter with the anxiety of a fragile hummingbird.

Simon gets you your groceries and gets himself only a beer as a reward. You would happily offer him a case if you knew it would make him happy.

But you don't really know what would make him happy. You don't know anything about this man. You know he likes it when you're dolled up and angry. He likes you when you're sleepy, without makeup, wearing only his shirt. He likes to fuck you from behind and hold you close after. He likes to give you a wash, likes it when you wash him. He likes to watch the two tall trees outside the window sway when there's a strong wind.

"What makes you happy?" You ask one night after you've had him in your mouth.

"Blowjobs," he answers with a straight face, and you shove him in the shoulder. Nicely. Softly.

"No, for real."

"I dunno." He sighs and turns to stare at your ceiling with a bothered look. It's a tricky question, perhaps. Or weapons, not willingly gifted.

"Dogs," he shrugs after a while. "A day of silence. Good whiskey."

He doesn't grant you weapons. You get some rope, but not enough to choke him with it. He trusts no one.

"Why don't you like missionary…?" You continue roasting him while curling your fingers around the pale hair on his chest.

"I never said I didn't like it."

"Don't avoid the question, Mr. Doggystyle."

You prop yourself up on your elbow and place your palm flat over his heart. His stare slowly drifts from the ceiling back to you.

"Simon. Why do you always fuck me from behind?"

He raises his eyebrows like he's innocent of the crime he's being accused of. "Not always."

"Seriously, Simon."

The smug look returns; it gives his eyes a delightful little spark and tugs at the corner of that kissable mouth.

"I like your ass."

"But not my eyes?"

The smile dies, and he gulps down a short surprise, caught between truth and dare. But then his eyes settle like the calming sea under a full moon. Stern, but not remorseless. Bold, but not heartless. If anything, he's naked and bare.

"Darlin'. Love your eyes the most."

Your heart does a backflip. You've been a fool because what else has he done but search for your eyes first thing in the morning? Given you flashes of mischief over breakfast, made love to you with those eyes as you cum around his cock? That liquid fire and smoke hasn't left you since he stepped inside this house.

You breathe together; you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was a time when you thought this man was incapable of love, but now you fear he has never been allowed to love enough.

"We never talked, you know," you whisper. His heart swells underneath your palm like a sail.

"What'ya wanna talk about?"

"Us."

"So talk."

Walls are raised so quickly you feel them knocking the warmth out of your body. It's cold, it's Antarctic, the technique he uses to withdraw. Your room turns into a kingdom of ice from the cruel, emotionless indifference he emits.

You've been a fool, yes... And a child.

"You're making it hard," you say, noticing how the man starts to tense up under your fingertips. This is not the way, but you're not smart enough to stop your rampage.

"What happens when you've done your job?"

He doesn't sigh. He doesn't even think twice before giving his answer.

"I go back to the base."

You know now why he's called a ghost. You wonder if he was ever even here. Simon becomes a reminder for you, a reminder to trust no one.

"...Right." You pull your hand away slowly. As if it somehow helps with the pain to pretend you haven't just touched a hot stove and ended up getting your fingers burned.

He notices how you tense up far more than he. The arm around your waist goes tight, and you wonder if you've always been a bloodied steak to this brute, a stupid little princess with your wines, sighs, and wet eyes. He just doesn't want to let go of the last bites of his fine, delicious meat.

"I never thought you wanted a relationship," he says with a hollow voice, and the red rage nearly blinds your sight. You're too riled up to even yell at him.

"Love…" he tries for the last time.

"Get out of my bed."

…............................

His musk still clings to you as you descend the stairs the next morning.

He's sitting at the end of the steps with hunched shoulders and a tense back, exiled into the man he was the first day you met him. Your heart bleeds from the sight, wondering whether Simon has waited there the whole night after you kicked him out of your bedroom. But the boiling bile in your stomach forces you to lift your chin and draw your shoulders back as you walk down those steps with an audible clatter as your heels clack across the parquet.

He must've heard you before you make a racket fitting for an angered queen, but rises only after you've made it halfway through the staircase. You won't allow yourself to even look his way as he draws a deep breath.

"Love. Sweetheart."

But with that, you flash the man a stare full of despise as you walk past him.

"Don't."

"Let me–"

"Don't say a word," you take a sharp turn and raise a hand to shield you from whatever brutality he would like to stain you with. "You don't talk to me. You just do your job. Ok?"

His chest swells with another deep breath, but otherwise, this man is still as a statue again.

"Ma'am."

It takes you a while to notice he has regressed back to that term again, and you tilt your head. The movement is that of a warrior who swings her sword to a guard before a fight. He crosses his hands over his crotch as if to shield the most vulnerable parts from a low blow, but his eyes are full of hateful hurt as he gives you his most pretentious, mocking tone.

"Miss."

Your heart skips a beat – Simon becomes the thing you miss.

A hit and run.

You have to resist the urge to grimace at the pure venom in his voice - it doesn't matter what he calls you because that tone seeps straight through your skin like lye. It hurts; it burns to see him even more withdrawn to his shell than when you first met. He retreats far beyond the front line, he goes further than the rear, and it's a bitter defeat for both of you.

This man has rubbed your feet while you've laughed at a stupid joke in a sitcom. The same man has been inside you – night after night after night. It rips your heart to see a distant, perfectly blank expression on his face after you've seen him give you a plentitude of relaxed and wicked little smiles.

You share the breakfast in funeral-like silence. You wish you could pay him to stay home so that you can go through your day filled with terror and longing without Simon Riley following you around.

"I've been meaning to update you on new intel about the target," he breaks the silence, and your heart feels like it's being put through a wringer. Simon hasn't even touched his breakfast. "Turns out he received training in a sniper unit."

"So?"

"There's a high chance he might prefer to use long-range weapons."

He's professional, curt, clinical. Even more so than when you first shook hands with him. And all the while, those eyes burn you; they examine you like you're the most challenging puzzle he's ever tried to solve. He's cold as ice with his words and hot as hell with that stare. Those eyes seem to pierce your clothes, they even reach under your skin.

"Right," you say without giving him a single look back.

"We have to update our protocol asap."

Our…

We.

"The protocol…" you whisper and finally look up at him. His lips draw into a thin line as he sees how your walls crumble; they didn't last even half a day.

"Simon, I can't do this," you say, your voice breaking. The tears are only seconds away. They blur your sight, but as he rises from the table slowly and takes a hesitant step towards you, you turn your head back to your toast with a snap.

"I want to change bodyguards."

From the corner of your blurred vision, you see how he raises a hand. If you didn't know any better, you could say that he's at his weakest. But the hand falls straight back and gives a twitch by his side. You wonder why he even bothers to disguise the spasm so lousily as a stretch. It's as if he wants you to see that he's in tumult too.

"I'll stay until–"

"No. Get out."

"Miss. I'll just get my things," he says, and you nod briefly. No exchange of gazes is probably the best policy after informing him you no longer need his services. It's better to rip the band-aid off with one yank than try to pretend that this relationship was something more than sexual.

You know he came to your house with minimal belongings, a duffel bag full of spare clothes and a large case which you supposed was a container for different weapons. That is why you notice he takes a surprisingly long time to get those things and leave your house.

When he finally emerges from his room – no, not his room, but the guest room, you remind yourself – he places the luggage in the hallway and comes back to you, probably to say his polite farewells.

"You won't let me speak to you, so I wrote you a fuckin' letter."

You turn to solid stone as he places an envelope between your water glass and cup of coffee. You sit with your heart thumping in your chest as he picks up his things, walks to the door, walks out of it and out of your life.

It's one of those moments you wish you could freeze and rewind. Do everything differently so that it wouldn't have to come to this. Instead, you listen how the front door clunks shut.

Then you send your trembling fingers up from your lap and onto the pure white thing that holds his secrets. You pry it open and find yourself reading the lines, scribbled with surprisingly sophisticated handwriting, through a round of hot tears.

They cloud your vision, but they don't cloud his words.

You skim through the letter in a frenzied hurry once, then again with more control, and try to remember how to breathe.

He shares shrivels from his past, ugly, horrid things which make your breakfast nearly push up your throat. He tells you he stopped dating eleven years ago for a reason. He writes that he would rather be tortured again than make you suffer from his past and incapacities.

There are certain lines that enter your heart like a thief with the most delicate crowbar. Lines like I'm not good with words and You must know by now that I'm a broken man.

Lines like I'm not a fucking poet but I'll miss your warmth even under the desert sun.

Some lines make you want to tear the letter to pieces. Lines such as Don't throw your diamonds in the dust and I can't give you what you deserve.

He thinks you can't take his darkness, so he shelters you from it. He says he would come back to you if he could. You don't know what the hell he means by that.

If he could?

What the fuck prevents him?

You sit inside your empty, lonely house, confident of the fact that it is not you who prevents it. It was not you who just sent him out that door. Who commanded him to leave because you didn't need his services anymore.

The letter makes you cry, and then it makes you boil.

Such sweet words, and so many empty sentences. If only, if I wasn't, if I could.

You get the feeling that he's mocking you again. If only you weren't a princess and a spoiled brat, then perhaps he could reconsider this relationship.

You leave the letter there; you leave your coffee and your breakfast. You almost wish someone would shoot you and put you out of your misery as you call a taxi and go to the heart of the city.

You're completely numb as your fingertips brush silk and linen and all the newest designs. They curl around tiny bottles of bright nail polish and touch the perfumes made from the last free wildflowers of a burning world, but you feel nothing stir inside.

You're emptier than the echo that rings through the malls and corridors of stone; you feel poorer than all the beggars on the street. Shopping always makes you feel better. But now you want to burn all your money, throw your jewels out the window, torch all the fucking stores like some bloody anarchist. You leave every store without buying a thing and try to remember what it was to have lunch without drowning in tears that can't be cried in public.

"I can't give you what you deserve."

That's the line that scalds you most. You know what he meant when he wrote those words, seemingly humble. But your bleeding heart twists that sentence until his words are a testimony of pure rejection.

You have money, so you don't deserve love, is that it?

You want to find him and shake him. It's not about what you deserve or what he deserves. It's not about what anyone deserves. And if the bloody man thinks he doesn't deserve love only because he's made his home in suffering, then he's the last person who should be allowed to decide who deserves what.

You walk through the crowds and streets like a small whirlwind, on the verge of yelling your heart and loneliness out in the air until your vocal cords are raw. You're so riled your mind doesn't even register the gunshot.

The only thing you hear is a glass shattering next to you just before an entire boulder hits you.

His scent envelops you like a safe, warm blanket, even if that blanket weighs a ton and causes your jeans to grate and tear as you two hit the asphalt. Simon gives you bruises, scrapes and burns all across your left side as your body grinds through the dirt.

Another shot is fired; this time, a car's glass is shattered above you, and the body surrounding you tenses until you worry your bodyguard has been hit. The bodyguard you fired this morning, who's still doing his job, who never even left you…

People are screaming and running in different directions all around and above you, but time comes to a halt as Simon rises only an inch or two.

"Stay down," he gruffs in your ear. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move, ok?"

The whole world could've gone silent from the way you only hear his voice. His words. His distress. You remain still as a stone and look up at him – your lips part because he's looking at you with impatience that's not just pressing; it's demanding.

"Yes," you stutter, "yes, of course."

Someone's pissed because a third shot sends him right back over you, and only then do you notice you're clinging to him, to his jacket and his shirt, like he's a human shield. Then the human shield speaks again, and the words that come out only make you grip him tighter.

"He has to change the magazine soon. You stay right here, ok? I'm going in."

"No, don't," your fingers curl around his clothes and try to keep him on top of you. "Don't go. I'm afraid."

I'll get you a dog.

A day of silence.

I'll buy you some good whiskey. I promise…

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, more softly now. "I promise."

Then he rips himself off you. Your body misses his heat like the desert sand must miss the sun, and you realize you've ruined everything as you finally get to watch him in his element. He's agile and beautiful as he reaches for his gun, takes it out, and prepares it in a few seconds to fire death upon your faceless enemy. You've ruined everything because if Simon goes in, he might get killed – he's a human, not a shield, he's not even a weapon – and all the things you never said will haunt you for the rest of your life.

"Don't leave me," you want to reach for him, but don't dare disobey his orders. It should send you laughing: that you're finally doing precisely as he says. You finally trust your life with him, just before he leaves you, leaves you, leaves you.

"Simon–"

"Sweetheart. I never left you."

He looks straight into your eyes. You gulp the tears now.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, and someone is screaming; everythings a buzz, cars whir by as you tell him all the things you meant to say weeks ago. "I never wanted you to go. I always liked you. I– I think I love–"

"Shh. Don't you do this to me now."

The words are so soft you have to struggle to hear what he's saying under his breath. It's like he's talking to himself, and you realize you're an asshole, saying things like that to him when he's trying to concentrate on his mission and his job. But you just can't help yourself sometimes. No one in your life compares to him. No one has caused such a ruckus, such turmoil, such devastation and such love.

"Do what?" you whimper there, motionless on the ground as he gives you a last, painful look before his stare fixes on the piece of glass still unshattered, the dim, transient mirror of a store window he uses to locate movement in one of the buildings.

Then he takes a peek over the car, and you hold your breath – he's the bait now, and ducks his head immediately as two more shots are fired. You don't even have the strength to scream; your whole body simply shudders from the echoing sound of pure fear – how can he play tag with death like that?

And then he leaves.

He rounds the car and darts for the building and the sniper; he disappears from your vision so quickly you wonder if these past weeks have been but a dream.

A hit and run.

"Do what…" you repeat on the ground and curl into yourself even though he said you shouldn't move. You figure it's not that big of a crime to go into a fetal position when you don't know if he's ever coming back to scold you for breaking the rules.

You want to close your ears from the sounds that follow – you fear you'll jinx something if you listen too closely to what happens in that building. You try to concentrate on your breaths, slowly bringing you back to your body. You haven't even noticed that there's blood running down your arm.

It's funny how you only notice the pain after seeing the flowing crimson that makes small rivers around your fingers. You don't want to look at your burning shoulder because the shock is already here.

The searing pulse gets worse as you hear another shot, then another shot. Those sounds pound inside your shoulder and send more fire down your arm. Minutes or hours pass and you think how strange it is that everything's completely still, how bizarre it is that there are no sirens, no cars, no screaming. They've finally closed off the roads.

You only start to cry when you see that he's alive.

You try to rise from the ground to meet him – a bleeding princess, waking from her beauty sleep and realizing everything's just been a bad dream, greeting her knight in a black pair of fitted tactical pants and a pistol on his waist. Diamonds and darkness…

He rushes to you in what seems like desperation. You find it oddly beautiful that he's not only relieved to see his client is still alive and well, he's also relieved to know you're still there. That his princess has waited for him.

He falls on his knees and prevents you from rising. You're quickly wrapped in his arms, feeling so happy and safe that you don't even bother to tell him you're injured. It's just a scratch anyway. Even if your leg was blown off, you wouldn't complain about being picked up in his lap like this.

"Shh. I got you. I got you."

He's cradling you like a child while tears stream down your face, but there's no audible sounds of crying. You weep a whole river of tears and your nose is clogged, forcing you to breathe through your mouth, but there's no wailing, no screaming, no bawling. The first words that roll off your tongue are a child's moody complaint.

"You left me," you mope as he caresses your head.

"Only for a little while."

"You came back."

"I said I would."

More tears flow, and this time you sniffle and sob. He rocks you gently back and forth as you cry in his embrace. Simon would make a good father.

"Is he…?" You whisper, then look up at him. He just nods and gives you a quick scan, drawing a sharp breath when he notices the wound on your arm.

You're placed back on the ground as he inspects your shoulder and tells you the bullet managed to scrape some skin but has mostly just ruined your jacket. You're almost sorry that the wound is not as severe as it feels. You thought the burning sensation meant shattered bones and scarred flesh, but the scratch is no deeper than if you had accidentally cut yourself with a kitchen knife.

"No, I don't want… No hospital," you beg as he offers to take you to ER. You're not spending the rest of the day in a frigid treatment room where tired medical personnel only clean the wound and put a big plaster on it.

"Just take me home," you plead like you're his daughter who doesn't want to go to school today. "Please?"

"Sure. Whatever ya want."

He makes a few phone calls, arranges things with the local police or something. You don't want to know anything about it. You don't want to know who got shot in that building and how.

It's not a taxi that drives you back this time. You don't know where he got a car and a driver, but the vehicle is big and black, and your head is in Simon's lap when you lie in the backseat. There's a panel between the driver's seat and the rear, so you don't even know who's driving, but you're only grateful for the privacy after the crazy morning followed by a murder attempt. You look up at Simon, who looks back at you for the first time while you're in a car together.

"Why did you become a soldier?" You ask, not knowing why you're whispering. He's holding your hand – a simple, wholesome thing to do, but his grip on you is solid and warm and feels equally as intimate as the times this man has been inside you.

"I wanted to help people."

"By killing them?"

"By saving those I can."

He keeps a hand on your cheek too. Simon has spoken softly ever since you were fired at, has been humane and caring and tender, and you realize… This man is naked before you; he's stripped bare from all pretenses.

And he's not darkness. He's not a skeleton or a dead man or even a soldier.

He's a beacon in the night.

"You did a good job," you squeeze his hand softly.

The last glass-like veil in his eyes shatters, but far more softly than those windows shot at with a rifle.

"I live to serve, Ma'am...–Miss."

"Don’t… Simon, please don’t call me a–"

He descends. He doesn't need that hand to lift your chin up to meet him in a kiss. It's not a hungry devouring this time, but a soft promise, a lover's seal. You feel the rest of the shock leave your body in his embrace. There's no more coldness, only a fragile burning.

"You never look me in the eyes," you whisper as a tear escapes from the corner of your eye. It's a silly thing to say when he looks at you with all the love in the world.

"Yes I do," he gives you a soft brush of a thumb across your cheek. His lips are right there, an inch away from yours. "How could you have missed that?"

He's right, as always. The dark love almost swallows the brown of his eyes as he looks at you, shining light on you as he has shined for days, for weeks now. How could you have missed that, indeed? You raise a hand to cup his cheek, not caring about the pain, not even mourning that your blood stains his chin. He doesn't seem to mind at all, so why would you?

When you arrive at your house, he drives away the loneliness, sorrow, everything a rich girl can fear by carrying you in his arms, stepping over the threshold with you like you two are married now.

He peels your jacket off with affection and tenderness, tends to your wound and wipes away the blood that has caked dry all over your arm. The gash has bled a lot for such a small wound, and you purse your lips from how accurately it reflects your feelings for him.

He ties the wound, checks at least two times he's not tying it too tight. His care breaks your heart, because you don't know whether he will leave you after this. There's nothing that keeps him here anymore – there's no way you can keep Simon Riley to yourself. So you abandon him first for the second time, ascend the stairs to your lonely domain while he cleans up the small mess in the bathroom.

It's a small miracle that he follows you. He opens the door to your room without knocking – not because he's entitled to your privacy, but because there are no more barriers between you two. You're gathered in a stout embrace for the second time this afternoon, and you wrap your arms around him to hold him closer.

"You'll leave me soon," you speak to the wall before you, to the man behind you, holding you so gently against his chest. "I'll miss you."

"Love," he murmurs behind you, you feel the words against your back as a warm rumble. "I'll come back. If you want me, I'll come back to you."

"You will…?"

"I promise."

You have no more tears to cry, so you settle for examining the stab inside your heart, the wound that will bleed you dry if no one ties it tightly enough.

"I don't believe you."

"It's not a matter of whether you believe me."

He turns you around and lets you bathe in his warmth again, the same golden light that came through the window when he placed his mouth on you in the kitchen. It's almost frightening to know that there's nothing that can keep him from you. Nothing, except you. The only thing that has stood between you was only and ever pride.

"Simon," you breathe, a soft attempt to introduce him to mercy. "It's not a matter of what we deserve."

He blinks a few times, the chest against your side collapses a little. It's a hard reset. The corner of his mouth tugs, a beautiful betrayal of his surrender, a sign of being hit by a boulder – your boulder, finally bringing the rest of those walls down.

"You think so...?"

"Yes. I think so."

He brushes his knuckles across your sternum – a familiar motion that always manages to lift your heart. You used to think it was foreplay when it was in truth, an attempt to touch the organ said to be the house of love.

You think about the times his harsh breaths have hit you just before he cums, the urgent praise he's peppered you with merely seconds before you've cried from pleasure. Can't get enough of you pet, you’re fucking perfect, 'm gonna make you cum, sing for me, just like that...

You always thought it was a catalogue of shallow lust when it was an offering of naked devotion.

He was as vulnerable as you when you drifted through space together, when you drowned in his stunning midnight sea. He was catching fire and burning too, again and again until you were both satisfied and sweaty. He always held you close after, panted desperate love on your skin, planted kisses on your collarbones and neck before resting his head on your heart. Settling there, over your pulse, like he had finally found his way home…

The hand glides between your breasts and molds itself over your waist. It fits there like a second skin. You're relatively sure his hands were made for holding you.

"You asked what makes me happy," he says, completely naked and bare. The heavy love surrounds you with warm safety; your breath flows freely as you await his confession, the last secret revealed. "I think you know, love."

You know. It has finally dawned on you. What you didn't know was that tears of hope could feel like fire too. You've never been more eager to burn.

"Now keep those pretty eyes on me."

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley imagine #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #simon riley fanfic #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x female reader #bodyguard au #bodyguard!Ghost

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beenbaanbuun · 5 days

Text

ateez as muppets

i have work in the morning but muppets are more important than sleep

fun fact about me! the muppets was the only film i watched for a period of about 2 months. i would watch it at least once a day, sometimes twice, and i had the soundtrack downloaded so i could even get my muppets fix on the move… anyway🧍🏻‍♀️

kim hongjoong - beaker

hear me out!!!!! despite being a little orange tube who makes zero sense when he talks in ‘meeps’, he is smart (not really)! he’s a scientist!! he is dr bunsen’s right hand man!!!!

he also just carries the aura of hongjoong about him with that dainty frame and red hair. hongjoong and beaker are twins, i’m sorry

park seonghwa - kermit the frog

i can tell i’m losing you here and honestly, i’m losing myself but let me explain!! kermit is caring. of all his personality traits that one sticks out to me the most

this muppet would give it everything he has for the other muppets and that’s a trait i see a lot in seonghwa. he loves his team, and kermit loves the muppets

jeong yunho - fozzie bear

what can i say other than the guy is just silly? he lives his life on where the next pun is coming from and he’s willing to put in the work to find reasons to make a joke

he also just kind of looks like yunho? look at this fuzzy little fuck and tell me you don’t see yunho buried behind those beady eyes. i need it for halloween, yunho PLEASE

kang yeosang - miss piggy

it was between miss piggy and rizzo rat but i thought about it for a few more seconds and realised that miss piggy is literally just yeosang… like come on

the beauty, the sass, the elegance, the love she shares for her fellow muppets despite not always being able to show it. tell me that’s not yeosang, i fucking dare you

choi san - rowlf the dog

i love rowlf. he’s so chill and yet he’s a man of many talents! sure, he’s a dog first and foremost but did you also know he’s an actor? a pianist?? a veterinarian??? just like san, this dog can do it all

i also just kind of want to hug him in the same way i want to hug san. i just know in my heart of hearts that it’s such a warm, gentle hug

song mingi - animal

i was struggling for mingi until i remembered that oh yeah! animal exists and just like mingi that muppet is just an unstoppable ball of energy who thinks he’s so cool

mingi gives me drummer energy which is why i have written him as one multiple times. animal is also a drummer, and a pretty sick one at that!

jung wooyoung - rizzo rat

the main reason i picked rizzo for wooyoung is bc he’s a chatterbox. it’s not necessarily the most helpful or intelligent of things but it is being said whether you like it or not

rizzo is mischievous and fun and he makes me giggle and if that isn’t wooyoung?? he also has a lot of love to give! watch a muppets christmas carol and you’ll see what i mean 🙂‍↕️

choi jongho - gonzo

gonzo just feels so jongho to me. from his exasperation with the other muppets to his daring nature (bro fires himself out of cannons…) he’s just so jongho!!!!

gonzo has that divorced dad of 3 drip that i know jongho would look stellar in. you’re telling me jongho wouldn’t rock a floral shirt?? some suspenders??? he’s a dilf! of course he would…

#ateez as #atzas #ateez #the muppets #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho

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aphrogeneias · 1 year

Text

don't go (sharing your devotion) — one-shot

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: eddie's jealousy was loud, just like everything else he did. or, eddie realizes he can't keep being the sole object of his best friend's attention forever and ends up screwing things up.

maybe it was about time.

word count: 2.1k

warnings: friends to lovers, jealousy (on eddie's side, he's not proud of it), light angst, unresolved sexual tension, a little bit of smut (+18), a hint of sub!eddie

author's note: was inspired to upload this to tumblr by @cursedyuta's stellar subby eddie content, and it made me remember i had this hidden. this was supposed to be two-part but i couldn't find the motivation to write any more, i'm sorry about the open ending! maybe it will gain a follow up one day, never say never <3

Eddie's jealousy was loud, just like everything else he did.

It stemmed from regret, pure and simple. Regret of not asking you out all the times you were alone with him, of not confessing his feelings, of not making you his when he had the chance. You weren't his, no matter how much he acted like you were.

As far as everyone was concerned, you were Eddie's girl. Being the only girl in The Hellfire Club — until Erica Sinclair's unexpected arrival, that was — and the only girl he was always seen with, it was easy to make that assumption, and neither of you really cared to clear those rumors. Something in his chest swelled with pride anytime someone called you his girlfriend and all you did was roll your eyes, but never tell them they were wrong.

Sometimes he wondered if you knew. You had to know, he wasn't exactly hiding.

His reputation did most of the work to keep guys away from you, but there were a few, brave ones who weren't really intimidated by Eddie "The Freak" Munson — alleged satanist, cult leader and whatever other false atrocity this town was willing to put on his shoulders. Those brave ones, the ones who asked you on dates and dared keep you from spending time with him, suffered with Eddie's relentless, petty teasing and practiced death stares.

Steve Harrington didn't seem easily intimidated by him in the slightest, though.

Eddie had all but scoffed when you told him you'd been going out with the former King of Hawkins High. It wasn’t until he saw the two of you together that reality started to sink in.

He didn't mean for things to get ugly, but the moment realized you were slipping through his fingers was an awakening he didn't think he could handle.

"What was all that about?"

Eddie shrugged, running a hand through his shaggy hair, a little humid from sweat. It was hot that night, even hotter inside the small downstairs bathroom you locked yourself with him in. Outside, the small party the drama club kids were throwing went on, voices and music being muffled by the closed door.

"I just wanted to know what Harrington was doing hanging out with low lives like us. Can't I be curious?" His voice was a bit slurred, no doubt from all the cheap beer he downed before and after Corroded Coffin's gig, fuming as he stared at you from across the room, all tangled with Steve, laughing at his jokes.

You leaned on the tiled wall, crossing your arms. He tried not to let his eyes wander lower, to the way your tits were pushed up in that halter top that left little to the imagination, but his was already running wild. "Do you hear yourself, Eddie? When you speak? Or did all that headbanging finally mess with your brain?"

"I think that would be the drugs, sweetheart."

It was a poor attempt to make you laugh, he knew. You knew it too, because your face remained impassive.

"You were curious, then. That's why you threw a fucking scene? Is that why you acted like an idiot and dragged me along with you, in front of all of those people?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." He mumbled, now unable to meet your eyes. Shame was something Eddie rarely felt, comfortable in his own skin most of the time, no matter what other people thought — but when it came to you, all he wanted to do was shield you from those same judgemental gazes, but instead, he put you right in the way of their scrutiny.

All because he couldn't stand the sight of you flirting with someone else.

"Goddamnit, Eddie! Can't you be serious for once in your life? This isn't the first time you do this shit but this time you went too far."

"I didn't like watching Harrington being all over you, okay? I didn't like knowing he's going to take advantage of you just like he does with all those other girls. Is that what you want to hear?"

He knew he was exaggerating, in fact, he knew nothing about Steve Harrington's intentions towards you, or any of the other girls he was seen around with, but none of that mattered to the ugly, jealous monster roaring in his insides.

Sighing, you close your eyes before looking right into his. "No, Eddie. That's not what I want to hear, but an apology would be nice."

The words "I'm Sorry" were stuck inside his throat, along with those three little words he struggled to say to you, as he watched you leave through the door and lose yourself amongst the crowd.

The day after your fight was spent in his trailer, nursing a bad hangover and a broken heart, both of which were his own fault, and the consequences of his reckless behavior. One of them hurt more than the other.

Eddie was sitting on the old brown couch on the trailer's porch as the sun went down on the horizon, smoking the uptenth cigarette of that cursed day when he saw Steve's burgundy BMW enter the trailer park from afar, and stop right in front of the Mayfield's trailer.

That wasn't unusual, since Steve was often checking up on the Mayfield girl, just as he did with Dustin, as far as Eddie knew. What was different this time was you on his passenger seat, looking as pretty as you did the night before. He stood up as he watched you talk, his heart clenching inside his chest when you exchanged a quick kiss before you both left the car, Steve going into the Mayfield's home and you made your way to the opposite side.

His side.

He could see it from afar, the pain in your eyes. There was rage too, lingering, somewhere in there. Your hips swayed with the determined movements of your feet, and he couldn't help but let his eyes linger on the mini skirt you were wearing — the black one, his favorite. Not that you knew it was, but every time you wore it, his mind raced with thoughts of what was hidden under that tiny piece of fabric, struggling with the soft flesh of your thick thighs.

For a moment, he thought about how might look like to you, standing shirtless on his porch, a long since extinct cigarette hanging from his fingers, wearing those same old black jeans. He wondered if you could see the dark circles under his eyes, or if his hair looked like the bird's nest it certainly felt like. Eddie felt sick, unworthy of your presence, unworthy of you. He kept wishing you would turn away, back to the golden boy who had apparently won your heart, but suddenly there you were, right in front of him.

"Will you let me in, please? We need to talk."

Not trusting his voice, he nodded, stopping out of the porch and towards the door, where you followed him to. Once you were inside, the silence between you was heavy, oppressive, until you were the one who broke it.

“You know, you can’t keep guys away from me forever.” There was a shy, almost teasing, smile behind your words.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He avoided your eyes, tracking back further into the house and in the direction of his room, knowing you would follow him. The angry stomp of your boots behind him was like music to his ears, it made his heart race into his ribcage unlike any heavy beat of bass drums.

At that moment, Eddie couldn't find anything more beautiful than you — standing in the yellow light of his room, eyes set on him, brows and lips set on a hard line, making him want to reach out and run his fingers through them to soothe your expression. You looked like an avenging angel, a goddess come to put him in his place.

There was no one else he'd rather be on his knees for.

“Yes, you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about, and the worst part is that you keep acting like nothing is happening, like… like you haven’t been doing this for years. Eddie, I’m…”, it weighed on his heart, the way you sighed deeply, stopping yourself mid-sentence, “I’m tired. I’m tired of dancing around whatever is going on here, so you’ll either spit it out and tell me what you want, or I’m gonna walk out of here and go home with Steve, because at least he’s not the one bullshitting me.”

It wasn’t often that Eddie Munson was left speechless.

Ever the wordsmith, he should have had the perfect excuse on the tip of his tongue, but instead, he has nothing. Eddie watched you with dark eyes, burning under your gaze, his mouth sewn shut. With one last look, a bullet through his already wrecked chest, you turned to leave.

"No, no, no!" Panicking as he felt you slipping through his fingers, Eddie finally reached out, running to stand between you and the door, voice rising in a whine, "Don't go with Harrington. Please, I'll do anything you want, just… stay, please?"

You hesitated a little before coming closer, neatly brushing his chest with yours, your perfume making him almost dizzy, making him close his eyes for a moment, taking you in.

"All I want is for you to tell me what you want." You insisted.

Placing his hands on his hips, the same hands that were itching to touch you, and looking up, chuckling with nervousness, he finally confessed, "I want you. Is that good enough for you, huh? Is that what you want to hear?" He caught himself repeating the same words as yesterday, only this time, he meant then. "In fact, you're all I've ever wanted. I want you so bad it's embarrassing, Y/N. It's fucking ruining me."

Eddie was met with silence, but at the same time he looked down to you, you raised your hands to rest them on his chest, spreading heat through the worn out Sabbath shirt he was wearing and into his skin. "Did it kill you to admit that?"

"No, but you are, baby."

"Consider it payback for all the years you wasted being an asshole and not realizing you could have had me this whole time."

Pushing him slightly, taking advantage of How distracted he was by your unexpected — or should they be expected? — words, you maneuvered the both of you until he felt his knees hit the edge of his bed.

"Can I still have you now?"

With a final push from your delicate hands, Eddie landed softly on the bed, lying on his back, his hair falling like a dark halo around his bed. He saw your expression soften as you climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. This time, he didn't restrain from touching you, letting his hands slide over the skin of your soft thighs, squeezing them lightly. He could feel the heat of your pussy from under the thin fabric of your panties, making him swallow back a moan. He wanted to grind against you, release a little of the tension rising in his jeans, but he kept still, waiting for your next move.

It felt like a dream, you on top of him, looking like every bit of a wet dream as well. Your hands grabbed his wrists and positioned them above his head as you lowered your face right above his flustered one.

"You see, the thing is… I don't think you deserve to have me right now, Eddie baby. You need to think about what you've done a little more, don't you think?"

A shiver ran down his spine with your words, making his body writhe under you, a wild fire spreading through him, ready to eat him alive — just like you looked like you were about to do.

"See, I'm gonna have to go and find a way to let Steve down gently, and then we're gonna talk, actually talk, about whatever this is," you motioned with your head at the two of you, "okay? No more running, no more hiding."

"No more running, no more hiding." He nodded frantically, repeating your words. Eager to get on your good side again.

"Good." You placed a sweet kiss to his forehead, a stark contrast to the torture you were putting him through. "Was that so hard?"

You had no idea.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader

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bikiniarmorbattledamage · 5 months

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So, naturally we had to, now the game is actually out, bingo the CENSORED outfit in Stellar Blade. Credit to HarryNinetyFour for showing all seventy-four outfits, and Kotaku for this article where they propose that Eve is at her sexiest when she's got more on.

Okay... maybe not that but...

Seriously, if you're playing to fap - this game has you covered. But it also has a few really interesting, covering outfits that seem to reflect fantasies of fashion and comfort.

The only thing that's really not present is any sort of actual military like BDUs or combat jumpsuits. That's kinda weird, even Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain let you put BDUs on Quiet.

And that bit is weird is, based on what I've seen people who've been playing the game saying - there is really a story about her being a soldier and fighting for a cause there. But you'd never know that based on the ongoing outrage.

The outrage is weird and sad

So as you can probably guess, the continuing riot of "censorship" here is pretty absurd. It's got to the point where they even bullied the Stellar Blade's X/Twitter account to un-repost the Kotaku article that praises the game.

But here's the thing, in all the years I've had to deal with brodudes doing this kind of nonsense in various online platforms etc, I have never seen one that is happy.

YouTuber Moon Channel did a two part (1, 2) series on a different drama in South Korea involving a Gacha game that dared not to be pointlessly horny, but here's the general take away.

English speaking brodudes in this situation are imagining that Stellar Blade is some sort of iconic work coming from the anti-woke wonderland where everyone is happy. The reality is:

South Korea has a deeply hierarchical society which essentially tells young people they are to obey and not to speak up

The economy and nepotism is such that unless you are born into a rich family, your employment prospects are downright depressing

Many young men in South Korea develop a lot of resentment toward women primarily because they are told that in order to enter a (heterosexual) relationship they will need to demonstrate they have the ability to be a great provider, and then are denied those opportunities by the economy and nepotism

On top of all this, the government takes a "we know whats best for you" approach to the extent that not only is porn banned but you will be expected to supply your identity information if you want to look up basic sexual educational materials

They would find it to be an absolute nightmare realm.

The reality is that in the "woke" world that brodudes fear, we'd probably see a lot more eroticism in art, including games, and it'd be of the more focused, sincere variety rather than that directed by creepy marketing guy.

All we really need to do is accept each other as people, appreciate each other's humanity and boundaries. Then we can both enjoy a sexy paradise, but also unite and deal with the assholes who keep oppressing us economically and socially.

Wouldn't that be nice?

-wincenworks

#stellar blade #eve #female armor bingo #bikini armor #science fiction #video games #commentary #image #Bikini Armor Battle Damage #BikiniArmorBattleDamage #BABD

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webslingingslasher · 10 months

Note

Sometimes I like to think Peter confessed to trouble one night after randomly barging into her dorm room thru the window, bleeding in like 20 dif places, and while she’s frantic asking what the fuck happened looking for a med kit he’s high off adrenaline and is like “SPIDER-MAN. ME SPIDER-MAN.” and she’s just like “what the FUCK did you just say?!”

it makes me giggle

-🪼

😭😭😭 i could imagine this fr. like, he was on the brink of blacking out, bleeding out and dying and all he had was you because may is at minimum, thirty minutes away.

peter leaves a bloody handprint on your window when he pushes it open, then collapses to your floor while heaving for air. you nearly jump out of bed at the sound, terrified and ready to call peter because who the fuck entered your room through your window in the middle of the night?

except it’s spider-man, and you jump into action, getting to him in two steps and hitting the carpet with your knees.

grabbing his shoulder, ‘oh my god, oh my god, spider-man, are you okay?’ he’s not okay, he’s dying on your floor.

peter doesn’t have it in him to play pretend, he rips the mask off. you gasp and throw him back into the wall, peter groans.

‘what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the-‘

‘trouble, please.’

you run around, your mom packed you a first aid kit when you moved to college, you’ve never used it. now you need it, where the fuck is it?

‘what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, peter?’

he’s clutching his side, there’s so much blood.

‘this is why you’re not allowed to do this, you promise me right now you’ll stop.’

‘you know i can’t,’ he gasps for air, ‘do that.’

‘oh what the fuck, this isn’t happening. what the fuck, this is how you told me? i mean, what the fuck?!’

‘you’re doing a great job at handling it, super stellar.’

you throw a towel at him, he holds it to his worst laceration.

‘don’t you dare get upset with me, you’re the one leading a double life showing up to my fucking window at deaths door. jesus christ, peter. what the fuck!’

‘can i please get a bandaid?’

you find the kit, you tear the plastic and open it.

‘you need a fucking trauma unit.’

peter pulls out a roll of gauze, then motions towards his suit, ‘do me a favor and get me out of this.’

‘oh my god, am i dreaming? this isn’t real life, you’re not real.’

peter’s struggling to free himself, you help while dazed. your brain is melting. ‘is this a bad time to ask for an autograph?’

he stares at you. you blink back.

peter can’t believe he has to say it. ‘yes. it’s a terrible time.’

you pull the suit down to his hips, he’s cut a million different ways. ‘so, is that a no?’

peter wraps the gauze around his arm and tears it with his teeth, the sight makes your heart thump, he looks up at you. ‘don’t you dare get turned on right now, that’s sadistic.’

‘you’re hot when you’re bloody.’

‘oh, jesus christ. fucking cauterize me and you can live out your fantasies.’

you grab a handful of bandaids and a tube of neosporin. ‘on it.’

#frat!peter drabbles #peter parker blurb #peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader

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princessbrunette · 8 months

Note

thinking ab their pretty little gf w a not so stellar home life comin back to the chateau in tears, tryin to explain what happened but she's simply just a blubbering mess. the duology of jayj who's ready to give your old man a taste of his medicine vs daddy!john bee who's a little more levelheaded n thinking rationally. saying smth like 'just wanna forget' would have those two jumping to your aid - 🍓

₊˚⊹♡𐙚♡𓆪ֶָ֢

“yup, i’m gonna kill him. murder him in cold blood.”

“you are not going to kill her dad, jj.”

whilst the blonde paces, developing a routine of yanking his cap off his head, running a hand through matted tresses before placing it back on— john b, the more level headed of the two kneels by your side, a gentle hand on your back.

you’d been crying, infact — you cried all the way to the chateau after an explosive spat with your terrifying father. it just didn’t feel fair, how can some people have the privilege of feeling totally safe and welcomed in their own home, by their own family — but you had to suffer? you felt in despair, just wanting everything happening outside of the chateau to stop.

“dude i’m tired of this asshole actin’ like — like he can just mess her around and scare her, look at her john b she’s scared!” jj rages, trying to bring his voice into a whisper-yell despite you being right there, stopping his pacing to direct his anger at the brunette by your side.

“i know, but right now you just need to calm it down. i doubt she wants you to go all john wick on her dad. sit down.” your face is in your hands as you weep, so you miss the way john b’s eyes widen in warning to jj, a silent message for him to quit acting out. the blonde licks his lips, shaking his head feeling like he was totally justified, but he does as he says regardless, lowering himself to sit at your other side.

“how ya holding up, princess?” he finally speaks, scratching the back of your head like a puppy. you remove your clammy hands from your face, staring down at them once they hang in your lap.

“s’just not fair.” you rasp, and you feel john b nodding at your side. you daren’t look at him, his large concerned puppy dog eyes sure to set off your waterworks once again so you look at jj instead, almost looking for solidarity. if anyone understood your home life situation, it was him.

his brows are all creased up sorrowfully and he presses his lips together, thumbing the freshest tear that dares to race down your cheek. you feel john b rest his chin on your shoulder, wanting you to feel his presence even when you didn’t face him.

“what can we do?” his warm voice rumbles right in your ear.

at first, you don’t know — and that look of hopelessness in your eyes almost cracks jj’s heart in two. he knew from experience how shitty it felt— but seeing it from the third person perspective was almost worse. he would take a million beatings from his dad if it meant no one was to ever lay a hand or throw a venomous word in your direction. “anything, babydoll.” he reiterates.

as fucked up as it is, having two male figures at your side— two who you’d like to think held a comfortable amount of authority over you, a small slither of the hole that was left in your heart from your daddy issues was filled with a warm honey-like feeling. maybe your emotions were all fucked up and out of whack, or maybe you just really appreciated the comfort — because you felt that warmth spread lower at the way they coddled you.

“i just wanna forget. wanna forget it all happened.” you whisper, and at first they don’t get it. well, they do— but not in the way you mean. john b’s hand creeps up to massage at the back of your neck, trying to relax you as he nods, frowning as he tries to piece together what he can do. always the fixer.

“okay, we can do that. what… specifically do you—”

“i need you.” you turn to look at him now, faces close, breath mingling. “i need you both to… make me forget. just don’t wanna think.” your whisper holds a tinge of an oncoming mewl to it and their faces melt in understanding.

“oh, baby.” john b coo’s, catching on and you feel yourself physically already starting to melt at the tone.

“that mean what i think it means?” jj’s breath is at your neck, fingers sliding up your arm to the strap of your tank top. slowly, carefully.

“please jus’ make me feel better.” you slur like the effects of a drug are finally kicking in, the two boys seeming to close in on you more by the minute.

“alright baby. daddies gonna help, okay? gonna make it feel better.” john b cups your cheek and you wring weakly at his wrist, pulling his palm to your wet mouth where you press kisses to the warm coarse skin, a silent plea to follow through.

jj’s mouth follows his touch next, a kiss on the junction between your neck and shoulder, wisps of blonde hair sticking out the front of his cap tickling your cheekbone. “i should’a known that’s what you were after, you want that head all empty don’t you mama?”

like that, you’re putty in their hands.

₊˚⊹♡𐙚♡𓆪ֶָ֢

#🍓 anon #jj x reader x john b

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malfiora · 1 month

Text

Can't Get Enough

by captainBAEhab

Tags: GrayWing, getting together, previous DickKory, fluff, thirst traps

The first time they met was...less than stellar. Kori had been raving about her new boyfriend for ages and finally got to introduce him to the Titans during their annual holiday party. "You'll like him, he's from Gotham," he'd been assured.

Nightwing is curious – until in walks the princeling of Gotham, Dick Fucking Grayson. There's a blissful moment in which he thinks (knows) this is a mistake, but, nope, Kori is greeting him with a kiss and heart eyes. How had they even met? And what could Kori have possibly seen in him?

He watches to find out. Dick waltzes around, flashing his best paparazzi smile at the Titans and regaling them with ridiculous socialite stories. What's worse is that everyone else is actually charmed by this, if the faint blushes and waving hands are any indication.

When Dick finally makes his way over to him, he gives Nightwing a sweeping look and his smile tightens to a smirk. "You, I know," he declares. "My family's cleaned up enough of your messes."

And so Nightwing vows to hate the guy, even if the others vouch for him.

"Oh, c'mon, he was trying to be nice," Troia says. No.

"Yeah, isn't that just how Gothamites say 'hello'?" Beast Boy tries. Nope.

Nightwing gets the last laugh when Dick and Kori break up three months later.

---

Or so he'd thought. As fate would have it, night shift in Gotham falls to Nightwing one weekend. Batman and Robin are off world, Red Robin is on the West Coast, the Batgirls are on the other side of the world for a "mission" (read: vacation), and Red Hood won't return his calls. And apparently some upstart gang thinks it's the perfect window to kidnap a Wayne for ransom. But not just any Wayne, oh no.

Dick Fucking Grayson is sitting in the middle of a dingy room, gagged and tied to a folding chair. Nightwing removes the zip ties first and the gag absolutely last. As soon as he's able to, Dick pushes off the chair to stand but immediately falls back into it with a grunt.

"Whoa, take it easy," and Nightwing scans him for injuries. "Looks like your ankle is sprained."

"Doesn't matter, the girl –"

Nightwing raises an eyebrow. "What girl?"

"The other victim." Turns out, the upstart gang is more daring than they initially seemed and kidnapped two hostages. "I'm not leaving her, I have her my word."

It's a bad idea, he should complete Dick's rescue before going back for another hostage, but Dick's eyes are burning with determination and it's crumbling his resolve. "Fine," Nightwing sighs, "hang onto me."

They hobble down the hall to another dilapidated room. Huddled in the corner is a girl, probably a preteen, with smudged glasses and a shock of red hair. She launches herself at Dick the moment she sees him and hugs him around the middle.

"Hey, Carrie," he says through a pained smile and he pats her head. "I told ya I'd come back for you. And I brought a friend."

Carrie peeks up at him and smiles. Nightwing crouches so he's level with her. "Hey, Carrie, my friend here's a little hurt, so I need your help. Is that okay?" She squeezes Dick tighter but eventually lets go and nods. "Awesome. I need you to go a few steps ahead of us and tell me if you see or hear anyone coming. If you do, make this signal with your hands." And he flaps his hands like a bird.

"Like this?" She imitates the gesture.

"You're a natural."

Carrie diligently checks around every corner as Nightwing supports Dick through the building. Either the goons all left or they get extremely lucky, but they don't encounter anyone, and soon enough they're free of the lair. GCPD arrives a minute later with paramedics, so Nightwing gives Dick over to the paramedics and calls it a day. But not before he watches Dick smile down at Carrie and offer his hand to her while they wait for her parents.

See, he's never seen this side of Dick before. Warmth, protectiveness, concern for someone and something other than his hair and his fancy clothes and gaudy cars. It's...weird and vulnerable and a little precious, and so now Nightwing is curious – what else is there to Dick Fucking Grayson?

Which, of course, leads him to Twitter. He scrolls through Dick's posts and retweets, just skimming, all the way back to when he first created it, just as part of his investigation. It's not obsessive if he's only looking, right? It's a patchwork of silly ramblings, vague political statements encouraging Gothamites to vote without endorsing anyone, links to interviews with various Waynes, and photos of charity events. Normal, even a little thoughtful. Must be Dick's PR team, right? Except that wouldn't explain the thirst traps.

There aren't many, but they're there, sprinkled into perfectly innocuous posts. Hashtag-no-filter selfies of him allegedly just waking up, post work out poses, fit checks in various dressing rooms, just there, for everyone to – FUCK.

He accidentally liked one of the posts.

And so now Nightwing is faced with a dilemma: does he un-like it and pretend it was a mistake? Or leave it there and act nonchalant? Dick is going to get the notification either way, and moment now –

"Well hello there 😏" comes the DM notification from @ not_a_dick_joke and nonononono this can not be happening right now. "Glad you liked the pic! But here's a more recent one" and sure enough Nightwing gets an alert saying he's got a photo.

Dare he? Should he open the messages to see? Well...a peek couldn't hurt at this point. Lo and behold, it's another thirst trap, this one of Dick with his shirt half unbuttoned and holding a sign with a scribbled 'to my savior' on it.

Nope. That's enough Internet for the day. Nightwing logs off of Twitter and considers deleting the app for five whole minutes before doing something more productive like polish his wingdings again.

---

And everything is fine for another couple weeks, in which Dick definitely sends more selfies and Nightwing definitely looks at them and leaves him on read and this is definitely normal and healthy behavior for both of them. Until it isn't.

@ not_a_dick_joke: is getting kidnapped the only way I'll get you to talk to me? okay then 😊

What...what does that mean? Holy fuck, is Dick Fucking Grayson going to get himself kidnapped just to get Nightwing to talk to him? That's just...(stupid/hot/crazy/sweet).

So naturally, Nightwing must check on him. He drops by Wayne Manor, onto a balcony he's seen Batman use before. Sure enough, Dick is there, waiting, elbows leaning on the balustrade. He grins when he sees Nightwing.

"So that did the trick, huh? I was wondering what I'd do to get you over here if that didn't work." And then he's tugging at Nightwing's wrist and pulling him inside the manor. "C'mon, I wanna show you something." He tossed a wink back at him. "Something I can't post on Twitter."

#don't ask me anything about this fic #i have no answers #title is a j cole reference because of the line “then follow your moves all week on twitter”#dick grayson #nightwing #parody fic

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vax-merstappen · 4 months

Text

undefeated pt. 1 (mv1)

more victories than defeats

summary: it’s the hungarian grand prix and max has won every race this season. when you get pole, can you finally defeat the undefeated?

series masterlist

You walk through the paddock, cameras flashing, people shouting your name. You pull your red cap lower over your eyes, trying to get through the crowd and into the safety of the Ferrari hospitality.

As Ferrari’s clear number one driver, it was no surprise that people wanted to get your picture or signature. Even just a quick sound bite would get a reporter views. And normally you’d try to stop for as many of your fans as possible, knowing that taking a few seconds out of your day would mean the world to them. But today was different. Today you were on a mission.

The Hungarian Grand Prix normally wasn’t a huge highlight on the calendar for you or the team, but today it felt different. With the new upgrades on the car and a stellar qualifying that got you onto pole position, you had a chance.

That chance was to beat Max Verstappen, the current reigning world champion. Last season he had dominated, winning all but three races, his teammate Checo Pérez taking the ones he failed to win. And this season, he had claimed all of the victories of the first twelve races. He was on track to win every race this season, setting a Formula 1 record and doing something nobody else had ever been able to do.

But not if you had any say in the situation. As his main rival on track you would do anything to stop his reign. The bad blood between you and Max ran deep, having started racing in Formula 1 the same year as him. With both of you going into your 10th season in the sport, it was clear to most people that he was the better driver and you hated that.

Maybe today would be different.

You walked into the Ferrari garage, quickly making your way over to your race engineer, Renée, and pulled her aside.

“So what’s the game plan for today? Besides keeping Max behind me and defending like crazy.”

She smiled at you. “We’re running a one stop strategy. You’re going to have to push like crazy at the start and try to get a lead. You know how aggressive he is…”

I scoff. “Aggressive is an understatement. He’s a damn maniac.”

Renée chuckled. “Yeah. Well you’ve got pole so you’ll have a slight advantage over him in second. And you’ve got your teammate Charles behind you in third, so you should have the support there. He’s been made aware that his job is to keep the rest of the grid off of you and Max. Even our odds against him.”

You nod. “Glad to know. We’ve got to win this one today. He can’t win them all.”

“He won’t. We’ve got pole, a good strategy, car upgrades, and your determination to win this one. Today will be our day.”

“Let’s hope it is,” you say, giving one last acknowledgment to Renée before walking to your driver’s room to start your pre-race ritual.

You put on your headphones and started playing your favorite hype song, practicing a few stretches that you always did before a race. As you continued to follow your routine, slowly all the noise faded away and you were left with one feeling. Determination that Max would not win.

---

As you walked out to stand for the Hungarian national anthem, you found yourself lined up directly next to the world champion himself. The tension nearly crackled in the air between you as you made eye contact with Max, his gaze more like a glare. You didn’t dare speak to him as the performer was singing and the grid kids stood before you, but you could already tell he was focused. Though he seemed nonchalant, you knew it secretly bothered him that you were on pole.

As soon as the performance ended and the drivers began to disperse, you whispered under your breath as you walked by him. “Enjoy watching my rear wing.”

You walked away before you could see if he responded.

Standing by your car, you prepared yourself to race. You needed to start strong and capitalize on your pole position. You risked a glance back at the Red Bull behind you, watching Max put on his helmet and ready himself to get in the car. You could have sworn he was looking back at you, almost as a predator looks at prey.

You climb into your car, pulling your own helmet over your head, readying for the formation lap. You give a thumbs up to the crew, watching them step away from the car and take the covers off the tires.

As you pull away from the start line, you move side to side across the track, trying to warm your tires to get better grip for the start. You knew Max would be on you instantly, trying to pass you as you went into the first corner. You went through the corners of the track on the formation lap, readying yourself for the race.

As you pulled into pole position, you watched the red lights begin to light up

Lights out and away we go.

You sped up as fast down the main straight, trying to get your car first on the inside line. You could see Max beside you, trying desperately for the same thing. As you went wheel to wheel, you nudged your car ahead of his, managing to secure the racing line for the time being.

But in your mirrors was Max Verstappen in a Red Bull, arguably one of the scariest sights in Formula 1. And as you made your way around the first few laps, you just couldn't find a way to shake him. He kept behind you, only just outside of getting DRS to pass you.

You kept speeding through the corners of the Hungaroring, sensing it was only a matter of time before he passed you. The pressure was on, the Red Bull and Ferrari rivalry at its greatest.

One pit stop each and a safety car later, you found yourself driving slowly behind the car. And in your mirrors, you could now clearly see the man himself, right on your rear wing. Any lead you had built was gone, taken away with the safety car. The lion was in striking distance and you knew it.

As the safety car moved to resume the race, you pressed the pedal full on, needing to shake the dutchman behind you. With only 10 laps left of 70, you needed to hold on.

But as good of a driver you were, Max was better. The best driver on the grid, undefeated in the first 12 races of the season. And he wouldn't let a Ferrari beat him.

You entered the main straight and you knew Max was close enough for DRS. You watched he caught up to you, going wheel to wheel as you sped through the track.

It would have been easier to accept if there'd been a fight, some sort of defense available, a challenging overtake for Max.

But he just breezed past you, as if you weren't even there. Not a threat. Not a problem. Not anything he'd ever worried about.

Even after a strenuous and hard fought race to gain a lead, Max Verstappen once again would win. His thirteenth consecutive race. Another damn record.

You finished the last nine laps of the race, still pushing but not nearly as hard. You felt defeated. Nothing you or the car was capable of would be enough. Not against him, a living legend of a driver.

As you crossed the finish line in second, you congratulated the team on their efforts on the radio, but your heart wasn't in it. Most drivers would be happy with a podium, if not elated. But not you. Not when you would be forced to spray him oncemore with champagne. Not when he would take home another trophy, which would just be another hunk of metal to him.

You climbed out of the car besides him, noticing Oscar Piastri pulling into the 3rd place spot. You could at least be a little happy for the Australian, having earned another podium in just his second season. You walked up to Oscar and congratulated him, making a point to do so before turning to Max.

"Congrats on the win," you said, your voice monotone.

"Thanks," Max replied simply. "You had a good drive there at the start."

"Not good enough," you retorted, trying and failing to hide your disdain at both him and your own failure.

"Still a podium though," Max shrugged.

"You know damn well you'd be pissed in P2."

Max looked you in the eye. "I think you should be grateful I let you lead the race for so long. My car is clearly faster than yours."

You rolled your eyes. "I don't want to do this here. Not with all the cameras."

Max had the audacity to smirk. "Suit yourself. But I did earn the win, don't deny me that."

You hated it when he was right.

You stalked away from Max on track and headed over to your team, clapping a few of the engineers and team members on the back for their performance. Sure, you were mad. But they still got you a podium position. And you wanted to delay the cooldown room as long as you could.

But you couldn't delay it that long, and god did some water sound refreshing. So you went into that room, looking at Max seated in the center chair, Oscar on his right in the 3rd place chair. You grabbed a water bottle and slumped down in the remaining seat next to Max, not saying a word.

"Could have taken that corner better," Max said, commenting on a clip of your car briefly sliding out of track limits. "Maybe that's why you lost some time to me right before the safety car."

"Thanks for the observation," you said sarcastically.

The tension in the room was palpable. You almost felt bad for Oscar Piastri, having to deal with the two of you.

"If there hadn't been that safety car, I would have had a tougher race. But I still think I could have caught you... your tires seemed to be degrading faster than mine. At least that's what the team said. Also with a few of those small mistakes like going wide on the turns..."

He kept going on, in his typical way, what the internet had dubbed Maxplaining. They were right. It was like he didn't understand that you knew your mistakes and how he had driven faster.

But anyways, you were spared as the three of you were called for the podium. Oscar went out first, followed by you.

You heard the cheers of your team and fans and you tried your hardest to be happy and excited about your podium. But when the cheers for you were eclipsed by those for Max, you couldn't pretend anymore.

You stood only begrudgingly beside him on the podium as the Dutch national anthem played for the 13th time in a row. And when he popped the champagne, even he didn't seem excited, like winning had become habitual for him and that this was an obligation, not a reward.

This was a man with more victories than defeats in the past few seasons.

A man who's wins were routine.

A man you loathed with your whole being.

You chose to spray your champagne over your own head rather than his. An act of protest and anger.

And when you left the podium, you left with stronger feelings. The taste for victory lingered on your tongue. And the desire for revenge burned stronger in your heart.

Part 2 coming!

taglist: @jehun

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen series #f1 series #mv1undefeated

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cyberdragoninfinity · 9 months

Note

I would love to hear your thoughts about the fucked-up turtle (Terapagos)

"Now let's talk about the turtle. Can we talk about the turtle please, Mac? I've been dying to talk about the turtle with you all day."

Ok so. Short Answer Re: Thoughts About Terapagos:

WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. WHY DID IT DO THAT. WHY DID THEY [GAMEFREAK] DO THAT.

Long Answer Re: Thoughts About Terapagos [SPOILERS FOR THE SCARVIO DLC naturally. i havent seen Horizons so i dont rly know whats goin on with this little guy in the anime, just what we've got in the games]:

When the last little batch of new Pokemon in Indigo Disk leaked, about 12 hours or so-ish before the DLC dropped, I was at dinner with my bestie and we were looking at our phones like we were reading breaking world news. And I was looking at this tiny ass png of Terapagos's full Tera (Stellar) form.

And I immediately blurted out "holy SHIT it's turtles all the way down."

If you're not familiar with the phrase, check out its wikipedia page; here it's most relevant as a saying thrown around with regards to the philosophical concept of infinite regress, i.e. a series of elements (or questions begging an explanation) that that goes on infinitely with each member producing the next. So let's say the world rests on the back of a giant turtle--well, then, what does that turtle stand on to keep it from falling into the void? Why, another, bigger turtle, of course! But what about that turtle? Well, you're not gonna believe this, but it's turtles all the way down.

And here's the other thing about infinite regress: it's a logical fallacy, it's circular reasoning--honestly it's a little bit of a cousin to the "which came first?" chicken and egg argument. The question in these cases never truly gets answered, it just goes on and on forever. Bigger turtles on top of even bigger turtles.

It's a paradox. :)

So Stellar Terapagos, just look at that thing. Even its dex entries talk about how it looks like a planet, how it resembles "the world as the ancients saw it"--it's very much not only trying to evoke the World Turtle concept, but the symbolism of a classic paradoxical saying. So we've already got that going on with it, that already makes me bonkers. AND THAT'S JUST THE SURFACE LEVEL.

Cuz when we look at how Terapagos behaves, things start to go from "well isnt this guy a little weird" to "oh. oh this thing is kind of fucked up and terrifying, hello, what the hell is wrong with it" REAL FAST. Its two most stressed features we see in Indigo Disk are A.) its crystalline nature and how its the progenitor of Terastalization, but also B.) it is ferociously powerful and borderline uncontrollable. It's violent. It bursts out of a Master Ball and almost kills Kieran for daring to try and control it. Heath's illustration of its Stellar form in the Scarlet/Violet Book looks so otherworldly and almost cosmically horrifying. It has Weird Fucking Powers the game does NOT elaborate on (but I will; see more below.)

And also, hey, yeah, its Stellar Form looks like a stack of world turtles, but why the FUCK does its Terastal form also look like a goddamn dream catcher.

Personally I've been a big fan of the 'imagination theory' re: the Professors and the Paradox Pokemon and Area Zero, and folks have been arguing that Indigo Disk debunks that, but honestly I feel like we're loitering around some untold explanation that's even more bizarre. Terapagos is at least on some level tied to dreams and existentialism, and I really feel like there's more to Tera Crystals and Terapagos's relationship with them than what we've been told. Hell, its cry is even the noise we hear all game when we Terastalize our Pokemon, which produces its own myriad of questions (Are the Crystals some degree of alive? The Tera Crowns all do have Terapago's little turtle head at their base, too--does Terapagos physically or spiritually connect with a Terastalizing Pokemon? And what about that weird crystalizing the AI Professor does during its big boss fight? MUCH TO THINK ABOUT.)

Oh, speaking of Crystals--yeah. I can't NOT talk about the Indigo Disk Crystal Pool Postgame Secret when talking about Terapagos. ONE MORE SPOILER WARNING FOR THAT--SERIOUSLY GO TO THE CRYSTAL POOL AFTER GETTING THE DLC CREDITS. IT WILL BLAST YOU TO BITS. anyway.

Yeah so that's what I mean with Why Did It [Terapagos] Do That. The fact that you dont even need to have it in your party for the postgame Crystal Pool cutscene to trigger and for Terapagos to just pop out of the PC boxes on its own accord and warp space and time (and maybe even reality itself) to irreversible consequence, implying once again some great and uncontrollable power within this beast. Crazy Ass Moments in Pokemon History for CERTAIN.

And the thing that makes me most insane, thinking about Terapagos twisting time to allow you to meet the Professor, the Real Live Professor, to swap notes with them so to speak, the way it facilitates all of that, is the position it now puts the player and Scarvio itself in. If the Professor's research rests on the back of a white book given to them by a child, then what does the research of that white book rest upon? Ah, well, the expedition of Area Zero spurred forth by the fallout of the Professor's research. And what did THAT research rest upon, again...?

Turtles. The whole way down. Chickens and eggs and a paradox you're now responsible for. At the hands of a Normal Type Pokemon that tried to kill a 14 year old.

Terapagos scares the shit out of me. I love it so much. Why Did They Make It Like That <3

#asks #anonymous #terapagos #pokemon scarlet and violet #pokemon chattering #pokemon #pokemon spoilers #scarvio #scarvio spoilers #scarlet and violet dlc #indigo disk #indigo disk spoilers #long post /#HAD A LOT TO SAY ABOUT THIS TURTLE SORRY. IT'S RENT FREE IN MY HEAD

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stairain · 1 year

Text

Headlights Flashing.

Spencer and you are rivaling street racers, and despite your deep rooted hatred for each other, with enough adrenaline, arousal, and pure aggression shooting through your veins, you find yourself at the mercy of your contender.

Warnings: Dom Spencer, cocky Spencer, mean reader and Spencer, enemies to lovers-ish, hate sex, backshots, squirting, creampie, hair pulling, car sex, public sex, speeding, endangerment of lives. Many illegal activities take place here!

WC: 5K

You and Spencer were both street racers. The two of you hated each other, but neither of you knew why. Ever since the beginning, the two of you always found a way to belittle the other for their skills, or roll your eyes at their "slow" racing times. Now was no different, you had just finished a race against Spencer and a few other drivers, and you angrily sat in your car at the makeshift finish line.

Spencer won, but only barely. Your engine sounds rough and your head is pounding. He pulls up next to you and rolls down his window.

”You got lucky today. If my last turn hadn't backfired, I would’ve left you a ditch.” He smirks. You scowl.

You roll your eyes and roll up your window, not wanting to talk to him. You’d like to say you were so close to winning, but you weren’t. Your performance today was less than satisfactory, and you knew he was right. You stick your middle finger up to him before your window fully closes.

You drive off, steaming with humiliation. Your anger only makes your headache worse, especially when you look in your rear view mirror and notice him tailgating you.

You speed up. He stays right behind you.

He's mocking you. You speed up again and turn into a residential neighborhood, taking several turns to lose him before coming to a stop at the end of an out of the way street.

You groan loudly as you come to the dead end and watch as he drifts his car next to you, and parks. He rolls down his window and obnoxiously knocks on yours. You huff and albeit pissed off, you still roll down your window anyways. "What do you want, Reid?"

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your stellar driving performance. I mean really, you almost beat me!”—He says sarcastically— “I didn't realize you had it in you!” He continues to mock, but you just scowl at him.

“Your anger isn't very becoming, you know.” He smirks again and leans back in his seat, waiting for your comeback.

"There were other racers too, Spencer. Why don't you go bother one of them instead?" Your tone is mocking as well and you plaster a fake smile on your face as you roll your eyes. He shrugs.

“They're not nearly as interesting.” He chuckles to himself. “You're much funnier, and much easier to get a rise out of.”

He leans forward and rests his arms on the steering wheel, as if he is settling in for a show.

“What do you say we race again?”

"How flattering." You pull down your mirror and check your makeup, uninterested in talking to him. "There's no way I'm betting money against racing you, you're not worth it."

Spencer grins at you. “It's not about money this time. Just me and you. And my pride on the line if you win. You wouldn't want to hurt my pride, now would you?” His tone is oh so condescending as he waits for your reply, eyes narrowed at you.

“Of course not, it's already barely there as is." You flip up the mirror and look over to him.

“Oh, now that's a low blow..” He laughs and his voice is just dripping with sarcasm. “You're just upset I've won every other time, aren't you? Is your ego that threatened by me?”

His eyes flash with amusement as they land on you, daring you to react. You just take a deep breath and sigh, not believing you’re about to agree to this.

"If I win, you leave me the fuck alone, got it?"

He smirks at you.

“And if I win?”

You press your lips into a thin line and sigh.

"Whatever you want."

He grins at you. His eyes are glowing with delight, as is his smile. You already regret saying that.

“Alright. You're on. I'll even let you pick the track.”

"From here to south street near the cargo lot. First one to get to the smoke shop on Moorside wins." You turn your engine on without another word.

He nods and leans back in his seat as starts up his engine, a rumbling sound that fills the air. Soon enough, he’s quickly pulling in front of you, and then speeding off down the road.

You shake your head, not knowing what you got yourself into. You quickly speed after him, leaving the residential area with nothing but a blur of light and the loud revving of your engine. You can see his dark purple car quickly turning corners and recklessly cutting off unassuming drivers.

He's going way too fast for your liking. He's flying down the road like a maniac, almost hitting every car he passes. You grip the wheel tighter and keep him in your sights, not wanting to let him get too far away, but also not trying to be as reckless as him. A sudden sharp turn catches up with him and he skids out, just barely managing to pull back on the road. You speed past him, and he honks at you, but you continue straight, taking any opportunity you can have to get ahead of him.

You smirk to yourself and shake your head at his clumsiness, always a flaw of his. You speed up and pull onto the highway. It was just barely past midnight, so most cars were off the roads now. You merged quickly and swiftly through what little cars there were, and looked in your rear view mirror. You squinted when you saw the flashing headlights of his car behind you, quickly approaching.

Your heart speeds up as he tails you at an alarming speed. He's gaining on you, and the distance between you two is diminishing fast. You look at your speedometer. You're driving way over the speed limit, but it doesn't matter, it never has, but especially not now.

You’re too desperate to win. You press your foot down on the gas pedal, willing your car to go faster and faster. It was almost as if you could feel his breath on your neck, even though you were several yards apart on the road.

The sound of your engine revving and the smell of burning rubber filled the car, and it only spurred you on. You loved the feeling of this, being so free on the road, the quick pace of the car pushing your body back against the seat in the best way. You bit your lip as you pressed down harder on the gas.

You're driving faster than you have ever gone before. Your heart is pounding and your adrenaline is at an all time high. The smell of gasoline fills your nose and your hair whips around in the air. The world seems to have been stripped away, leaving only the sights and sounds of your high-speed race to occupy your senses. There's nothing but you and your car and the road. You are in control. And you're determined to win.

There's a large road sign indicating your exit, and you smoothly speed past it, quickly approaching the city, and more importantly, that goddamn smoke shop that would be your key to winning. And you can’t wait to rub it in that stupidly sexy face of his.

What?

Your face skews in confusion and slight disgust at your own thoughts, and your foot slowly lifts from the pedal.

Spencer is right behind you. The shop isn’t in your sight, yet, but he is still dangerously close. He swerves over to your side, and his car nearly collides with yours.

“What the hell are you doing?” He shouts at you from his open window, and you can barely hear him over the whirring wind and roaring engines around you. You keep calm and keep your focus on the road, but you're shaking with nervous agitation. You still can't believe how serious this street race has become. You wonder what you were thinking, agreeing to it.

Your distraction almost cost you your life, and your car, and you shake your head to bring you out of your trance, as you try your best to focus on the road. Spencer sees your hesitation and the distance between you and him widens as you slow down. His eyes glow with a glint of victory and he passes you without hesitation.

“Are you kidding me? You’re backing down!” He confidently mocks you and continues to drive at an insane speed toward the smoke shop. He's laughing hysterically now. You feel your face getting red with anger and embarrassment. You have to win, but how can you overcome his lead? It’s your pride here at stake.

You huff to yourself and step on the gas harder than you ever have before, there was no way you'd win at this point, but you'd at least have to try.

Your enemy realizes what you're doing and steps on the gas as well. He's no longer laughing. His expression is one of deep concentration, his entire body rigid. You're both flooring it now, the speedometer on each car going as fast as it can go, the sound of the tires squealing and the revving of the engines creating a cacophony to accompany the rush of air from your open window. You're gaining on him, but it's still a battle. He is right in your sights and he won't let up. This is all or nothing.

The flashing lights of the shop are shining through the city, and you look over to see Spencer with a smug smile and a look plastered on his face that just screams 'I've already won'. You roll your eyes and look back to the road, driving as fast as you possibly can.

He's gloating, and that makes you want to tear him to shreds. You try to force your car to go even faster, pushing it beyond its limits. It whines and groans under the stress, but the shop is just in reach. Your mouth is dry and the sweat is dripping off your forehead, despite the air blowing in from your window. This is the moment you've been waiting for. You can do this. Just a few more seconds. You'll beat him. You'll prove you're better. You can do this.

Just as the two of you approach the parking lot of the shop, you swerve and cut him off as you turn. It's a risky move, and you're surprised you didn't end up T-boned in the middle of the road, but when you drift into the empty lot, you lean back in your seat and laugh maniacally. You're sweating, your hair is a mess, and your heart is pounding.

You did it.

Spencer pulls into the lot next to you, skidding to a stop and glaring at you with wide eyes.

“Did you really just do that? What the fuck is wrong with you?” He exclaims. There's no more smugness in his expression now, only rage. He looks like he's about to jump out of the car and strangle you.

“You're lucky you're alive!” He says as he steps out of his and slams the door. It takes him several seconds to process what has just happened, but once he does, he's livid.

You scoff and step out of your car, and your legs almost give out underneath you. They were far too shaky from how much force you put on them just a few moments ago, but you manage to lean against the side of your car as you look at his disheveled form.

"Like you care, just means you would've won. Which I know is all that matters to you." You scowl at him as his chest rises and falls from how hard he's breathing and how much rage he’s feeling.

“And we agreed if I won, you leave me the fuck alone.”

He gives you a death stare and trudges menacingly toward you. His chest is heaving and you can tell he’s still shaking from the adrenaline flooding his system. He's close now, barely a foot away from you. There's an uncomfortable silence between the two of you, each just a moment away from letting your anger out on the other. You try to find something to say, but his intensity scares you and the words won't come. The only sound out there is your breathing, and his, and your heart pounding in your ears as your gazes are locked.

Then, he leans forward and grabs at you, pulling you into a bruising kiss. You can feel his huffs against your face as you both pant into each other's mouths. He presses you further against the door of your car, and it's getting harder to stand on your own two legs.

Your head spins and your heart is pounding, the surprise of being man handled by Spencer knocking the air out of you. He's so much taller and stronger than you and you struggle under the weight of his body. The scent of sweat and cologne and the feel of his rough clothes against your skin is all-consuming, all-distracting.

He's a predator and you're in his grasp and you can't think of anything else but him. You melt into the kiss, kissing him back with just as much intensity as he's kissing you.

As he holds the back of your head in his sweaty palms, you wrap your arms around his neck and allow yourself to be manhandled by him. It was clear all of the pent up anger from the years of rivalry and losing to each other were being poured out in the form of a passionate, hateful kiss. After years of this build-up, a part of you has always wanted this. You've never let this thought fully manifest because you've always been too prideful to admit that you even liked him.

You've always been so driven with the need to always win and be the best that you've spent your life shutting up these thoughts as quickly as they arose, but now they're all coming back in a flood of emotion, and you can't help but kiss him violently, as if you hate him and love him all at once. Never before have you kissed someone with such intensity.

Moaning into his mouth, you pull him impossibly closer as the absolute aggression he's showing you and the adrenaline from racing fill your body and turn you on beyond belief.

He grunts in pleasure and keeps kissing you harder and harder, as if he is using you as a beacon to release all the pent up anger and hurt from years of this stupid competitive rivalry between the two of you. He breaks it, gasping for breath. After a moment he looks down at you, the anger still apparent in his eyes but his expression is softer. You can see some hint of guilt mixed in there as well. He clears his throat, before he leans in again to kiss you with more passion. You eagerly kiss him back, as if just waiting for him to do it again.

And so here the two of you are, hungrily making out with each other against your car in the empty parking lot of a smoke shop. The neon lights that scaled the entire building are casting a dangerously sexy sheen on his skin, bursts of purple and blue illuminating the furious expression on his face.

You kiss him with everything you have. The brunet pulls you close to him, his hand in your hair, the other hand on your lower back. His tongue flicks into your mouth and you grab his hips, pulling him in deeper, deeper. You've never felt anything like this before. He's like a drug, and every touch from him brings you deeper and deeper into a pleasure that is so intense it is almost painful, but in a beautiful way. You can't get enough of him, and it doesn't seem like he can't get enough of you either.

His breathing is getting heavier and heavier as he gets closer, and the only sounds in the empty parking lot are his heavy breaths and your breathy moans.

You can't help but whine when he pulls away from the kiss, but it's short lived as he speaks to you in a low, rumbling voice, almost like a growl.

"Bend over the trunk, I don't want to hear another word out of you." You shiver at his words and want to protest that you're in public, but he was frightening you beyond belief at this moment, and you didn't want to figure out what would happen if you refused.

With a hesitant nod, you quickly round your car until you're bent over the trunk, back arched and ass up, just like he had told you to. The cold metal trunk presses against your body, making you shiver as you feel yourself blushing at the humiliation of the whole situation.

Your dignity is being stripped away from you, but you feel so desperate for his touch that you couldn't care less. You don't know what's coming next, but you can't help but find the excitement of the situation to be the greatest turn on this side of heaven. You are fully under his control now.

A soft moan escapes your lips when you feel his presence behind you, and you resist the urge to push back against him when you feel the thick bulge in his pants pushing against your ass. Biting your lip, you look back at him to see what he's doing.

Spencer is looking down on you, his eyes wide with a wild look in them as he observes the curve and arch of your body. He's breathing heavily and his hands are shaking, as if he is trying to keep his composure, but some part of him is too overcome by desire and fury to resist taking you.

It's a dangerous kind of intensity that brings out another, very primal side of him. He's almost predatory in this state, and you can see how hungry he is for you. Like an animal stalking its prey, he slowly runs his hands up and down your body, making you shake.

Suddenly, you feel his fingers in the waistband of your pants, and freeze as he begins to pull them down your hips. The suddenness of it makes you jump, and your mind goes blank. You're completely unprepared for what comes next and for a moment you can't think or say a word. For the first time, he has you right where he wants you, and that thought alone is both terrifying and exhilarating in equal parts. He’s taking control here, and you both seem to know it.

You can tell he's desperate. Desire and disdain running through his veins so strong it might as well be his own blood. The cold night air hits your exposed ass, and you can't help but moan at how exposed for him you are. He pulls your jeans down to your knees, and you can practically feel the smirk on his face.

“Lucky car seat, you have.”

God, you hated him.

Your cheeks are beet red as you try to turn away from him in a feeble attempt to retain some bit of dignity. You couldn't be more exposed to him than you are right now and it terrified you, but your fear is mixed with anticipation and arousal, and your curiosity about what will come next is almost overwhelming everything else right now. You feel the breeze on your skin, chilling you but sending waves of excitement through your body. You're exposed and vulnerable beyond your wildest dreams.

Your breath hitches when you hear the hardware of his belt being jostled, and when you look back around at him you see he's skillfully thumbing off the leather. This was really fucking happening. The belt makes a loud clacking noise as it hits the pavement and you can't tear your gaze away from him.

Your eyes are riveted on him, trying to read his expression. He seems to be enjoying this, getting pleasure from your fear, and degrading you for his own sake and pride. He’s so domineering in this moment, his expression is wild, almost feral, like that of an animal about to strike.

Spencer was taking off his pants now. As he was pulling them down, they got stuck on his bulge, and he had to tug a little harder to get them down. Before you can stop it, a breathless moan falls from your mouth at the sight.

You can't find the words to say, but your moan is enough to betray your feelings right now. Your body has taken over, and your heart is racing. Even without you showing it, he can tell how you’re feeling, and it gives him a look of complete control. You're his. That's all that matters to him. And he's going to claim you as his right now, just like he's claimed everything else in his life, and there's nothing you can do to stop him.

Always so cocky, he was. It was what made you hate him so much, but then again, did you really hate him?

Yes.

But none of that mattered as he pulled down his pants and underwear to his thighs, leaving him just exposed as you were. Despite your previously dry mouth, you felt a flood of drool pool in your mouth at the sight of his firm cock, slightly swaying behind you as the rough calloused skin of his fingers reaches out to pull down your panties.

And yet, the more you look at him, the more you hate him, and you know in some small, twisted way, he loves that. He loves the power he has over you. He loves how agitated he can make you feel, after all, he’s been practicing for so many years.

You feel your cunt clenching as he gently drags the fabric of your underwear down to your knees, joining your pants. He wets his lips with his tongue as he stares at the damp spot pooling in the crotch of them. The cool air against you was unforgiving, sending shudders up your spine when the wetness of your arousal turned freezing in the wind.

“It’s a shame you hate me so much,”—His voice is low as he grabs the base of his cock, running the thick head up and down your dripping folds.— “You’re so gorgeous, would love to take you on a date one day..”

That arrogant tone in his voice was ever so present still, and yet you still couldn’t stop the blush creeping on your cheeks at the way he complimented you.

“Unless you don’t hate me. You know, I’ve always had a feeling that maybe it wasn’t hatred that made you feel this way towards me, always thought it was between jealousy and infatuation..”

And with a swift stretch of your pussy, he slides his dick between your walls, making your body lurch forward and your lips part in a whimper. You can feel his pelvis pushing into the plushy flesh of your ass.

“And I know your ego is far too inflated to admit it was jealousy..” He bends over your body as well as he can, and huskily whispers in your ear.

You wanted to scream at him, curse him out, do whatever you could to show him how much you hated him, but with his cock buried so deep inside of you..

Any thought of malice or violence towards him disintegrates once he snaps his hips so harshly against you. Your arms give out underneath you and you try to desperately grasp onto something, but all that surrounded you was the cold metal of your car, and the thick glass of your windows that was quickly fogging up.

The drenched folds of your pussy were being rubbed raw with every rough pass of his dick, and you could already feel the ache settling into your body. Your legs were lifted in the air, and you thank god for that. If he had you standing up right now, you’d no doubt fall straight onto the pavement.

A strong hand suddenly reaches out and grabs a fistful of your hair, making you groan in pain as your head is forced back and he only uses it as a handle bar to fuck into you harder.

“This is what you wanted all al-along.. Isn’t it?”

Spencer’s stupid voice rang in your ears again, words closely accompanied by moans and sighs of his own. He throws his head back and looks up at the night air, the stars in the sky watching the two of you. You felt so good squeezed around him, that if he closed his eyes he would’ve no doubt seen a starry night anyways.

You were so warm and wet around him, it was intoxicating, he hated you even more for keeping that perfect pussy of yours from him all these years.

It’s a miracle no other cars are on the road tonight, it’s just the two of you. But it’s humiliating even thinking about the idea of someone catching you. They’d drive by and their necks would snap at the sight of you bent over your car as your “worst enemy” is plowing into you from behind like it’s his job.

And the worst part of all would be caught enjoying it. You look positively wrecked, hair messy as it’s being pulled by Spencer, your skin dripping with sweat and leaving steamy marks against the surface of your car.

Everyone knew the two of you ‘hated’ each other, and if anyone saw, you know you would never hear the end of it.

But nothing else but how he pummeled into you from behind, making your ass and hips jiggle with each thrust, mattered in this moment. Strained moans force their way out of your lips, and you could see the way your hot breath fogged in the cold air.

“Sp-Spence..”

You whimpered out, feeling the band in your pelvis and cervix stretch farther and farther with each brutal hump he forces into you. Spencer only pulls your hair harder at his words, and his thrusts only become more careless when you finally moan his name. He’s only ever heard it coated in poison and hatred, but now, you were just begging him to claim you as his.

“I know.. I know..”

He pathetically whimpers out himself, and the desperate tone in his voice only makes you clench around him tighter, causing more of those irresistible moans to cascade out of his mouth.

There’s no way you’re lasting any longer than now, and he can feel your release approaching quicker and quicker with each thrust to your stretched hole and every beat he deals to your abused spot. Your folds are fluttering around him, and it almost makes him double over in pleasure.

As your orgasm wrecks through you, your eyes roll back into their sockets, your jaw practically unhinges in an ear shattering moan, and your cunt is splashing your release back onto him, drenching his hips, cock, and pants.

“Fucking Christ..”

You’re blabbering out incoherent words as you can feel your cum soaking down your thighs and dripping off your vehicle, as if you were giving it a car wash.

Spencer’s a mess behind you, the wet squealing of your arousal splashing out of your pussy and spilling around his cock was proven far too much for him to even think to handle. He lets go of your hair and allows you to collapse against the car. He’s then gripping your hips so hard you can feel his fingers pressing into your stomach.

Using your pliant body as leverage to be his cocksleeve, he starts thrusting into you at a primal pace. He’s fucking your own cum out of you, and just mere seconds later, he’s dumping his own release right into your drenched hole.

With an animalistic groan, he deals one final blow into you and you can feel the thickness and warmth of his cum taking over your insides, and it makes your head spin in arousal. And even though the both of you had finished, he doesn't want to pull out, he knows he’s holding back a floodgate of spend.

You’re breathlessly panting as your cheek is pressed onto the glass of the car. You let out a soft moan through parted lips as you finally feel him start to pull out, and when he does, you can hear the moan of disbelief and fascination.

As he’s pulling himself out of you inch by inch, more and more of your squirt, and his cum, gush around him, and drip down your legs. The sight makes him dizzy, and he can already feel himself hardening again just from watching the way you’re leaking a mixture of your releases.

Once he’s out of you, he stuffs himself back inside his drenched pants, and huffs in amusement at the sight. You’re still bent over the trunk, and when he’s somewhat composed and can feel his own legs again, he walks over to where your head is, and leans against the side of your car. He’s got his arms crossed and one leg over the other, looking around the empty city as if he didn’t just fuck the shit out of you.

A few minutes go, the soft pants of heavy breathing and the embarrassingly loud noises of your slick dripping from your car to the pavement is all that can be heard. You manage to swallow, and turn your head to face his back. You sound breathless as you speak, and your throat is absolutely wrecked, but you still manage to cockily choke out your words.

“So, what about that date, Reid?”

His head drops in a soft laugh, and he turns his head to the side to meet your hooded eyes.

“Race you there?”

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